Dream peddler

“Excuse me, Sir!” mumbled Animesh in a possible irritated-yet-sounding-pleasant tone, “Can you shift one seat, that’s mine actually, if you don’t mind”. The old man gave him an indifferent stare and peacefully moved over. Animesh was restless; he put off his cabin baggage in the closet of flight no AI604, stuffed the New York Times at the back of the seat clumsily, took of his Armani overcoat and sat there fidgeting with his expensive new PDA. He was irritated because the flight was delayed for more than 3 hours and to add to it more he left without the cigarette packet from home. He spared a sideways glance to the man sitting beside him. Pretty old, how much? The receding hairline, the prominent creases on his face, the mellowed eyes, he guessed; maybe 75 or less? Yet seemed quite agile, dressed in a plain off-white shirt, tailor-made, ironed and grayish trousers, in a flamboyant thick framed black Gucci glasses, he seemed to be quite at ease with himself.

“May I borrow that paper of yours?” He asked Animesh, interrupting his constant stare from the corner of the eyes.

Animesh was a little taken aback by the sudden interruption but he managed quite well,” sure you may”, sounding quite authoritative.

“Me, Ajatshatru Banerjee, working class, but retired nowadays, he chuckled.

“I am Animesh, Animesh Roy, so Mr. Banerjee you going to Delhi? Or you have a connecting flight to Calcutta?”

“Oh! You are a Bengali? Nice to meet you Animesh “, without even paying any attention to Animesh’s question.

Animesh clicked his tongue in silence,” all of them have the same reaction when they find one, will these self proclaimed Bengalis never change?

“Hmm, so you have a connecting flight or you headed for Delhi?” Animesh repeated the question.

What do you think?

How should I say?

Connecting flight, yes you are right.

Ohkay!

By this time, the plane was soaring up amidst the clouds, white, misty flakes of the heavenly dews, roaming around aimlessly kissing the nose of the gigantic Air India Boeing as it surges ahead across the pacific. Animesh was thinking about the life in Calcutta, dusty smelly stinking roads, the moment he would place his feet outside the cabin the searing, dissipating heat, the air reverberating in sync with the heat emanating from the brown dusty ground, the smell of the rotten fish, the garbage dumped here and there, meandering along the narrow marauding lines of poverty stricken slums, the half-fed dogs, the crows, the tightly packed, loosely constructed shanties along the footpath, everything seemed ugly, bitter and tasteless. He felt like his once hometown had no color, other than yellow, that too mellowed.

“Missing home?”

Animesh was shocked, “voodoo or what? How did he guess?”

“A few more hours, and there again, the city of joy, the SFI’s, the maidan, homemade food, you don’t get these things in the States, you don’t get life over there, suffocating.” Ajatshatru said. “By the way after how long are you going?” Animesh’s face twitched and his eyes blinked, partially in relief, “after all he is no mind reader”, he thought.

“Yes, Mr. Banerjee, missing home”, he sighed. “—missing New York–” he thought.

“You said, you were into service, but retired now, right?” asked Animesh, desperate to shake off the disturbing pictures of Kolkata.

“Yes, son, I have retired long back, I used to be in the chief judge in Kolkata high court, place as such there was none, I had a transferable job, as result of which I had been fortunate to eat the rice of every color and caste and creed.” recalled Ajatshatru in a triumphant tone, “You don’t mind if I don’t call you by your name? You are exactly the same age as my son is.”

“No, no, why should I mind”, Animesh replied a bit confused about what to say to such a strange request. The toil and grind in America had molded him so differently that he now adheres completely to the western culture of calling names; he’s even changed his bathroom habits, unconsciously though. He still remembers how he and his brother differed in ideologies. His brother, a staunch communist and he a worshipper of western ideologies and dreamt of bigger life, unlike his brother.

“Where in Kolkata, do you stay Mr. Banerjee? North or south?

“North”

“I don’t like that side, it’s too congested”

“But, that’s where the real smell of the city is.”

“Yea, smell of rotten fish”

“Ah, that’s a delicacy, did you taste it?”

