“HOW I WANT THE LAST EVENING OF MY LIFE TO BE” By Sobhan Pramanik

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“HOW I WANT THE LAST EVENING OF MY LIFE TO BE”

A thematic representation

By Sobhan Pramanik

Before quitting everything. I want to recap every happiness. Or maybe the only happiness I had.

Even today this foyer is brilliantly lit up in the golden light of sundown. The tower clock, standing tall and far eclipses a greater portion of the horizon from my sight, the immortal pendulum of whose now, perhaps pities my stroll to departure.

As the oscillations of my rocking chair gradually diminishes, drowning with it the creaking of its timber, I graciously race back to time.The time when the sun down at this foyer of my house smelt of crushed coffee beans dissolving to hot milk that she poured from a porcelain tea pot.
Much unlike today's stench of medicines and organic solvents.

Casually sunk into the leather finish couch that now had ripped from the stiches and sipping coffee, we would recollect our falling in love. I used to narrate her my feelings when I first saw her. She was standing by the bronze railing of the terrace of her house in a white salwar, feeding crumps of bed to the innumerable pigeons gatherer around her. In return she reminded me of how admiring her at the same place I had crashed into a lamppost while riding my bicycle and laughed like crazy. I used to feel embarrassed at it. But now, perhaps in the last few hours of my life, I wish to hear that childlike laugh of hers.

She used to remind me of those Archies cards with romantic messages that we used to exchange on the last working day of school before it closes for a month long summer vacation. I used to write rhyming lines for her. But the edges of my card will always be crumbled because I had to hide it beneath stacks of clothes or suddenly push it into a filled drawer whenever my parents entered my room, before bringing it to her. On the other hand her card used to be neat on which she flaunted her ornamental handwriting.

She used to live in a palatial house with her grandparents and had her personal spaces, so she never faced issues regarding hiding a card. She even teased me by attempting to formulate a virtual lump in her throat and said, “Tum mere liye ek card ka v khayal nahi rakh sakhte…mera kaise rakhoge….”

I would then call her, “Drama queen” and we both would break into laughter. Holding her tiny fingers in my comparatively broad palm, we used to walk down a narrow broken path that unwinds through a beautiful garden bordered by cypress to my cycle kept behind our school canteen. I used to ride her back home, cycling down the asphalt laid road. All through the ride, she used to hum the rhyming lines from the card, which in the melody of her voice felt like music. As the sun dips into the horizon and my heart counting its last few beats, I wish for that one last cycle ride with her.

Fortunately or unfortunately she took care of me in a way she would have done to her parents had they been alive.  In those times our respective hearts appeared to be our gods and the gods blessed us with lots of love.

The proudest moment of my life was even after marriage when every time I peered down her neckline, I found a gold plated pendant there, shining radiantly. It was the pendant that I bought for her from my first salary.

Watching the sun go down from the foyer of our house after marriage was perhaps the most cherished moments. She used to say that sunset together every day was more precious to her than our plush honeymoon on the beaches of Mauritius.

The evenings of our tea session in April used to be the most fascinating ones. It is this month of the year when you experience evening rainfalls in Kolkata, rescuing people from the clutches of a sultry afternoon. Post that rain, in the west amid the back drop of a sun breaking from the clouds will be a string of a fading rainbow. I loved the way she used to nag me by asking me to take her to the end of that rainbow where she could find a pot of gold.

I just smiled at her innocence and she loved seeing me happy.

It is April once again but there is no rainbow. Even she isn't there. Neither the smell of coffee.

Oh! Wait. I am no longer sitting at the foyer of my house. My tenure there had ended. My heart had already pumped its last. Right now I am ascending an invisible stair case whose spiral railings is decorated by fresh tulips.

I can’t see where the staircase ends but after ascending to quiet a height, I spot what I was looking for. I look down to locate my house, in whose foyer now stands my caretaker rubbing her eyes. She is probably crying and in front of her lies a corpse shrouded till the chin by a white satin bed sheet. The face looks similar. Yes, it’s me; and the one ascending the stairs is my soul that has left the foyer to escape his monotony.

Now in my mind I could imagine where this staircase would end. Probably somewhere behind curtains of the blue sky onto the dewy lawns of a place called heaven. Suddenly the very thought of heaven shatters away the shackles of reluctance from my legs.

I run hard up the stairs. I can’t wait anymore nor can I make her wait. I run breathing from my mouth and this time I will surely be able to take her to the end of the rainbow. To find the pot of gold.

                                                    By-- Sobhan Pramanik

“Pleasure of Sex” versus “Pain of Hunger” By Sobhan Pramanik

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“Pleasure of Sex” versus “Pain of Hunger”

By Sobhan Pramanik

The flame reluctantly glowed over the last piece of timber they managed to put together to fight cold that night. Soft flakes of snow like a summer drizzle kept pouring from the dimly lit sky and the otherwise green foot hills of the Siwalik’s, now looks like an art paper untouched by its artist.

Held above the shutting flame, on a thin bamboo streak was their supper for the night; hind limbs of a lamb. From the tint of the flesh, one could say it was a long way to go to be roasted fully and the strong winds that constantly rose from the pine woods to threaten the fire was making sure that they sleep the night over two cans of beer, yet again.

