Just another She

An orange spark shot itself through the wave of gray clouds, and then melted into the blue. Occasionally after pauses, the wind brushed over the world, creating a symphony. The wooden windows with their half shutters waiting to be shut, it was evening and this was the custom.It had risen though from a supposed scientific reason- darkness brings in strange, common insects that ruin man’s sleep. Science or belief, she never understood it. She wanted to see the sky turn black. She always intended to observe, to notice the trick but it did it quietly, put on the cloak so quickly that no one even noticed. But these things always interested her. Forever. Earlier when she was just another child and now that she is just another woman.
As a child living among the cruel concrete she always felt the urge to slip into a different world, a different place. The vast stretches of sun soaked grass, the dew sodden fields, the crimson hue that appeared twice everyday but seeming new each time- beckoned her in a familiar voice. She heard the voice then, she hears it now. It called her earlier when she was just another child and it calls her now that she is just another woman.
A number of questions grew in her heart when she once had faced violence as a little girl. The hatred that had spread like an epidemic and continued to be more ruthless and arrogant tortured some part of her. She had cried then, she cries now although no one tried to understand. She wailed in her helplessness, she feels the pain even today. It hurt her earlier when she was just another child. It hurts now that she is just another woman.
When Joy knocked on her door, she greeted him, welcoming him with open arms. As she saw the sun soaked grass, the dew sodden fields and crimson skies she felt grateful but never greedy. She embraced without grasping, she accepted without clasping. As a child the short visits of happiness made her smile and even today she merely treats him as her fair-weather friend. She accepted his transience when she was just another child; she respects it now that she is just another woman.
The fevers haunted her childish life. The pain pricked her, stung her and engulfed her in their power. But she remained mute, not unfeeling but merely unbending. A complaint or regret never slipped from her heart or her lips. With the years the pain also grew and the more she felt, the less she said. She only smiled, she smiled then as a child, she smiled as a grown-up and she still smiles as she is laid to rest. She was never just another child. She was never just another woman.

I am…..



There I stood….can you see me not?
Standing straight and tall
Weathered and cracked and cemented again……

Bricks and stones,
Not brown anymore.

The graffiti shouting out thoughts of many
Smudge and blur and some read clear
Colourful and varied
They speak out loud
Adorning me and screaming out-
Look at me, I am not just a wall.

Shei je Holud Pakhi (O! that Yellow Bird)

Hurt, a wing broken
It landed at my door.
I took it in

I caressed and cared,
I brought it in
Into my life and heart

It became my everything,
My life, my soul, my sustenance.
But, on another day

It disappeared, it left
It flew away.
I wept, I cried, I stood alone

Alone again, as I imagined
It looking down on me
With laughter and scorn.

The laugh resonated throughout,
It tortured and tore
My heart into shreds,
My life it broke.

With tearful eyes I looked up
It was laughing, laughing aloud
And flying,
Flying further and further away.

The Vacant White

Beyond closed doors with you on the other side
My helpless eyes look beyond the mute, wooden divide;
Beyond the horizon, across the blue,
Amongst a world unknown, I seek you;
In the bluish realms, perhaps on top of the clouds,
Amidst the flying songbirds, amidst the coloured shrouds;
In the deeps of the earth, within the very core,
I searched and sought you, to help ease my sore.

Yet! O yet! You remained in obscurity,
You dodged my eyes and hid from my thoughts.
I was unable to breathe but you showed me no pity.

I begged and pleaded for you to come back to me,
I shed another tear into a dark infinity.
Still you heard me not, and as the days waned,
My vacuous life in those untouched pages remained.

The Remnants of the Bygone Era of the Raj

Post –independence, the effort of the Indian government to obliterate the British era has not been completely successful. The rule of the Raj, as it is commonly referred to, is a chapter closed but its resonance is still heard. The Raj may be dead but its ghost still lingers. The remnants of the British Raj are felt more in Calcutta than in any other Indian city.
Calcutta is a product of British creation. Job Charnock’s discovery in 1690 led to Calcutta becoming the pride of the Britons who could boldly proclaim that they founded it, built it, occupied it and managed it. It later went on to become one of the imperial capitals of the British Raj.
Calcutta has grown and has been able to outstretch its wings yet an umbilical relation to its British predecessors and its colonial past undeniably binds it. What seems extraordinary is the amazing way in which Calcutta remains bound to the era of the Raj. After having been renamed KOLKATA by the present government in order to give it a distinct and individual flavor, most natives are still more accustomed to “ CALCUTTA”. The same willing ignorance is found in the case of the roads that still pay reverence to the great Britons. A Taxi driver in the city will be familiar with Camac Street rather than Abanindranath Tagore Road and Russel Street rather than Anandilal Poddar Street. In most cases the old British names linger and provide Calcutta with an identity and a history. Auckland Square, Bentinck street, Wellesley Square and Clive Street, named after British Governor Generals are a few of the examples. 
The Bengali has endeavored to build homes and expand business and culture all over the face of the city; little realizing that the authentic home that he has tried to create is standing on a street that is reminiscent and remnant of the British past. The contribution of the British in the field of architecture has also been immense and extraordinary. The grand, glorious palace houses reflect their colonial antecedents the most. Built in times of great flourish, in imitation of the British palaces, these gracious buildings brood over both the past and the present. Although their shine and shimmer has dimmed and their walls have surrendered to the destructive powers of time, yet the dignity of these mansions triumphs over the decay and they exist and live on as a beautiful reminder of the past.
One of the most beautiful of all the reminders is the Victoria Memorial, built by the Indians themselves in reverence to their empress Queen Victoria. This formed indeed the architectural climax of the British Raj in India. The palace of white marble with its green fringes, designed in the Renaissance style, remains forever an asset and Calcutta’s own. The Victoria Memorial proudly proclaims the British antiquity and the British heritage.
One of the hallmarks of a distinguished gentleman is membership to some club or the other. Urban man takes pride in declaring his many memberships and his very active social life. The gentlemen of Calcutta are not unlike these. The Club Culture that Calcutta prides in is in fact a borrowed tradition. London was known as the most clubbable place in the world and Calcutta like its English counterpart was determined to join the league. The very many activities of the British led to the start of this heritage. Thus was established various institutions in the city which tried to bridge a gap between the rulers and the ruled. The clubs in Calcutta still exist; club life is alive and kicking. Although the clubs have shed some of the rigid regulations of the colonial past and have attained a definition of its own, the culture and the purpose still remain.
The British have given to the city much more than this. They have not created in Calcutta a facsimile, but have provided Calcutta with an identity of its own. Calcutta has retained the contributions of its predecessors and has created a home for its natives. It is a curious blend of the old and the new, the crude and the urbane. It is a hybrid city. Calcutta with open arms has accepted and given space to all those who have inhabited it and yet has retained its uniqueness. Thus Calcutta stands, proud and beautiful as a semblance of all that was and all that is…. proclaiming of its future and whispering of its past.

life........i hold thee in my arms