“And, the smell of pollution”

“Oh! That? They are talking of banning buses that are more than 20 years old, don’t fret over that!”

“And, the musty-smelling bazaars”

“You get good things, cheap, so never mind the smell, plus if that acts as an appetizer, believe me”

“And, dirty politics”

“Even America is not spared, and?”

“And communism and beggars and rusty old buses and stinking humidity and … wasted childhoods, great expectations from a city that’s inevitably a vacuum and there are toiling laborers, and dusty skies, even the moon looks ugly nowadays …

…

…. …

… … … don’t mind if I am rude!!” Animesh heaved.

“I see, you have great affection for your city, good to know!” Ajatshatru smiled.

A steely silence waved over the two, Animesh broke it “so, you stay with son in New York?”

Yes, you can put it that way; at least he does it that way” Ajatshatru said.

“I didn’t get it” What do you mean by ‘that’ way?”

“Never mind”

“Is this your routine tour of India? I will back by the next week, but I won’t be alone. You are coming back on?”

“You’re marrying?”

“Neah, I am already! My ma will be coming.

“Your parents are there in Kolkata?”

“Only my ma, father died 5 years back.”

Oh! Am sorry! Then you should have brought her here long back.”

“Ma used to stay with my brother, but he got married, there have been loads of problems, and brother shifted her to a nearby old home. But recently there have been some problems with the good-for-nothing management group of that home.” rued Animesh.

Is that so? Why what’s wrong?

“I don’t know Mr. Banerjee, don’t ask me. I got this letter from my brother last month, that the old home closing down due to lack of funds and he couldn’t afford to bear ma’s medical expenses, and …

… And you volunteered to fly to your ma and keep her near to you? She must be a very fortunate person to have a son like you, I am sure.” Ajatshatru completed the sentence for Animesh, a sense of great satisfaction and lament appeared on his creased face.

Animesh searched for the tone of sarcasm I it, but there was none, he cleared his throat and proceeded,” yes, that is the thing, but you know America is an expensive country and the dad’s pension that ma gets was never enough, however, we were planning to divide up all properties that father left in ma’s name and conjure up the expenses. Let’s see, the talks are still on, anyways, its family matters”

But Ajatshatru wasn’t listening, the last sentence distracted him, “the property… the inheritance… the divide… the greed…” He cleared his throat and poked Animesh, no, it’s not that I don’t have interests, I told you, I had spent 40 years of my life in these legal matters.”

Oh! Yes, I forgot! Animesh said almost apologetically. And my legal advisor says that there are ways that I can remove my brother completely from this inheritance race.

“Hmm” hummed Ajatshatru.” Where did you say you stayed?”

“Ha-ha! I never told you anything about that Mr. Banerjee, it’s an old trick, I stay in Ballygunge, but why do you ask?

Just like that, no reason, and what’s the name of the old home that your ma had been in?

“Umm… some Bonolata Devi Old-Age Home, I don’t understand why the govt. would even grant them permission if they can’t show enough resources, to maintain and run the organization” He suddenly felt very tired, the already blatant world just suddenly seemed more naked to him. Man’s ugly necessities of life loomed over him like cannibals in a desolate, lonely island, dancing for the death, for the greed, the shrill thundering sound of the Boeing pierced his ears. All his life he had seen this, been in the legal section he has never been spared from man’s utter covetousness, total materialism. He has always despised these and somehow he killed the pest without touching it or making his hands dirty. He removed his red Gucci glasses; they seemed too heavy for him and excused himself from Animesh. Went to the washroom, sprayed water over his face, came back and just sat there in his seat with eyes closed thinking nothing.

He sat like that for hours, ordered a light veg. lunch and ate in silence.

“Mr. Banerjee is everything okay with you? You look pretty exhausted, maybe this long journey!”

“How many minutes to land?”