The pain of empty stomach could be felt well in their demeanour.

He was visibly afraid. His heavy breaths blurred his vision with a dense cloud of smoke staggering its way out of his mouth. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes who sat contracted on a rectangular piece of rock. In her eyes was the colour of the timidly glowing fire and her drooping face, portrayed the cry of hunger.

Snow fell harder with every passing second and the blades of winds, turning sharper with every drift. He tried his best to keep the fire burning but didn't succeed. From the extinguished heap of charred timber started to rise serpentine curls of smoke and their dinner remained half roasted.

It was the second night on the trot that they were to retire to the tent dumping their system with sour beer. But none of them complained. Their togetherness fought bravely with the rebellious hunger within.

Lying close to each other under a thick cottony quilt, they kissed compassionately till they ran out of breath.

He then stretched out his hand and in one go unzipped her furry coat till her navel. Her slender body underneath had the wrap of a wheatish skin, whose elevations and depressions remain erotically hidden behind her dark petite lingerie. Everything in her resembled the prey of the carnally spirited animal in him.

She felt exposed and clanged tightly onto him. Her svelte physic in his embrace looked like a jigsaw piece at its desired place. Holding onto him tightly her fingers on his back moved in absolute frantic. He lowered his head on her bosom and her cologne in turn ignited a fire of lustful desire in him. The excitation gave birth to a hard kiss on her soft breast, as the cold air in the tent reverberated with a shrill moan of pleasure.

She grabbed him harder by his shoulders this time, her manicured nails digging into his skin beneath. They rolled to the other side of the mattress pressing the mountain grass beneath, as she gets on top of him. She bent down and sucked hard on his cold struck lips. Their vigour was in proportion to the snowfall outside. Both intensifying with the passing moment. Tasting her tongue inside his mouth, he slid his chapped fingers beneath the straps of her brassiere and flicked. It seductively descended down her shoulders, setting free her breasts which he lecherously licked onto. He could feel her supple nipples stiffen in the wetness of his saliva.
His hurried breathing and her sensuous submission had pleasure written all over it.

With the cells of their body starving since the past two days, their crave to explore each other was unimaginable. When people would have succumbed, they arose. When people would have cursed the time, they utilized it. When people would have turned slaves to their hunger buds, they chose to master the slaves of lust in them. They did everything odd yet they managed to live. Because sometimes being odd makes you evenly happy and being in love is one such odd thing.
   

Treading over the highest orbits of their respective orgasms, they come face to face for the final time to embrace their sweaty bodies. After which began his pelvic thrusts between her invitingly spread legs that proceeded in harmony with her pleasurable agony.

The air in the tent kept switching alternatively between sounds of her satisfied moans and his labored grunts.

Witnessing their love making session in form of silhouettes on the skin of the tent, were the chain of snow laden mountains projecting up the sky.

They fall asleep hungry yet satisfied in the darkness of the tent, the slanting roof of which had turned opaque to the dim light of the sky due to the dumping of snowflakes over it.

Their love, their togetherness, their innate desires and their compatibility had finally won them a living in the most torrid circumstances.

                         By - -- Sobhan Pramanik

BOOK REVIEW OF “THE HOMING PIGEONS”

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BOOK REVIEW OF “THE HOMING PIGEONS”

A NOVEL BY SID BAHRI

About the author:-

Siddartha Bahri, a Ranikhet based author, is yet another example of an ex-banker storming the Indian literary world. With his approach towards writing, deep down I could imagine this guy coming into discussion, whenever a bunch of book bugs in any part of this country, delves into discussion about Bhagat and Tripathi.

Apart from being into banking he is a hotelkeeper by education and a senior executive in the outsourcing industry. As of now he is someone who had just stunned the literary industry with his maiden attempt as an author of a full length novel and is engaged in brushing his skills to be a successful entrepreneur someday. In short, Siddartha Bahri at present, is a happy writer and a struggling entrepreneur.

What I shouldn’t miss out on his introduction is, one doesn’t simply be a hotelier without having knowledge about the ingredients of a typically north Indian chicken curry. What I mean is, apart from his innate desire of writing, he has the traits of a dream hubby of any Indian women. He loves cooking. J

When I skimmed through the pages of THE HOMING PIGEONS:-

The Homing Pigeons is a tale of how love, which is known to be the colossus among all human emotions, crumbles down to a deadliest sin whose aftermath takes its committers to every possible by-lanes of digress and monotony that life can offer.

The story opens us with its central character Aditya Sharma, a dignified banker whose flourishing career had been put to death by the choking stench of something called RECESSION, drinking at bar in Chandigarh. In non technical terms, Recession is what draught is to farmers.

Having lost his job, Aditya has now become a frustrated soul living off his wife’s earnings. At the bar he meets a hardly attractive, rich, middle-aged woman, Divya. She buys him his drink and as alcohol starts filling up his system, the ice that normally exists between strangers melts away and Aditya starts to divulge. He had no idea that Divya could be the one to help him come out of his threadbare situation. Above all, Aditya had been caught as the farmer who finally saw rain on his parched lands but had no idea that the rain will be so acidic that will turn his lands infertile forever.

