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Cycle of Cliches Sermons on the Hill
Sermons on the Hill“Gadho, you need a direction and not a bike to find someone!” Birinchi was at his sarcastic best when I shared the benign intention of purchasing a brand-new bike with a whopping forty-six thousand rupees. Nisim was sitting beside us and relishing the breath-taking view of the eastern part of the city shrouded by layers of thick early morning mist. In fact, sitting at the stairs of Geeta Mandir that was what all three of us were doing. It was freaking cold at six in the morning, and it pierced our jackets, monkey caps, hand-gloves, jeans and shoes, like a million piercings by needles. Triple riding on motorbikes and scooters was banned in the city, but people still did it at insane hours, when the city police patrolling would be relaxed. The best, and perhaps the only insane hour, was daybreak. On the way, while we shivered from cold, Birinchi announced that in two weeks, he would also purchase a bike. His bowling skills had caught the attention of the pr
Cycle of Cliches Paradise
ParadiseThe ten-day mourning period seems like a never-ending press-meet, with every visitor coming to offer their condolences placing flowers, fruits, packaged milk, Joha rice in a tray in front of Ma’s portrait, and one childlike, innocent query to us – Jahnobi and I: “What happened?”Have people stopped reading newspapers, watching privatized news-channels or scrolling through Facebook posts? Has the talk of the town died out already? Or is this query just a filler to break the unfamiliar quietness in the room, where they might have had hundreds of inspired talks with their Baideu? Or did she have too quiet a farewell for her persona? Are they yet to realize that very soon, their Baideu too, like all good things, is destined to become a cliché? I think, I should print a standard verbiage and put it up at the main-door of our quarter, like a placard in a protest rally. Something like this:Ma, that is Your Beloved and/or Revered Baideu a.k.a Late Mrs Ruplekha Bhattachar
Cycle of Cliches When it Rains
When it Rains It was just a light drizzle when Jaanvi came out of the New Arts Building. Meeting Ranjita after so many days, was a treat. They work in the same place, the prestigious Cotton University, but hardly get time to meet due to their hectic schedule of lectures. Phone conversations can, in no way, complement meeting someone personally. At least, not someone like Ranjita. Childhood besties they are. In school, they were inseparable. Meeting her any day, means a much-needed unwinding bout.She starts walking towards the Administrative building with a cup of smoking hot coffee and two singoras in her mind, the ritualistic mid-day snacks in the Teacher’s Common Room. These are those familiar February drizzles – the ones that usher in Boxonto Panchami – starting around the fifth day of the Assamese month, Magha, and continuing in small spells for about a day or two. These aren’t the kind of which would make her completely wet, get her mekhela-sador stuck against her body, wit
Cycle of Cliches Memento
MementoThe Teacher’s Common Room door opens to a surprise for Jaanvi, a pleasant one at that. The 20 X 20 feet room, known mostly for an insipid silence amid the vibrant din of the campus, gloomy tube-lights, antique ceiling fans, mammoth bookshelves along the walls, empty chairs and desks with books and notebooks scattered on them most of the day, while their occupants, the teachers, would be engaged in delivering classroom sessions, now looks packed with people – senior students, colleagues and support staff. Often synonymous with inactivity, except for tea-sipping, cookies-munching, lesson-planning, assignment-checking tit-bits of conversation spells among colleagues, this room is now buzzing with movement and activity. Jaanvi’s colleagues and students, mostly known faces, are engrossed in candid, enthusiastic group chats, as if they have met one another after ages. The room has been decorated with balloons and streamers, freshly lit with white CFL bulbs. The congregation
Cycle of Cliches Being Mother
Being MotherThe QWERTY keys on the pallid black computer keyboard became a nightmare for Jaanvi ever since Nisim started going out of town for work. She felt that the letters are so nauseatingly jumbled up – the first row had Q in the extreme left and P on the extreme right, X came before Z in the third line, so did M before N. They could have placed at least B and C beside each other, as they were in the same row, but no, C came first and then there is V between C and B – it took long for her to find each of the keys while typing with the right and left index fingers. And then there was this irritating stuff – every time she needed to type something in upper case, she had to first turn the Caps Lock on, type the letter and then turn the Caps Lock off , so that all letters didn’t get typed in upper case. Nisim had shown her an easier way to do this – press the Shift key and letter to be typed in capital letter simultaneously – but she found it more frustrating. Many a time wh
Cycle of Cliches Cursed
CursedThe doctor’s appointment was at 2:00 PM. Nisim told Jaanvi that he would be home by noon. It was five past one, and he was still not back. Nisim was great, the way he was, except for being late for household needs. Jaanvi had been vocal about it, right from the time she had moved in to the Bhattacharya household. She never wanted Nisim to change because of her. She would never want to. But she definitely wanted him to be a bit more responsible towards their household needs. He managed to be on time on some occasions, but then he would mostly be in a hurry. The doctor’s personal assistant categorically asked them to be on time while confirming the appointment. They were late by ten minutes the previous month, and the doctor had refused to see her outright. It was only after a lot of requests that he had agreed, that too, reminding every two minutes during the check-up that he was getting late for a C-section surgery at City Heart Nursing Home.Now, every passing minute
Cycle of Cliches Ode to Scientific Socialism!
Ode to Scientific Socialism!Bomb blasts make corpses of people. That’s what they exactly make, nothing more, nothing less. Bomb blasts make corpses of the people who live after them. Nothing less, nothing more. Bomb blasts are not committed by any other animals, because other animals suffer, toil and struggle for survival. They don’t care much about who the victor is and who the victim. That’s why they grow without complaint, live full until they die.Bomb blasts are by the dead, of the dead, for the dead. Basically, bomb blasts are democratic – they ensure the right to bring lives to surprising ends suddenly without caring for caste, creed, religion, language, complaints, desires, wishes, dreams, vision and mission. Bomb blasts are the season of Boxonto – they usher in new buds of hope for those who live by them. Bomb blasts are the best odes to Scientific Socialism.The bomb blasts in Guwahati and elsewhere in the state on the bright, sunny day of 30th October 2008 made a
Cycle of Cliches Worldly Wise
Worldly WiseOne morning, when Nishant was barely three months old, Papa and Mummy came to see him. Jaanvi opened the door to them, but was in a fix whether to let them in. Ma called them in. She not only called them in, but offered them to sit and also brought Nishant to them. Papa held Nishant in his hands for a while and then gave him to Mummy. The next moment, both of them were in tears, crying like children.Jaanvi was sulking within. Those tears didn’t mean anything to her. She was living in a strange, robotic world. A world which looked perfectly normal from outside, but whose insides burnt like hell every moment. She waited for Papa and Mummy’s collective weeping to come to an end and their tears to dry up, while Ma excused herself to the kitchen to make tea for them.When Papa and Mummy’s sobs mellowed down they kept looking at Jaanvi. Perhaps in anticipation that she would say something. She didn’t. Rather, she didn’t want to. Mummy’s curse had muted her.Ma enter
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