Feeling Raw - Part 2

For a moment or two, I stood in bewilderment near the door. The beam of light struck my eyes till I got accustomed to it. A bell chimed in the distant, maybe it was connected to the main door. The music that drew me in, had stopped, suddenly... why?

I gazed at the interiors of the shop. It left me a little flabbergasted. The small shop was lined with corridors of books, and many lay piled on the floor, forming crazy gravity-defying towers at scattered corners. There were abstract paintings on the walls, covered with cheap wallpaper like the cracked corners of pancake, grinning to bare a few dark holes. The floor had a rich red carpet that covered it like the fur of an animal. One step ahead, and the floor creaked. The sound reverberated throughout the shop. I froze.

“Would you not come in?” said a voice from the depths to the left. Amidst all the books, I noticed a door. A lady stood in the darkness, peeping out from the stairs that lead to the basement. With the grace of a feline, she climbed up the last few steps and was instantly clothed in the light. She had a small pixie face with a not too large a built. Her hair was whipped tightly into a bun, and her shell framed glasses steered dangerously close to the tip of her nose. Slim arms wrapped in front of her, she quickly fixed her glasses, and said, “How may I help you?”

“Uhm.” Well, words came thickly out, phlegm interrupted the flow, strangely. There was something in that moment that was both magical and strange.

“Uh, I just wanted to browse through some books,” I said, after having mustered an iota of courage. I’m not normally like this, girls, but I do not know what happened at this point. The devil must have taken charge of me.

“I see. And what do you prefer to read?” She continued from her corner, as I stayed put to the square inch on my side of the floor. “Edgar Allan Poe, maybe.” The words spilled out of my mouth, but the truth was that I was a little perturbed. There was an something about the little Missy in her prissy skirt and blouse that gave me a feeling of unease. Maybe she can read minds. I better shut up now.

“Sir, that would be two lanes to your right and the second shelf from the top.” Her voice drifted through the leather bound books, and I made my way to the right. Suddenly the room felt a little larger, stretching a bit, but I blamed my avid imagination for that bit of description and crept on.

I fumbled through the many books on Poe. ‘The Gold-Bug’, ‘Morella’ and even the elusive ‘The Masque of the Red Death’. At last, I said to myself. After years of evasion, I finally found it. I quickly brought down the leather bound copy from its lofty pedestal, and thumbed through the pages. Yellowed paper, musty smell, fine leather, it was a perfect collector’s copy. As I flipped through, a postcard came to view, lying soft in the midst of the typed letters. It was a black and white picture. A picture of a young girl, sitting coy on her bed, with the bed sheet draped suggestively around her bosom. Her jet black hair (you can still make this out even if the picture is not coloured) were sitting loose on her slender shoulders. There was a closed window to her left, and the room seemed dismal and grey. She was an object of art in the centre of the setting, posing in a sensual off-handish manner, like she did not realise her own beauty or worth. Her eyes stared straight at the camera, boy, the photographer must have had a hell of a time getting this done. Those eyes, those wonderous large, passionate eyes were like the ocean of life and death at the same time. I stood transfixed at them, gulping at the decadence of the picture, till in a split second moment, her eyes blinked and the bedsheet slipped to reveal her taut nipples for a moment. I was taken aback. What the heck did just happen?

“Is there something wrong Sir?” I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Wha..what?”

“I said Sir, is there something wrong?” She stood just ten feet away from me. How in the blinking world did she manage to get so close without me realising. The floor boards creaked for Pete’s sake!

“I thought you asked for help Sir,” the little Missy said, as she sashayed towards me. She looked beautiful, now that I could see her up-close. In the midst of a mind-baffling turn of events, I quickly shove the book back in its place and picked a random book from the shelf below.

I did not recognise the title. The leather cover screamed of the words - The Midnight Rendezvous. “I’ll take this one please.” What the heck. I just wanted to slip out of there.

“Very well Sir, please follow me,” she said. As we walked towards the billing machine, I noticed how thin her shirt was. Sheer, I think is what they call it. She had no bra on. That was certain. Oh how I would have enjoyed trailing my tongue between those arched blades, and with this thought drifting in my frazzled brain, I left.

Feeling Raw - Part 1

In this post, I attempt to make public one of my short stories served in four portions. It is really raw, and I did not want to try to perfect it too much. It could kill a lot of elements. I am an amateur in many ways, but I figured that if I just scribbled away in my notebooks and hushed up the ideas in my head, there is not much worth in them. I needed to get my work 'out here'. 