Soon after their meeting Divya, Aditya finds himself stripped of his morals and beliefs as he turns into a male prostitute (gigolo) satisfying middle aged woman in exchange of breathtakingly high amount of money. In situation when he was penniless, wads of currency was a welcome change for him. He decided to anaesthetise humanity in him and went ahead to accept prostitution as his career. His marriage with Jasleen never really worked and both of them wanted to get rid of the other. Aditya moved to Delhi to pursue a profession that fetches him more money than any other profession can bring him. After all it was one such profession where apart from lending your service you come to terms with selling your morals as well.

The book, continues to narrate the tales of two different personas in alternative chapters. While Aditya Sharma was making money by blotting his skin, Radhika, a thirty two year old rich widow, whose second husband Vimal has just died is all set to enjoy the liberty that has come to her. She has been a sadist all her life till date. Being given away by her parents to her uncle who never had their own offspring, she has only seen the done up side of affection. True love and care never really reached to her plate of craving. Detested by love and failing at two attempts of marriage, she is more than just a confused person. She lives in a palatial house in Delhi that her husband Vimal had left for her with her servant Laxman.

Aditya in Delhi continues to satisfy carnal desires of rich women and Radhika stuck to the symphony of a monotonous life.
It is when the author takes the protagonists into bouts of remembrance being fed-up with their daily routine, that the readers starts connecting the dots to build a connector between Aditya and Radhika.

Radhika and Aditya share a past whose revelation with the progress of the stories leaves the readers awestruck. The way author slowly revealed the connection between two fateful lovers is highly commendable.

The conclusion of the book aptly justifies the title. It is said that if you set free the homing pigeons anywhere on the face of this earth they always return to their mates. Same is with love, if your love is true, irrespective of how far complications take you away from your lover, destiny will always bring you close to your beloved.

What I felt after I finished reading THE HOMING PIGEONS:-

Things I loved about the book –

1.       The narration is very intelligent. Its dark humour and logistical takes on human feelings makes it an interesting read.

2.       Good use of words. Standard English. Unlike most debut authors who produce a book in a language a fifth grader writes essays on ‘My aim in life’.

3.       Chapters alternating between Aditya’s life and Radhika’s helped the readers raise in their minds two parallel stories. Two parallel tracks appear to meet when you observe them with a stagnant vision. But the author has done a commendable job in keeping two parallel stories distinguished.

4.       Emotions of the protagonists were very realistic. One can easily connect with them.

5.       The character of Divya had been used very intelligently. She behaved as a catalyst through the entire book. With her limited appearances she managed to change the lives of two parted lovers for good and for bad as well.

6.       Despite the onstage commotion, a strong captivating aroma of love could be felt all through.

Things that I didn't like –

1.       Excluding the selling of morals to live an earning on part of Aditya, the story had nothing new. It was a straight forward love story, where lovers meet, detach, cry-crib and then meet at the end and live happily ever after. I mean the author could have put forward strong reasons for the parting of Aditya and Radhika. Families not accepting is so stereotype a reason.

2.       At places the narration of a protagonist’s personal life seemed dull and the reader thrives to finish that chapter and move on to the next one where something interesting is happening. Emphasis should be laid on making both the characters life equally interesting, so that readers read every chapter with equal concentration. I personally felt Aditya’s rise from a failed salesman to the Assistant Manager seemed uninteresting. In those chapters I was more interested in knowing what was happening in Radhika’s life.

3.       What the author’s intelligent narration did was to make the protagonist’s emotions too mechanical. I didn’t feel like crying with the characters.

On the whole THE HOMING PIGEONS by SID BAHRI is an amazing read.

I rate this book with 3.8 out of 5.

I wish Siddartha Bahri all the very best for his future books. J

Reviewed by -- Sobhan Pramanik

This review is a part of The Readers Cosmos Book Review Program" . To get free books log on to www.thereaderscosmos.blogspot.com

   

 

Liebster Award Nomination

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Liebster Award Nomination

First of all I would like to thank Barkha for nominating my blog for this award.


What is the Liebster Award all about?

The Liebster Blog Award is given to upcoming/new bloggers or who have less than 200 followers. The 'Liebster' word is of German origin and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing and welcome.

How does it work? 

1. Link back to the persons blog who has nominated you and convey thanks for giving the award.
2. Answer all questions posted by the nominator.
3. Nominate 10 more bloggers whom you feel are deserving of more subscribers; you pass the award on to them.
4. Create 10 questions for the nominees.
5. Contact the nominees and let them know that they have been nominated for the Liebster Award!

Talking about myself literature had always been my area of interest and writing, an irresistible passion. I can’t explain in words the pleasure I derive when I succeed in expressing myself on a blank sheet of paper with the help of words. I believe happiness that lies in expressing yourself can never be substituted by any worldly comforts.

I am thankful to all my readers who had been a source of encouragement for me till date. I really feel contented at heart when someone comes up and says that they could actually connect with the emotions of the protagonist of the stories I write or the thoughts I put forward through my articles.

The journey has been great so far and I look forward to continue in the same fashion.

Getting back to answering of the questions I was asked by Barkha -

Q 1. Why did you start blogging?

As writing is my passion, blogging is the finest choice for an aspiring writer. Since a blog demands regular updation, it helps you be in touch with your work, which in turns manifolds your eloquence. Blogging also helps you reach out to a wide range of people and share your creative ideas with them.