“5-10 minutes, we have reached”, informed Animesh

“Hmm, you wanted to know when I am flying back to America. Right? ”Yea, if you don’t mind”, muttered Animesh. “Well… then listen, I didn’t give any of my 2 crore property to that idiot of mine and his wife, they don’t deserve it. I made my will, in which the entire property have to be handed over to a charitable trust. And when my son came to know about this decision of mine, I am here flying back to India, Kolkata, shyambazaar, north Kolkata you know, the place you hate so much, am going to breathe over there, and …

[Mr. Banerjee’s voice was drowned in the ear splitting sound of the touchdown of the flight AI604]

The flight has landed, passengers shifting here and there, voices, commotion, the air hostess preparing for the final adieu to all on board passengers and outside a scorching misty heat wave awaited Animesh Roy.

“You want to know the name of the charitable trust, Animesh?”

Animesh fumbled.

“It’s the same that went out of funds and was supposed to close, but don’t worry, it won’t close down now, you can have second thoughts about your company in the return flight” snapped Ajatshatru Banerjee.

Animesh was the last passenger to move out of the cabin, he walked away motionlessly.

“Name–?”   –  “sauvik”

“Age –?” – “23”

It began with some casual questions and some curt yet tensed answers. I needed to value that 23 years of life, and show to the world I am as solid as the rock, let whatever comes up.

“Hmmm… a few cystic areas on the right femoral head, a well defined lytic lesion on the iliac bone” murmured the doctor, “ when was the last time you had the operation told me?” he asked me eyes peeping out of the thick framed moony spectacles.

“Around ’95, almost 13 years back and there has been no complaints afterwards till the last month.” came my ma’s reply, dry but hopeful. Dry because she wasn’t conversant in cyst terminologies and hopeful because she felt that the doctor must have been wrong somewhere.

“Hmm… your son has the same problem once again, the cyst that was there 13 years had come back, recurred, only that it has grown in size, and it just might be a giant cell cyst, but nothing much to fret about, he needs some surgical intervention , and it will all be okay, as good as new.” The doctor explained under one breath.

“Was the last statement really required?” I mean why he needs to give that finishing touch? To show he’s the god around in town? I stole a short glance at my ma, thought I read something, anyways.

“How long would it take for the recovery, i mean before I can start off with office?”

“More than 3 months, but let’s see nothing’s decided as of now”, the doctor obviously a bit disturbed by my impatience.

I looked into her eyes, she had hundreds of questions, she won’t ask, she needs to show that she’s strong at least in front of me. She can’t look into my eyes lest she sees the eyes swelling up, neither can I, same reason. Sometimes I feel like laughing at the situation we are in. When the eyes speak more than you can bear, it’s better not to look into them.

“I will write down some investigations for you, and the usual blood tests will be there, get these things down, we need to be a bit careful this time, and don’t forget to take the elbow crutch, the fees should be paid over there…” said the doctor.

“Appointment’s over”, I thought, indirectly yet politely. My dad did the remaining formalities at the counter and walked to me.

“Put your over my shoulders, till I get your crutch” I put my hands over his shoulders, withered yet strong, stubborn, as I limped back to the cab.

My thoughts were scything my conscience into thousands of pieces. I wanted to laugh at my fucking luck, but not even a smile came to my lips. A bird with “freedom”, “fly”, “high” echoing in its heart and wings ready to take off, shouldering all the responsibilities. This was the day I was waiting for. Suddenly I felt as a pair of invisible hand rose from beneath the ground, and choked me, cut my wings, wringed my feathers, as I lay bloodied onto the ground. When the bird could have flown high, nearly touching the North Star or may be play with the red ball of fire in the twilight zone of the western horizon, lifting it, coming out, going in to the depth of the clouds, grazing the air, against the hungry tide, unruffled.

It took another pain staking 30 minutes to reach home. I was almost silent during that time, but ma kept on talking, talking and talking, maybe she felt distressed that way, or maybe I thought so.  She talked about everything to nothing in between. About how things would turn out to be absolutely fine, about “no-nothings” at all, about family matters, about my childhood crusades, about Mumbai and about how I came to sleep beside her, in the middle of the night, after I had a ghostly nightmare. She gave me an affectionate smile and asked, “You still afraid of ghosts? Ha-ha”. She had this god-gifted talent of making people laugh even in the grimmest moments and how much I could run to see that smile in her face can anyone tell me?   So finally the much awaited smile came to my face; I was blushing, aware of my cousin’s scornful look. I almost blurred out, “No! Ma!! It was just that one single night. Did I lie?

