Suicide...She wrote...

1 pm....lunchbreak...had nowhere to go...no money...canteen was meant for those with a full pocket or atleast a half filled one...i settled down on the flight of stairs that led to my Dept...an empty stomach & a rigorous class at 2pm...that was enuf to drive me up the wall.
A girl came up & asked me the way to the Botany Dept,i barely looked at her & mumbled out the instructions...probably she was feeling hungry too...asked me if she could sit down next to me & have her food sitting next to me. I shrugged...she sat down gratefully.
We sat side by side...like two mannequins...no conversation...nothing...i was feeling too hungry to talk & she felt awkward eating her tiffin after i refused her offer.
Finally, i asked her what brought her to my campus....An AIIMS post graduate in Biochemistry...she wanted a Ph.D...fast,real fast...i don't remember when the conversation turned to the topic of suicide but i got to hear so many real life accounts from her, that i've lost count....she had been staying in the AIIMS hostel along with young aspiring doctors since her graduation & post grad days at AIIMS.
Sordid tales....suicide notes written by brilliant students...end of a life...candles that blew out prematurely…
The one that chilled me to the bones, was that of a post grad student from AIIMS who went on to National Institute of Immunology, for his Ph.D He had been her friend but had been depressed for quite some time coz his girl had left him for someone else.

Half my mind was elsewhere- delving deep into the dark alleys of my recuperating heart where tiny scrolls of secrets lay embedded like treasure chests on an ocean bed. But the girl sitting next to me said something that jerked me out of my stupor. In sharp contrast to my earlier listless, barely interested demeanor-I turned my full attention to her...oh my god! She hadn’t realized she had switched tracks from a third person narrative to a first person narrative....earlier, she had been saying...’he shudn’t have taken such a drastic step and ended his life by consuming that lethal chemical from his laboratory to ‘ Life can get frustrating but I should resist such a temptation’....a slip of a tongue ...but the raw feeling was written all over her carefully chosen words and I felt a shiver run down my spine as i realized i was face to face with a potential target who was trying to come to terms with her decision of taking the drastic step.
Her next words confirmed my suspicion, she said ‘ if he could have met someone at that crucial juncture, who could have talked him out of it...maybe he would have been alive today’..
She’s asking for help...no, she is begging me to talk her out of her suicidal tendencies...she’s picked up a random stranger like me to counsel and help her out...i’ve got to soothe her...wait, i’ve got to stay calm myself coz my heart is hammering real hard and my hands are shaking a bit coz i know what it feels like when u feel suicidal....‘

Hey’, i say to her and ...i cough a bit...to mask the nervous tone, steady myself and broach the topic of my childhood, transport her to those sunny days of my life that were full of laughter and naive innocence....i encourage her to open up...gently...coax her to uncoil her complex self ....i congratulate myself secretly....she took a bite of the bait i dangled in front of her...and now she’s hooked! I exposed a slice of my childhood, to enable her to speak about hers & thankfully the plan worked.
I cajole her...to go on, to speak up ...i keep my restless nature under wraps and turn into a good listener...we talk for hours…i pretend I don’t know what is going on in her mind, she has a satisfied look on her face, content that she has fooled me…lulled me into a false illusion….i let her play along…but under that thin veneer ….my mind is working furiously, against time….trying to think of the right things to say to avoid aggravating her…I can almost picturize her standing at the edge of a cliff, while the waves surge beneath….and i desperately want to pull her back

A beautiful sensation…the free fall down such a great height….almost flying…the sea gulls can join in too….the waves hungrily look up…waiting to devour the body….

The mellow afternoon hours sheds her glaringly canary yellow off-shoulder dress and dons a sensual dusky evening gown, somewhere nearby, my batchmates are attending their lectures ….a seat remains unfilled in that class coz I am sitting outside, trying to save a soul that’s sent me an S.O.S …Not everyday, do u get a chance to save a life…..we talk about a lot of things....they lie locked within me...maybe someday i shall write about it...

I see a change in her eyes, a steely resolution….


I watch her standing near the cliff edge…contemplating….the waves part and pebbles stare back at her…she turns her back towards death and walks away…

Clutching to a piece of my childhood...