Q2. Who/ What or where does your blogging inspiration comes from?

I believe LIFE itself is one of the biggest inspiration for me. Joys of life are so alluring for me that whenever I happen to come across sorrows, I strive to fetch happiness yet again. It is the happiness of life that inspires me to fight during wretched times. And using this very inspiration I with the help of my anecdotes, wish to preach the world that if it is raining now doesn’t mean the sun won’t come out in the next hour. J

Q 3. Which is your favourite quote?

Well many are there. Tough to choose one. Still I will try to pick one.

“Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing, there is a field. I will meet you there.” By Rumi.

Q 4. Pen and Diary or Laptop and fingers?

Pen and Diary while working in the open. Like sitting on a park bench or beach. Laptop and fingers in confined places.

Q 5. Who’s your favourite author?

Author(s) would have been a better ask. Ruskin Bond and Khaled Hosseini

Q 6. Which is your favourite book and why?

THE KITE RUNNER by Khaled Hosseini. Because the book reveals to me a different aspect of humanity. It is not just a read for me. It’s a lesson.

Q 7. What did you want to be when you were a child?

I wanted to be a cricketer. J

Q 8. What makes you laugh out loud?

Umm…mimicry of my college faculties done by a friend of mine.

Q 9. Which cartoon character would you connect yourself with and why?

NODDY. Because he lives a hassle free life. He never fails to smile others irrespective of whatever circumstances he is in. And most importantly, at such a young age, he owns a car, a big house and has many female admirers. J J

Q 10. What is the next item on your wish list any why?

Books by Jhumpa Lahiri and Amitav Ghosh. The reason is clear, I love literature. J

I would like to nominate the following bloggers for this award -
Anshuma Sharma – http://sharmanshuma.blogspot.in/

Abhishek Mishra – http://resolutionbyabhishek.wordpress.com/

Abhinand Jaguva - http://abhinandjaguva.blogspot.in/

Raj Jayswal - http://rajartist89.blogspot.in/

Priyanka Chahande - http://priyanka1990.blogspot.in/

Saikat Dey - http://maadurga2013.blogspot.in/

Priyanshu  Saxena - http://priyanshusaxena.blogspot.in/

Saurabh Chawla – www.saurabhchawla.com

Ila Garg - http://ilashininggem.blogspot.in/

Manish Sharma - manishthinks.wordpress.com

My set of questions to the nominees -

1. How did writing happen to you?

2. Do you agree that a writer’s work is somewhere connected with the life he/she has lived?

3. Which character from Harry Potter do you think plays the role of a catalyst?

4. Joy or Sorrows. Under which feeling you think you can write best?

5. Who is your inspiration in life?

6. As an author you would give weightage to the quality of your work or the total sale of your book irrespective of the quality?

7. Which Indian author’s work you like the most?

8. Ten years from now, you see yourself as?

9. Book you are currently reading?

10. Apart from writing, what other activities you engage you?

MY LOST PRINCESS Part 3 By Sobhan Pramanik

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MY LOST PRINCESS
Part 3

By

Sobhan Pramanik

I kept the letter in my bag and headed for school but all the while my mind kept traversing around images of those glorious meadows of Mallikpur, my ailing dad and Rini.  I wonder what must have happened to the village. Dad kept telling me that situations there were worsening and so I must stay back in Kolkata and finish my schooling. But never did he reveal to me the reasons of not taking me to Mallikpur in the past decade. Was it something that was connected with my life there? Was it something that will burden my heart with a feeling of morose? I had no idea. All I could do was to wish that everything will be fine soon.

I tried my best to hold my nerves during the period of exams but none of the efforts mattered. The very thoughts of my bed ridden dad and Rini waving at me from behind those barbed fences moistened my eyes with the emotions of grief and nostalgia. Returning home from school on the last day of my class twelfth examinations, I went to a nearby market and to fulfil my promise of bringing to Rini the tiara of her doll, I purchased a new princess doll.

By the time I reached my mashi’s place, the sky of Kolkata was indulging itself in varied shades of red and purple. I sat by the window of my room and wondered how different the twilight of Kolkata is from that of Mallikpur. Back in Mallikpur, lying in the concrete pipes with Rini, we saw the sun go down the sky adorned with swirling kites. It was sheer bliss then. And now it is nothing more than a dreaded longing.

After the final sunset of my stereotyped city life, I got back to writing of my diary.

30^th October – Last day in Kolkata

Ever since that day I and Rini used to meet very frequently. The post school Kulfi session and seeing the sunset together were the most cherished moments of our everyday life.
Life then to us was like a blank sheet of paper on which our togetherness drafted poetries of love and ecstasy.

It was during a Sunday afternoon while I was sitting dejected under the peepal tree packing my marbles, after having cheated in the game by Ganesh, she came up to the fences and called out to me. I walked across to her and then came to know that she was here to say that the Kulfiwala had come and so we are supposed to go and have one each. After all it was one such happening in our meeting that kept brining us close with every passing day in the last eight months that I had known her.

Since it wasn’t a school day, I knew I wasn’t carrying that two rupee I used to carry for my tiffin. But still I couldn’t say no to her.