                                                                                *****

“No rice for me ma nowadays that I am jobless as ever; you wouldn’t want a pot-bellied son or do you?”  I shouted as she kept herself busy in the kitchen.

“Don’t worry nothing will happen, see what you don’t to yourself, eating all those vada-pavs and idli-dosas” she stressed.

“But, ma, I am not doing any—-”              

  “You looked so beautiful when you were under my care, all round faced and all; look at you now, no girl will marry you!”

   “That’s good isn’t it?” I said triumphantly.

    “And what happened to her—?”

“Her? Who?”

 “You know who… in your school…you told me about… She’s left you? Aww!!” she chuckled.

“Whaat?? Ma, will you please change the topic? I was suddenly all red.   

“Here, have the milk then, I won’t talk about her, just close your eyes and gulp it down”

“Miiiilk? I hate milk, you better talk about her, than me having milk.”

“Okay!…then”

“No, wait, sorry, you don’t talk. No talk about anything or anybody. I ll drink it up.” I was almost devastated.

“Milk is good for health, more of a calcium diet, the doc prescribed you one.” Ma was saying.

I slumped into the sofa, I knew it was futile to wage a war against ma’s wishes, fidgeted with the remote control, switched channels, lazily, and thought, why can’t they invent a calcium enriched cigarette. Not only calcium, but vitamins too. All re-packed and re-branded. Then nobody would be going after us, for smoking around. Even if they do, we can happily give them a nice black eye.

It had been 10 days without a puff for me. God!!      

Into the sleeping sun,

Of a parabolic freedom,

I want to escape.

to the woods.

to the silence,

where words kill.

Into the melancholic evening,

of an enthralling beauty,

I want to break free.

from the boundations.

from the death and hush,

where you can’t say what you want.

Into the utopia of my dreams,

Of an euthnasic way to awakening,

I want to lie forever.

in the laps of the angel.

in the greens of my past,

where deceptions stop.

Into the night stretched to eternity,

Of an enchanted star studed sky,

I want to steal the world.

to keep them to myself.

to let them live with me,

where separation never comes.

There’s fire raging in his eyes. Tired eyes, tired of seeing the same old pain, the same old dream.

The sixth straight peg of whiskey at his table;

He liked facing the world through the reddish haze of the liquid, nowadays. It looked more serene, more diffused, mellowed. He tried playing with the glass, rotating, turning, shaking, and listened to the soft tinkering of the two ice cubes floating around, before he could gulp down the poison and let it sear his already charred veins. The tinkering of the ice cubes seemed fanatic, a voice seemed to be lingering away, “Che is alive, he’s in our hearts”   The music seemed more distant, the cluttering of the crockery more rhythmic and the moon?

A big blotted white dot in the black canvas — “oh! God, why did you forsake me?”

It was in the early 80’s. Exact date he couldn’t recall, maybe November. Late sunny morning. Mother was busy as usual shuttling from room to room and banging at his closed door in between.

And he?

Lying curled up peacefully in a different time zone. Unaware that a soft chilly breeze was blowing through the half open window, the siphon curtains rippling carelessly, the fan creaking away at its own ease, two sparrows quarrelling at the window pane. A Karl Marx biography tucked carefully under his pillow and an angel in his eyes. Dreaming, dreaming, streaming. The seed of communism was sprouting, thriving, desperate for a drop of water, as it flung it roots into his mind’s canvas. Growing too, was his new found love, revolutions galore.