Fake emotions...fake smiles...fake tears...fake people all around me...
I Feel like throwing up...i feel nauseated...i feel sick to my gut...somehow my system hasn't learnt to digest the fakeness that abounds in this world.
Why do i see everyone wearing a mask?happy masks...charming masks...sexy masks...vulnerable masks...guileless masks...seductive masks..
I feel i am caught in an endless evening party where the dress code is wearing masks of one's own choice...& the catch is- the evening never ends.
The party goes on & on....
Champagne flows...false talk keeps pace with it..i feel lost....suddenly it's time for the waltz.Men in masks approach women in masks....and beg for a dance.i refuse them...men with masks make clumsy dance partners, i remind myself.
Someone smiles at me...a deep dimpled smile...why am i attracted to him?Ah! a naked face...just like mine.A face sans a mask...
My hearts warms upto to him....he wraps his hand around my waist, pulls me close...too close(?)...fingers entwine...music fills up the Ball room....i tell him i dont trust people who hide behind masks...he looks deep into my eyes questioningly...nah! i assure him that i trust him....he isn't wearing a mask...an enigmatic smile crosses his lips....i feel lucky....i pity the women with masked dance partners...i tell him i loathe hypocrites...he says he loathes them too...i tell him i hate charmers, those glib talkers who talk smoothly but whose words stand hollow...smoothly he twirls me, i catch my breath when i realize he's bent halfway,staring at my face,dipping me over his arm... i am bent with my head thrown back...my back arched flexibly...i wait for his answer...but the lascivious music picks up & i get engrossed matching his step with mine...caught in swirling skirts & stiletto footsteps.He begged me to have faith on him...i did...i closed my eyes,put my head on his shoulder & danced...a content smile sitting pretty on those bow shaped lips.I didn't have to feel insecure anymore...

I dont remember how long i had been dancing with him...was it two years? was it a little more...pale beams of sunlight caressed his face & for the first time i noticed cracks on his face...on his honesty(?)...i watched in horror at the peeling mask....the enormity of the falsehood hit me not in a single blow but bit by bit...inch by inch...i was being killed slowly, softly...
Another masked man? my heart gasped...but dont masks hide everything except the eyes?and i had his every feature etched on my mind...his cleft chin...his square jaw...his nose...
Oh my god!My stomach churned...my body turned stone cold...i had been dancing with a masked man all along...with trembling fingers, i ripped the mask off his face...it was a face sans any eyes, sans any mouth, sans any nose...it was a face devoid of emotions,devoid of love, devoid of honesty....just like those millions of masked men who traded in flesh...not love.Who understand a French Kiss but not feelings.
A waltz of hypocrasy rather than a waltz of love....a waltz of fakeness?

It tears at my heart...the sham...the falsehood...i feel lonely...do i stand out like a sore thumb with my naked face in a sea of masks?
It reminds me of my childhood when i used to clutch my doll & hug it close...to seek comfort...if people used to let me down...or if i did something naughty...that doll went with me everywhere i travelled.
Wish i had that doll with me now....so that i could clutch that piece of chilhood close to my heart, that stretch of dream run of a lifetime that every adult looks back wistfully, that unmarred,unspoilt childhood...and close my eyes....and feel comforted...feel healed...

'A dash of Sindoor'...She said..

Celebrations are finally over…Dashami(tenth day) saw the immersion of Durga into the Ganges.
Transported back to a normal life…last week was spent romancing the Bengali culture that probably runs deeper in my veins than I had ever imagined.
Sound of conch shells emanating from neighbourhood houses….pandal hopping with friends….marvelling at the skill of men who built pandals to house Durga…each pandal was a work of art…..there was a spectacular pandal shaped like a huge rocket, towering like a Goliath, I went in & the angelic beauty of the idols made me regret for not having brought along a camera …long queues snaked through the streets in front of restaurants & the city was again a witness to the fact that Bengalis love eating……nearly all the apartments were decked up like Christmas trees, decorated beautifully with fairy lights, multihued tube lights…the city that dozes off by ten in the night, seemed to come alive as the clock announced midnight for those magical few days of Saptami(seventh day), Ashtami(eight day),Navami(ninth) & Dashami…couples walked hand in hand, the only few days when girls are officially allowed to stay out of home till late in the night…..if the nights were full of lights, traveling from one part of the city to the next on a quest to spot the best pandals…..the days were spent paying a visit to relatives, hanging out with cousins, discussing about the ‘new’ man in a certain pretty cousin’s life….eagerly running off to the pandals to catch the ceremonies being performed in front of Durga,eating at the community halls where the ‘Bhog’ was distributed to all the neighbours, it was more of a socializing that takes place between nieghbours at this time of the year where they hob-nob & catch up with each others lives.


One of the landmark celebrations on the last day ……watching married women play the Sindoor Khela- smearing sindoor on each others forehead, while the young unmarried girls smiled coyly when the married women applied a dash on sindoor on their cheeks & told them not to wipe it off…an auspicious sign that it would fetch them a good husband in the future.
I stood in a corner, touching the sindoor smear on my cheek….a damp wistful feeling settled itself comfortably in my heart…..someone somewhere walked across the shores of the Arabian Sea, oblivious of the dash of sindoor across a certain honey coloured oval face….