Tucking the box of marbles in my pyjama and making sure no one sees us, I crossed the fences. She walked ahead of me as I followed her down a dusty, broken path by the vast stretches of paddy field. Shafts of warm wind in a shrill murmur were rushing past our ears. Her brisk walk kicked up loose soil from beneath her feet and behind those smokes of dust I admired her silver anklets juggling at her heels.

By the time we reached the Kulfiwala, the bright sun above had dehydrated us to a great extent. Beads of sweat rolled down from my forehead in a continuous stream. Rini asked the Kulfiwala to give us two kulfis. He then held out it out to us as Rini collected them and waited for me to pay. I took out my box of marbles and handed it over to the kulfiwala because I didn’t have money.

When questioned upon by Rini, I told her that I love her more than my marbles. She kept looking at me in absolute awe as melted kulfi streaked down her thin, brown fingers.

Something in that look told me that deep down she possesses the same feelings I possess for her.

It was our last meeting and the last time I admired Rini’s ‘teeth-missing-smile’.

Now I wait for the sun to crawl up in the east and mark an end to my stay in Kolkata.

I slept.

Birds were yet to make their maiden flight for the day as I left for Mallikpur at dawn.

The Homecoming

Walking a good half mile or so, I reached the peepal tree where we played marbles. Had it not been for the cemented pavement underneath its shade, I wouldn’t have recognized it. It had grown beyond recognition and surrounding it was many new trees. The sky looked familiar though, a clear sheet of blue with plugs of cottony clouds at places. I shifted my gaze to locate the barbed fences that ten years back used to demarcate the landlord’s property from the rest of the village and from where I used to stand and watch Rini run all the way home.

I looked behind the cluster of trees with a steady gaze but there weren’t any fences. Neither there exist those barren paddy fields with stacks of fodder grass.

Am I at the wrong place? If yes, then how come the same cemented pavement beneath the peepal.

I tried to locate Prithviraj kaka’s house. Yes, it was there, looking more elegant than before. Now I was damn sure that I wasn’t at the wrong place. Cemented pavement beneath peepal can be a coincidence. An entire palatial house can’t be. Soon I noticed a series of small brick houses occupying those paddy fields. I was taken aback to see things change so drastically.

I walked ahead and following the tapering road reached our house. It was a clay hut with a sagging roof. The frame of the window has been reduced by termites to a stick like wooden structure that upholds a tattered piece of cloth acting as a curtain.

I pushed through the door and entered it. The place stinks of foul air. It seems as if no one has opened its door since ages. In one corner rests a dripping earthen pot over a tripod and in the centre, over a majorly torn cot, lays baba.

Clay tiles from the roof had gone missing and had it not been for newspaper cuttings placed at the missing spots, one could see the sky through the roof. I sat beside baba on the damped floor and took a keen look at his face. His overgrown hairs had been thinning from the parting and one could easily trace silver streaks in them. His cheeks are dug in and eyes carry a web of wrinkles around it. He looks extremely malnourished.

I place my palm on his forehead and softly spoke, “Baba…”

Seconds later he opened his eyes slowly. They were narrating to me the tale of pain and suffering. I wanted to know every bit of it. He tried to raise his hand and touch my face, but somehow he couldn’t move.

“Baba what had happened?” I asked holding his forearm. In the backdrop of my voice was the constant dripping of the tap connected to the earthen pot. Little puddles of the drinking water had accumulated on the clay floor, making it muddy.

He tried to answer but the lips didn’t move. All he managed was to nod his head in utter remorse. My within was writing in agony but somehow I managed to hold back that pain that wanted to escape through my eyes.

I wanted to find Ramu kaka and ask everything that had happened to him and so I went out of our house.

I was walking towards our school as I heard someone call out in a dying voice, “Pratik…”

It was Ramu kaka, in no better condition than my baba. But he could speak somehow.

“Ramu kaka…” I ran to him. “What had happened? Why are you and dad so ill?”

“Not just we…the entire village is dying….” He inhaled noisily and broke into a coughing fit.

He then pointed towards our school building and what I saw, felt like a dagger in my heart. My school wasn’t there anymore. In its place was a white building and atop it was the hoarding that says, “Prithviraj Distributors”.

“What’s all this?” I asked Ramu kaka who was still coughing. He threw up a gobble of phlegm and began to narrate softly.

“Five years after you left, the landlord Prithviraj Bhattacharya, took the decision of pulling down this school and build a Tobacco distribution unit. He ships tobacco to Bangladesh and that brings him huge revenue. All the lands that were leased out to the farmers were taken back and in those places he had set up a retail market that sells eatables to people at high prices. Those who are a bit financially stable can buy goods from that market and rest are dying. Since then we have taken to eat once in a day, so as to preserve the grains we were left with for a longer time. And since last two weeks…there’s no food….the grains have exhausted….and….” Ramu kaka started coughing once again.

With every word he spoke a part of me was dying bit by bit. I fought hard not to cry as tears of anguish lurked in my eyes.

Now I could connect; all those construction materials behind Prithviraj’s beautiful garden weren’t meant to renovate his house. It was meant to kill the villagers for no reason. It was meant for this damn tobacco distribution unit.

I stood there unmoved with a feeling of hatred against Prithviraj Bhattacharya, jabbing its claws in my heart. I had no option than to see my loved ones die a degrading death in front of eyes. I wonder how I will be able to tolerate that.