By the time he got up, the sun was blazing away. A split sunray fell upon the black and white life size poster of Che Guevara sitting majestically fondling a cigar at the right corner of his half open lips. His father, a man he idolized and despised at the same time was preparing for his 9-5 office. A bundle of dirty half corrected exam papers held carefully in between his armpits, a Bengali daily clutched in his hand and dying communist beliefs in his heart. Idolized because, he had never a man with such level of integrity. He did fantasize that he would be able to stand up to support his family as his father did. Year 1947 partition, two nations thousands of people streaming in across the Indo-Bangladesh border, seeking political asylum. Searching for a single shade under the sun, crying their lungs out for a mouthful of rice, not for themselves, but for their children; it is then that his father stood rock solid. The patience, the resilience, the hardship, and the sacrifice he idolized him for all this. And despised? Because he succumbed to responsibility. 55 years of his life, he had spent preaching a bunch of ignorant student in a govt. funded very ordinary school. Shabby and downtrodden.

“Why the hell can’t you wake up a bit early?” His mother shouted, “24years and you can’t even say a brinjal from a papaya!!!” startling him from his daydreaming.

“This boy has a long way to go, before life teaches him something; hopeless”, muttered his father in a half pessimistic tone.

“As always”, he thought of his father, “soft spoken, idealist, half hearted” he tried to hide a chuckle under his breath.

“Comrades!!!!” thundered Manick da. Mr. Manick Chakrabarty, clad in a yellowish white shirt, tucked out, a trouser that had gone through enough, unshaved, yellowed eyes, but there was spark within them, a thick framed black spectacles, which he proudly says was gifted to him by his wife, in their 20^th anniversary. He is the man, who made him that how communism can change this unequal and divided world, where liberty is earned through revolution, where every drop of blood that people like his father sheds will have its true value. Where every head is held high and knowledge is free, where beggars are choosers and kings stripped naked and made to run in the city streets.  He used to echo Marx, “the philosophers only showed how this world can be changed, but the point is the change to actually take place.” Revolution was in his eyes, youth his veins and dreams in his heart. He placed his first stepping stone in his red empire. Words, golden words, Che Guevara came to life, suddenly, “I know you have come to kill me, come shoot, you coward, you are only going to kill a man.” The words were of fire and ideologies are all in red, Red, RED.  Laal salaam!!!  He desperately wanted not to succumb to responsibility, like his father did. The world has never seemed so brave, so daunting, and so convergent. He stopped believing in Gods.

Mid 80’s. Maybe January. He’s not so sure. He had spent days under the sun, painting protest posters in red, rallying at the Brigade grounds, the writers’ building, burning puppets of opposition leaders, even holding a gun and idolizing Manick da.

And nights?

He spent them in puffs of smoke, nurturing hand made bombs, sleepless, or sleeping with the dogs, reading Karl Marx, Lenin, and Che. By that time it was high noon in his life. He tore off his scholarships for the US, gave up his lucrative career, where money came at flick of a finger and he told his sweetheart the same thing as he did to the Gods years ago. He hated it when his father used to say, “Being a common man is hereditary”. He pillared up his father’s failures and laid his stepping stones to success. He gave up his family for his ideologies, his responsibilities for his fantasizes his realities for his dreams, after all this what the likes of Marx, Lenin and Che did.              

Year 2000. Yes, today he can say that the two people he idolized the most did bless him. He might not have rubbed shoulders with the greats of communism, but he did go past his fellow comrade Manick da, with due respect. This time there was no need to hide the smile.

But yes, today’s sun did rise, but at a heavy price. The old retired school teacher, that his father was, is no more. He died of an askemic heart, ill treated, lack of medicines, lack of money, because in his world money didn’t come at the flick of a finger. His mother terminally ill; she was diagnosed with colon cancer 2 years back. Irreparable. His one time sweetheart settled in Cincinnati, US of A. he stood rock solid. He never even for a split second thought of laying down his ideologies, so that “his” people would question his integrity. After all he was his father’s son. Patience, resilient, and the sacrifice; he felt like the God, a god who sits among equals, he has no lesser children. Every drop of blood still boil, they are just as red as they were 30 years ago. The words still spit fire, but sadly beggars are still not choosers. There still some work left.