Enjoy. And do share your thoughts. :)

Feeling Raw - Part 1

The day moved to an end, and the sky blushed with all its colours. It was too early to land up at the party, so I swerved near a bookshop that I just passed. Bachelor, 27, senior software engineer, Hyderabad, bored. That just about sums it all up. My life savings. In a city far from my love, my Kolkata, I started my career in Pune. From the small BPOs, I wound my way to thecity of Hyderabad, working for a prominent software company. Tech2Go. Arghh….even thinking of the name starts a pounding headache and I quickly kill the engine, slide the key from the ignition and walk off towards the quaint bookshop.

I’m sure I look dapper. Atleast, my chunky salary earns me some pleasure (other than the ones we both agree and smile wickedly about). With the tuxedo in place, swishing along my thighs, my suede shoes looking dapper in the fading light of the sky, like the dusky beauty glammed up in a bikini, water streaming down, across and over the contours of her body. Geez! I really must wait till I reach the party. Another perk being in a high-flying post. Lots of soft wares to inspect! Anyway, still bored and utterly hating the idea of being the first to show up. It’s a turn off. Trust me.

I head towards the store. The Little Black Shop of Books, the name reads. Weird. The cobbles etch a serpentine pathway across the lush green lawn. The thick canopy of trees covers the shop, so much so like it were a dark hazy lace that hid the luscious women of yore. One could easily miss The Little Black Shop of Books. Its rundown attire, unkempt style and raven leafy surroundings, you could just zip right past it. I too would have, if I had not been deliberately looking for a place to stop by for some time. A dusty lantern hung from the tree near the entrance. The shop in itself was quite small, with a pale rickety door, where strips of paint had come off. The window resembled a Victorian-age house, with the wooden crossbars, but the thick curtains that covered it let only a sliver of light pass through.

I stood in front of the main door. There did not seem to be a kindred soul in sight. I would have walked off in a couple more seconds till a distant music caught my attention. A beautiful melody, that slipped through the seams of your skin. Slowly it embraced you, knowing you, searching through you, for you. Like a slippery eel it took hold of me, and I walked straight in.

An Honest Thought

Today I rant.

With the recent case of ‘coloured discomfort’ faced by many Indians across the world, because of Nina Davuluri, that seems to be a another pin holding up the masks of the general public, laced with hypocrisy. If many Indian smarted at the behavior of Americans, we cant get away just by calling them racist. How different are we in our own homeland?

India… the land of snake charmers, white elephants and a tribe of beggars who stick up their begging bowls right under your face. Do you think we’ve changed? Changed from the many prehistoric notions we nursed under our hood, whether it included homosexuality or even looking up to certain careers as the only way forward? But sometimes I doubt we’ve changed at all when even in the best of cities, best of working environments, among the best of colleagues one is ridiculed for their body weight, amoebic shape and … you get the rest.

If certain groups are fighting against prejudice towards skin colour, then pray, does a perfect body type rule the world?

The other day, the HR personnel in my office asked me… ‘Are you dieting?’ I said, ‘No.’ And then she said, ‘Haan, lag bhi nahi raha hain.’

I mean I get it to a certain level. She is going to get married in a few month’s time, and looking good is on her agenda. But why be spiteful towards the others? We, fat people, sure must put on a heavy armour everyday before we leave home for our respective work. Why are we incapable of accepting people the way they are. Does everyone want everyone to look alike? Have the world looking like the Stepford Wives?

A friend of mine, to whom I mostly relate these moments tells me that ‘I am delusional, I must not let them get the better of me, body type is not directly or indirectly proportional to your worth (whichever way we assume the factors). But then again, with a ‘perfect’ body, beautiful ‘long hair’ (just the way India and the rest of the world like it) and dazzling smile, you do not live my world. You do not have to struggle through everyday avoiding stinging jabs at your personality.

Do we not relate it all to beauty? DO elaborate what constitutes a beautiful object. Does not an old proverb say beauty lies in the eye of the beholder? So I must deem my worth according to what the other person thinks.

Students, activists, factions of the general public strive to make the world a better place to live. They protest, they rant and they fight for the poor, against the corrupt, the greedy, etc. It makes me think, that if they harboured this flame of unrest and undying need to fight for a stranger, why can they not understand the need of a friend? Cause I still have my hands and legs and can work for myself? Why can people not start to revolutionise the society at their own level? A step at a time, try to reason with friends and family, one person at a time? Or have we romanticised the experience of sitting at Jantar Mantar and spending an entire shouting and putting up placards to fight against corrupt individuals and organisations?