Breaking the frightful silence around us, I finally asked Ramu kaka what my already dead heart kept beating to know about, “Kaka, where is Rini?”

My eyes were rooted to Kaka’s trifle silhouette casted on his left by the bright autumn sun.

He then with a lot of effort tried to unknot something out of his towel. As he was doing so, he started to speak, “Beta, Rini did come to me one winter morning two years after you left, to give me something for you. But that day she was caught crossing the fences. The panchayatwas called in the evening and Prithviraj accused Rini’s family of conspiring against him by saying bad things about him to the villagers. They were thrown out of their house and had to spent the bone chilling winter night in the open as little Rini was caught with Pneumonia…..” the knot opened up and Kaka held out to me a box full of marbles.

I opened the box and found a note. It said.

 I love you more than my favourite Kulfi. J

What about a game of marble with me? I won’t cheat. I promise.

Your Rini.

I looked at kaka and he continued with what I never wanted to listen, “….and little Rini couldn’t battle Pneumonia”

I sat on the ground holding my head. I remembered the princess doll lying in my bag and the princess that I had lost eight years back.

There was a scream of intense pain in my heart but I couldn’t utter a word. It was when kaka pulled me in his embrace that the tears finally came.

I cried.

                                                       BY -- Sobhan Pramanik

Thank you for taking time to read. Hope you enjoyed it.

Kindly mark your read by leaving a comment.

In case you have missed the earlier parts. Read it here -

 Part 1

 Part 2

   

    

MY LOST PRINCESS Part 2 By Sobhan Pramanik

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MY LOST PRINCESS
Part 2

By

Sobhan Pramanik

I crossed the road and walked up to the concrete pavement beneath the peepal tree. It was from there that I saw a little girl sitting on the ground and sobbing. She looked absolutely uncared. Her little round face was stained with tears and her thin brown hands were continuously trying to wipe the wetness away. Tiny bells on her silver anklets jingles every time she shook her leg and the sound of it in the backdrop of a calm afternoon gave me goose bumps.  She wore a pleated frock that had dirt marks all over it and beside her on the ground lay a princess doll.

I slowly walked up to her and bending in front of her, whispered, “Why are you crying dear?” This time I had a close look at her face. Missing of three milk teeth from the front gave me an idea that she was a year or so younger to me. I had two missing.

She was startled at my presence and was hurrying to leave the spot. I held her hand and sat down in front of her.

“Do not worry. I won’t harm you. Can we be friends?” I said and stuck out my right thumb to make friendship with her but she sat unmoved.

“Okay, tell me why are you crying?” I asked once again holding up her chin.

“I lost the tiara of my doll…” she sniffed twice and paused for a breath. “And mom scolded me too…” A hiccup followed as she ended. For a moment I felt it wasn't a reason strong enough to cry but then I remembered how I had cried and pleaded before dad for a box of marbles. May be what marbles were to me….princess doll was to her.

“Don’t cry. We will find her tiara.” I said pointing to the doll.

“Really?” She seemed happy.

“Yes.” I smiled back and this time I found her brushing her right thumb with mine.

“Friends” We said in unison as I wiped her face with my fingers.

“Where do you live dear?” I asked helping her get up from the ground.

“My dad is Prithviraj kaka’s servant. I along with my parents live in a hut in the courtyard of his bungalow” She ended pointing towards the three storied palatial house on the other side of the barbed fencing.

The very name of the landlord sent thrills of fear down my spine. Prosperity in his wealth with time had slowly robbed him off all his kindness and morality.

“And you?”

“My dad is a tenant farmer under Prithviraj kaka and a teacher at the primary school. I too study there.” I replied.

“I wish I could also go to school.  As Prithviraj kaka doesn’t allow us to cross this fencing, I had to study on my own at home. I crossed this today trying to find my doll’s tiara. Hope nobody sees us. Else we will be in trouble…”

I only nodded in response.

“What about my tiara?” she reminded.

“We will try to find it together and if not, I will get a new tiara for your doll….someday”

With my assurance she felt secured. I was glad to have helped someone regain her smile, that innocent ‘teeth-missing-smile’.

I held her hand and lifting up, helped her cross the fences.

Standing on either side of the fencing we kept looking at each other. Far behind her in the western sky was the sun slowly lowering into the horizon. Its golden light at the twilight sneaking from behind patches of white clouds made it a mesmerizing sight. A cool breeze was drifting through the barren paddy fields and adding to the serenity of the ambiance was the chirping of birds, heading to their shelters in flocks through the orange sky.

She was about to leave as I called out to her.

“Your name?”

“Rini…”

“And…I am Pratik.” I introduced as she was preparing to ask.

We smiled at each other and then she sprinted home. I kept looking at her as she ran over those trimmed grass beds with the sound of her anklets reverberating in my ears.

Reliving the moments in my diary I paused to look outside through the parting of the curtains. The visible slice of sky contained an ivory moon in the backdrop of a dark and voluminous sky. By the desolate roads of the city and its quietness, I presume it was quiet late that I have kept myself awake inking my memories.

I then switched off the bed lamp and returned to bed.