****

That evening his mother breathed her last, the final brick in the wall of his RED empire fell crumbling, broken down into thousands of pieces. After decades tears fell, instead of blood, white ruled instead of red, and Krishna became God instead of Marx.

For sometime.

The secretary (on phone): yes, sir the CM had already sanctioned the proposed site for the SEZ. The meeting is scheduled sharp at 4pm.

                                    There’s still some unfinished work.

                                                 You may be the moonshine that lightens up my face;

You may be the final sweat spilled in this destiny defying dance;

You may be the reason why there is still music in the wars!

You may be the reason why lovers still find a heaven in the stars!

You love me but you don’t know, I am the orphan of destiny!!

You may be the just a drop in the rain;

You may be the angel who soothes the pain;

You may be the reason, why the nights still bleed!

You may be the reason, why silences speak and eyes read!

You hate me but you don’t know that I still love the seas!!

You may be a dreamer’s thrill;

You may be a shadow too real;

You may be the reason, why people don’t fight with fate!

You may be the reason, why the moon doesn’t shine off-late!

You stay indifferent, but you don’t know I hide my face and still cry!!

You may be the silent sound of the night;

You may be the hand in this poetry in the light;

You may be the reason, why it feels like the tears are mine!

You may be the reason, why all emotions seem benign!

.

.

How far will the tears roll?

How dead will life be for me?

.

.

How long will this walk be?

How scary will this dream be?

It’s only a matter of time, before you can bleed like me

…..or can you?

Off the twilight zone;

Into the woods

Of the sleeping sun;

Can you fall in love with the red?

Oh! Babe! Keep the smile and bleed like me!

It’s only a matter of time, that you realize the reds in me,

…, before you can love to die.

In the hands of eternity;

Into a lifetime

Of a spotless mind;

Can you see the same old dream?

Oh! Babe! Bleed in red, but keep the smile like me!

It’s only a matter of time, you realize; there are angels in the nights  

…, before you can live in the everyday.

Turn the page;

Of my shadows

Of the 1000 miles;

Can you sing that beauty must live?

Oh! Babe! Would you agree that pain’s a beauty!

It’s only a matter of time that you think, who you are.

…see me, when you look at nothing.

To fade in you;

Of spilled blood

Of love undone;

You can’t bleed like I do?

 Oh! Babe! Keep the smile, coz I won’t show how I bled.

I have shed my tears all of this night,

I have started this yet again, a brand new fight!

The moon, the time and the steely September,

Whispered to me, “U must move, she aint your lover”!

Another dream went crashing down in the fall,

The bullet with the butterfly wings has miles, before the final call!

If you were the sands, and I the sea,

To kiss your toes with foams of love, it would have been me.

If you were the subtle breath, and I the soft whisper,

To ignite the fire within, I would have; in the sultry November.

If you were the princess and I the fortress,

To wipe your tears, I would have; in distress.

If you were the ruby and the I the dust,

To move away, I would have and let you lust;

If you were the effect and I the cause,

To let bliss flow, I would have, ‘n let moment pause.

If you were the dreams, and I the darkest of the night

                   To make the stars come closer, I would have traveled years of light.

If you were the rose, and I the thorn,

To see the red of the rose, I would have been born.

I have thought over it so many times,

Hardly found an octet that actually rhymes.

As whispers merge into the twilight…

I kiss the dying sun,

Hoping the dawn

To be eternal and bright

I missed you in my dreams.

I have taken grief, in the everyday…

I have fought,

The burning midnight

But I was the heel of Achilles

I missed you in my dreams.

As I romanced the moon and the black …

I have betrayed,

The thirst of this illusion

I refused to drink the darkness

I missed you in my dreams.

I never saw the way to this maze…

Every door I crept on to,

Was a mirage

It wasn’t my destiny

I missed you in my dreams.

You were never meant for me…

It was I, who loved you,

Some people,

Are destined to be the sea

I missed you in my dreams.

It was always summer…

But it rained,

Like never before

I will miss your face, your voice, your smile,

I missed you in the twinkle of my dreams.