'The city I call Home'....She said..

Back to where I was supposed to have taken those first baby steps….back to that city which has witnessed all those tumultuous years of my growing up days…back to being driven from the Howrah bridge to a place called home…

Was is another lifetime when coming back home made my heart beat faster? Where has that child like exuberance evaporated? Those hand pulled rickshaws, those trams that moved slowly at its own pace while luxury cars whizzed by…why do they no more conjure up any old world charm for me? My eyes drifted from the angel atop the Victoria Memorial & the horse driven carriages full of tourists…to the billboard featuring a petal shaped sensually full lips on a glowing dusky skin that had the texture of velvet , a demure yet subtle wild smile playfully lighting the face that looked ravagable , her vermillion red round bindi smeared on her forehead gave her the typical Bengali touch….draped in a simple white saree with red border offset by an opulent rich maroon blouse with slightly puffed sleeves…reminiscent of the bygone dress code of the bahus of the Bengali Zamindar clans…Her oval face complemented her slantish doe eyed big eyes…kohl lined eyes….drownable eyes…but then, Bengali women have been notorious for these very eyes that have trapped many an unsuspecting man…vaguely, past memories stirred…grandma’s stories…of men from far away lands who fell in love with Bengali women after setting eyes on them, women so elusive that they slipped out of the fingers of their suitors & played the ‘hard-to-get’ game to the hilt …Bengali women who were known for the Black magic spell that they wove on men, …men who swore they’d never touched skin softer than a Bengali woman, like the wings of a butterfly.…skin that glowed with raw sensuality…
I touched my skin & realized that the Delhi sun had done irreparable damage to my once flawless glowing skin passed on from generations like a legacy….reminded me of the first time He’d touched my face on the pretext of getting rid of a mosquito coz He’d never seen such skin…and now what remained was a skin devoid of a good diet…but did it matter any more?
My eyes riveted to the fish mongers sitting by the sides of the road, while men in white dhotis noisily bargained. The taste of prawns dipped in coconut cream …hilsa in a rich tomato curry….fried pomfret….tiny fishes as surprise finds in dal…kaleidoscopic images floated in my mind.
Multitude of sweet shops stood silently punctuating the humid city like exclamation marks at regular intervals….childhood memories of me clutching dad’s hand & walking to the nearest sweetshop & buying my favourite sandesh mixed with jaggery, shaped like a sea shell & rajbhog dripping in a syrup. Spongy rosogollas that told sweet tales of its own…

Avoided looking at the strikingly palatial building where He used to work, the fountain at the entrance of His workplace wasn’t working, a metaphor for his love that had dried out ….but somehow the treacherous tears sprang up unexpectedly while I traveled on the familiar roads….ghost bike rode parallel to dad’s car & I looked in disbelief at myself sitting behind Him on his Pulsar….Misty eyes clouded by saline waters was watching the past unfurl…like an old movie being replayed…
I turned away my face & concentrated on the bamboo sticks & tents being put up in street corners as pandals for the impending Durga Puja…tube lights & bulbs of different shapes & sizes were being arranged in amazingly beautiful ways…some resembled the silhouette of Saurav Ganguli, the most loved ‘son’ of Calcutta…some resembled the Titanic…some resembled Charlie Chaplin & suddenly I caught a glimpse of a girl clad in a mermaid skirt teamed with a peasant top & a guy in a Red kurta teamed with jeans walking on the pavement, she hit him playfully with her thick book & He snatched it away…she stopped walking & stamped her feet like a spoilt kid & demanded the book being returned, her lips pouting alluringly ….wait, this scene felt familiar…was it bcoz they were dressed in an uncanny same way as Us…or was it the way ….a closer look at the guy made my heart skip a beat, in desperation I looked at the new girl & felt I was looking at a mirror…realization dawned….i was hallucinating.
Quickly blinked back the traitors & realized that I shoudn’t have come back to a city that didnot spare a minute in taunting me with His presence…
And for heaven’s sake, He’d quit this city long back….then why did I see Him standing under the 13 No. Tank landmark patiently near his bike….why did I see Him walk out of that plush shopping mall….why did I see Him step out of the Inox movie hall…why did I see Him step into the Oxford Bookstore…

I was not prepared for such an onslaught…..never realized He would ruin my own city for me, the city that I am so fond of inspite of the highhandedness of the Left govt , trade unions, Marxism & incessant strikes. The city that opened up its bounty of a treasure chest full of rich literature & famous writers ….the city that made me fall in love with books that became a part of my existence…the city whose culture ingrained itself in me.... the city that acknowledged the writer in me…and yet ….