Days kept reeling itself from the spool of time and I longed to get back to my native village. It has been a decade that I haven’t walk by those glorious meadows or played marbles. Here in the city my life spun around the pivot of discipline. Juggling between home, school and studies was all that I was left with. I missed the shade of peepal tree and I missed waiting for Rini. My heart ached to catch a glimpse of her. I wondered how beautiful she will look in her teethed smile now.

Dad used to visit me twice every year but never did he take me to Mallikpur. Not even during vacations. I wonder why. I asked him about Rini too and he said that she is doing well. I felt contented upon hearing so and derived enough strength to see off the remaining few days in Kolkata.

It was a holiday and getting up in the morning I decided to soak myself in nostalgia yet again. I returned to writing the further pages of my diary.

2^ndOctober – Missing Rini

That first meeting with Rini was the onset of spring in the otherwise frozen winter of my life. Every day as the school got over and everyone ambled their way home, it was me who waited by the fences near the peepal tree, hoping to meet her. It was not many days before I finally saw her again. May be she was waiting for me too.

She wore the same pleated frock I saw her in last day and in her arms was the princess doll without its tiara.

“How are you?” I walked up to her and asked.

“Good. And what about my tiara?” She spoke curling down her lips.

“Let’s go and find it.” Saying so I hurled my school bag over the fences and it landed on the other side. I went down on the ground over my chest and tried to part the fences. It had spikes all over and hence parting wasn’t easy. I tried to remove some soil surrounding the poles of the fences, so that I can pass through that region. But since it hadn’t rained for quite some time, the soil was hard and couldn’t be removed by hand. Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I wrapped the handkerchief over my fingers and closing my eyes, gave one final try to part the fences. The spikes dug into my supple skin as patches of red could be seen soaking through the grey handkerchief. But what mattered most was that the fences parted a bit. I managed to cautiously push myself through the parted wires. With cuts on my palm and a few scratches on my back, I was finally on Rini’s side.

I then asked her where she was playing when she lost the tiara and she took me to the landlord’s garden. It was a vast stretch of lush green grass bed. Slanting rays of the late afternoon sun peeping through the canopy of adjacent tress falling on the lawn, created distinctive mosaic patterns of light and shadow. On the branches of one such tree was a cuckoo feeding its young ones. The place had its own ethereal beauty. The sky above Mallikpur now glowed in saffron light and hanging in the air of the garden was the smell of ripened pomegranates.

We looked for the tiara at almost every corner of the garden and between every blades of grass, but couldn’t find anything. At last I sat down, exhausted, underneath a leafy tree.

She came up to me and suggested to go beyond the boundaries of the garden. How can I possibly say no to her? We left the garden following the clay tiled path and it took us to another piece of expanse that was dumped with construction materials.

May be Prithviraj kaka is planning to build another house, I wondered.

The place had bricks piled up in low altitude walls and sacks of cement occupied another major section of the place. Westwards rests huge concrete pipes that we at that time used to call tunnels. I kept following Rini in search of her doll’s tiara. I wanted to find it at any cost but in the end nothing fruitful happened. I was drenched in sweat by then. My throat seemed to choke as I sat on the ground for air. Shafts of cool breeze kept rummaging its way through my dishevelled hairs as a sense of defeat was taking roots in my mind.

I looked up only to see Rini standing ahead of me, asking me to get up.

“How about having kulfis?” She asked smiling as the crimson light of the sun majestically gleamed of her soft cheeks.

“Why not…” I beamed.

“It’s my favourite desert…” She chuckled.

We strolled towards the kulfi vendor who by then was already surrounded by a cluster of kids. Rini managed to ask for two kulfis as I paid the vendor a total of one rupee. Every day dad used to give me two rupees for tiffin and ever since I came across Rini, I started to save one. It was love after all, the oar of a person’s boat of thoughts. It guides every movement of your sailing over the river of feelings.

Licking the kulfis we strolled westwards where those huge concrete pipes were kept or the tunnels, as we used to call it then. Sitting inside one such pipe, facing the crimson western sky where two kites danced to the rhythm of air, it was the first time I had Rini so close to me.

“Tired nah?” she mumbled, squashing a chunk of the frozen delicacy in her mouth.

We kept quiet till we finished our kulfi and then it was me who held Rini in his embrace. I hugged her tightly and whispered in her ears, “How can I be tired for my princess…” and like always she just smiled.

She pecked me on my cheeks and thanked me for helping her so much. It was those little moments of affection that like the warm rays of sun was helping the seed of love in my heart sprout its first leaves.

That day lying on our chest inside those huge pipes, together, we saw the sun go down in the west. Bliss it was!

Sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, mashi told me that Ramu kaka has sent me a letter. As I was in a hurry to leave for school, I had to choose between having breakfast or reading the letter. I chose the latter over the former.

Dear Pratik,
Hope you are doing good. You must be wondering that it has been over six months and why your dad didn’t pay you a visit. Though he told me not to inform you but as your uncle I find this to be my duty to notify you that your dad has taken ill. After your board exams your dad may not be able to come and fetch you there. So whenever you are done with your exams, come home as soon as possible.

Mallikpur misses you.

Take care,
Ramu kaka.

An uncanny anxiety fell over me........

To be Continued...