“Blue blistering barnacles!!!!

Thundering typhoons!!!

You nincompoops, interplanetary pirates, I am not going into that flying coffin again!!!!”

–Capt. Haddock to Thompson and Thomson in the,” Explorers on the Moon”

Oh!!! How could I forget captain Haddock and his favorite Loch Lomond brand of whiskey? And the inimitable Cuthbert Calculus, Bianca Castafiore, the two bumbling detectives? I was lazing around… in front of the idiot box last night, and suddenly this show on cartoon network came up…I just thought of watching Tintin for a change… and I exclaimed to myself, “blue blistering barnacles, I forgot almost all the stories in it!!!! And once it had been one of my choicest of all books. I still remember I almost pestered my mom to insanity every other day, to buy me all the Tintin series until I had all 23 of them. Hee haw!!! Someday I was too bored of reading them over and over again, I would scramble up to my mom’s lap and blurred out,

“MOOOOm, read this story for me, pleaseeeee” my dad was always my back up plan, because he was a bit impatient while reading out stories. Lol…

There was a time, when I had almost memorized the entire 23 books, err… well almost!! I used to sit with a Tintin book on the dining table, while having meals, and I could hear my mom screaming,

“Why do you bring this book, along with the food?”

And she used to show stupid excuses,

”if you don’t pay attention to what you are eating, you will never grow up into a strong boy!!”

And I being the smallest of all kids, used to look up to mom, starry eyed, and murmur under my breath,

“Ma, just this one last time, only 10 pages left to read” my mom would say,

“no, leave this book, I will tell you a nice story instead… oh!! I was heart broken!

A child and his childishness hah!! My mom finally gave up the idea.

Then there were days, when we actually used actually play being Tintin. Ewes, what was that game. Umm, well we used build houses with the legos and actually make up our own story with a certain tuft less Tintin, a hot tempered captain Haddock, and the good old Cuthbert calculus, who used to act as he was “a little hard of hearing.” And that game would be fun, with occasional fights,(childhood adventures you know).

One day I even slipped one Tintin book into my school bag, so that I could read it in class, and I did, and I got my caught too!!! I had a guardian call. Gawwwd, I can still pain in my butt, I was crying like a baby (well… I was one at that time…). My dad locked up all my 23 hot collection in the cupboard, until my final examination was over. God!! How crazy can dads get over silly things!!

I reached for my precious book shelf, wiped out the dust, went through the stupid Enid Blytons, hardy boys, the dumb old pop-up books, the john grishams and the amitav ghoshs’ until I found the entire 23 crazy diamonds. The pages have turned yellow, with time, the corners of the front covers were coming off, I wiped the dust off with my hands, and thought oh! Crap what a mad little brat I was, over this immortal soul, and handed it over to my 6 yr old cousin sister, who went away dancing… I was really happy that day.

Its like passing on a precious gem, the passion will never die.

Hey c’mon guys this Tintin fever’s not yet over now, I got a Tintin cd collectors pack, the entire lot.

A touch – a shiver – of heaving breaths – of dripping water – along the bare skin – a whisper – unreadable – a pleasure – of unspoken words – of a silence that speaks – a love bite – butterfly wings; fluttering - the unseen reds – of a kiss - of curled up emotions – into the wilderness – a beckoning green – a tear – out of the corner of her left eye – a thought never spoken – but understood – a confrontation – a compromise – a hangover - called life!            

In the backwaters of life, of marinated love!

WHEN YOU THINK IT’S ALL OVER, IT HAS ONLY BEGUN!

I want to be the hero’s only chance. The hero that’s just so sublime, within me. I want that hero to have no choice, but only ONE fixed destiny, take it or perish in its quest. On a lonely November midnight, I let the full moon burn, to burst into flames, in a vain attempt of a resurrection. A moment of glory has been my survival instinct till now. I yearned for that silence that none has heard till now. I have desired the undesired, but is it the undesirable?      

What is life? – Life is water.

What is the motive of life? – To quench the thirst.

Why are we alive? – To drink this water.