You may label me as moody, misreading the words and actions of others. Then why do I feel humiliated and hurt on the inside?      

The Practice

Another trip, and back again

With my amazing office colleagues, Archana (in the red suit) with her cousin Deepti to her left, followed by Simran, Megha and me.

Omkareshwar. A small temple town near Indore in the heart of India. And once again, we managed to pull off a short but sweet weekend trip, away from the crowd and pollution of Delhi. The strength of the wind is unfathomable, and the mighty force of nature lays bare before us. Since I am yet to transfer my images, my version of the trip will come up in sometime.

Till then, inshallah, I keep travelling.

Orphaned and alone

Ae pran aamar,

Aami bhule jaayi

Boi tule, taake
Bichhnaye choore phele dae.
Kothaye jabo, disha khuje pai na
Tomar chaara, amaar mon laage na.

I live, I breathe,
I spend every moment
Away from you, emotionless
And stoic.
I hate this feeling,
But somehow I love it too
Let things remain like this,
Just like this.

Why do I find
Myself so different
And also so indifferent
Towards you.
I fathom not this moment
Hurt why you did not
Claim me to be
Among one of your's.

To embrace you is
My greatest desire
But the burning pangs
Refuse to kindle a never
Ending devotion towards you.
Only you, my Mother
My Matribhoomi.

Millions stay close
To that beautiful land so green
The cord of life still strong
Pumping love and life within.
But where do I go from here?
Where do I figure in this?
I find myself lost
Wrapped, tossed, tied
Stuck to my ignorance.

Free me, Mother
Let me run into your embrace
Free me from this foreign land.
Allow me to enter your grace.
I too want to see
My mother
The way crores of others do
I too want to to be
A part of her bounty.

Gorom cha, ei cheler baila
Anjan Dutta aar binamulaer aasha.


I pray to find my way to my motherland someday, with enough time to bask in her beauty, to learn to live with her children, thriving in its culture, its atmosphere... finding myself through her.

It’s all about the child in you after all

Yesterday was my Dida’s birthday. So it goes without saying, that all her kids, their kids gathered at my mama’s place to celebrate. After the usual cutting of the cake, and gorging on the hot chicken quiches, my cousins, P & O and I broke away from the ‘elderly lot’. Since P and I were extremely tired after a harried day at work, we sunk into the comfy bed, and curled near each other.

I don’t exactly remember how the conversation started, or maybe we just ranted off our work troubles, but sooner or later we landed on the topic of food. With me in the group, it had to land on this topic sooner or later; but this time we were specific. Food written in Enid Blyton books.

P & I reminisced about the warm scones and ginger bread, cookies and fruit beer, and really longed for a holiday in a caravan, just like George, Julian, Dick, Anne & Tim. And P rightly said… all of us, at some level, connected with some member of that Group. Whether it was George for me, or Anne for someone else. Each child (we were sure) attached themselves to one of the group. Whether Famous Five, Secret Seven, the Naughtiest Girl or even the Five Find-Outers, we still love Enid Blyton for the childhood she gave us.

And then P & O could not stop talking about a particular children’s book, and the illustrations that graced the sides of the pages. As P handed me the book, I couldn’t help but sniff the pages. And I flipped page after page, looking at the mostly black and white drawings of teapots, dragons, houses with legs, and furry chicks. Those pages transported us to another world. A world, which I think is also called – Never Never Land. A land where we can be children, expect to be in awe of the simplest of experiences, imagination runs wild as ever, and never worrying about logic or elders.

As P (a graphic designer) went on and on about the futuristic aspect of the illustrations, little seen these days, my fingers traced the cradles drawn, the colourful geometric-patterned quilts and aces and spades, hearts and diamonds glittering across the sky. And then something happened that took me by surprise. O decided to read out her favourite story to us! What a treat!

And as she read out Bye Baby Bunting, who needed his warm woolly pink blanket to snuggle in, I found myself forgetting about the shackles of work, and slipped into the dreamy world of Baby Bunting, where Granny cut the Sun’s hair and washed the Moon’s face. It was a definitive moment for me, for it was a chance to be a child again, listen attentively to a story, grasping at the finer details, drawing an image in the canvas of my mind.

And I wasn’t stingy. I coloured the cupboards yellow, painted the cradle mellow, and ruffled the leaves in the forest, and imagined their hearty breakfast!

Pic sourced from Google.