Read Part 3 here - Part 3


Missed Part 1? Read it here - Part 1

 

                                            By - Sobhan Pramanik

   

  

MY LOST PRINCESS Part 1 By Sobhan Pramanik

6

MY LOST PRINCESS
Part 1

By

Sobhan Pramanik

Summer of 1970

Mallikpur Village

Some 200 kilometres from the city of Kolkata…

It was a humid afternoon and the sun was beaming at its pinnacle. Warm wind was drifting through the village making the leaves of peepal tree quiver at its place. It was under the shade of that peepal tree that I sat bent on my toes with the shooter marble in the crook of my index finger. As I placed my knuckle on the earth and closed my left eye to aim perfectly, I could feel the tension hovering over my friends. With me striking the green marble out of the ring I shall be winning the rack and that means they will have to handover their marbles to me. Losing marbles, then, was a child’s deepest grief.

As the shooter flew out of my finger and struck the green marble I was aiming, I eagerly waited for it to roll out of the ring. But it didn’t. By the time I realized what had happened I heard Ganesh’s mischievous laugh gradually fading in my ears. I looked up and saw him running as fast as he could with his box of marbles pressed in his armpit.

“Hey this is cheating. Ganesh had thrown that pebble to divert my marble.” I shrieked pointing to the brown pebble in the ring.

I looked at Samir, Ahmed and Vikas who had put back their marbles in their box and were dusting the soil from their trousers.

“At least you people give your marbles. It is me who has won the game.” I pleaded for my prize.

“First ask Ganesh to give his marbles and then we will also do.” Ahmed said and they all started walking away.

Disappointed, I sat leaning onto the trunk of the peepal tree and was placing my marbles back in the box. It was when I was dabbing by partly wet eyes with the hem of my shirt, I saw her by the barbed wire fencing waving at me. She wore an old orange skirt that had visible stiches and a pair of silver anklets that jingled at her heels. Her shoulder length rough hair was held at place by a white hair band that occasionally slips down to her forehead and she keeps pushing it up. In her little arms, rests a princess doll whose tiara was missing.

“Kulfiwala is here. Let’s go.” She said with an innocent smile.

Kulfiwala reminded me of the one rupee I didn’t had today. I placed both my hands inside the pocket of my pyjama, hoping for a penny, but there wasn’t anything.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing Rini” I beamed at her.

I quickly laid down on the ground over my chest and parting the fencing wires a bit with my left hand, slipped to other end. Having reached the other end of the fencing, we ran across the sun tanned grass bed to the kulfiwala and asked for two kulfis. He then held out to us, two pale yellow kulfis, as Rini collected them and waited for me to pay him off. I pulled out the box of marbles that I kept tucked in my pyjama and handed over to the kulfiwala saying, I don’t have money.  

Rini noticed me doing so and pitched in, “Pratik what are you doing? You love your marbles nah…”

“I love you more than my marbles….” I said as a bead of melted kulfi streaked down Rini’s fingers.

It happened like an instinct for me. Because at six, I hardly knew what love was.
Time slowly nurtured my emotions and it was in her absence in the following decade that I was falling in love with her.

__

TEN YEARS LATER…

Shyambazar

Kolkata

I was six year old when dad decided to shift me to my mashi’s place in Kolkata. He said Mallikpur’s condition was worsening day by day and that I should not stay there anymore. When I had asked him what the reason was, he satisfied me by saying that Mallikpur did not have good schools. The kid in me believed that and left with his dad for Kolkata.

It has been ten years since then and my childhood memories of Mallikpur had started to lose its ground; except Rini and the marble sessions beneath the peepal tree. Now I am in the final year of my schooling and with exams approaching, it was indeed a tiring day at the school today. I lay on the bed by my side and flip often a diary. A part of me wants to relive those childhood days at Mallikpur. A part of me was craving to enjoy kulfi with Rini once again.
And to live the nostalgia I chose to ink my memories.

29^thSeptember - Nostalgia

It was the last day of the school before Durga puja and as soon as the clock struck eleven, children like a swarm of bees came rushing out of the classrooms.  Our school was the only primary school in the entire Mallikpur and kids in large number came to study there. My baba (father) was one of the teachers there. In the first half of the day he used to teach at the school and for the rest of the day he used to engage himself in raising crops on the lands leased out to him by the very cunning landlord of Mallikpur, Prithviraj Bhattacharya. I along with my baba and Ramu kaka (dad’s younger brother), earned our living by selling the raised crops in the market. A chunk of the revenue was given to Prithviraj kaka and whatever left in bits after giving went down the account of our earnings.

We didn’t pull off a good life but it wasn’t bad either.

Leaving school on the last day before vacation, our excitement knew no bounds. Every child out there had that big sparkling smile on their lips and the hall room was buzzing with their excited talks. No school for the next one month or so means no studying and unlimited hours to be spent at marbles and enjoying the puja.

Autumn had just started to set in and the sky above Mallikpur was a clear sheet of blue with traces of cottony clouds plugged at places.  I was walking home by the narrow, dusty road cutting through desolate paddy fields where stacks of fodder grass were kept to be dried in the sun. Smell of wild berries growing along the path lingered in the pleasantly drifting wind. I had just reached the place where we used to play marbles that I heard someone sniffing behind the bushes.

I decided to find it out. 

To be Continued...

By -  Sobhan Pramanik

   
Read PART 2 here -  Part 2