Vijaya

When hope fails…

Running barefoot on a stony muddy path and wearing a frock with small red polka dots on cream base, there was a girl. Her two long braids with red ribbons were swinging in air as she was running and her eyes were on the path so long.  She was in a real hurry, she wanted to reach somewhere on time. She was tightly holding a double layer steel lunch box in a hand.

I was staring at her from my white ambassador; she was able to manage the speed with my car, as my car was running slow on this stony path. My curiosity let me to ask my driver to stop the car. I called her out and ask her to come nearer.

She paused, hesitated, but later came close. I magnified her once more, and asked her in my best possible gentle voice, where are you running towards my dear. She wiped her forehead with her right wrist; took a long breath between heavy gasps, and replied a small word. SCHOOL.

I was not in front of mirror, but I knew there was a big broad smile on my face. She must be six or seven years old, and her attire was telling that she belonged to a poor family. Still she managed to attend school. We are really progressing. Not to mention I offered her lift to the school and opened the car door and let her in.

She entered inside the car and sat on the back seat with me, locked herself in a little space, folded her dress neatly, and kept the lunchbox on her lap. She gave me a feeling that what a mannered child she is. She hesitated for her bare feet, as they were full of mud. I locked her strands behind her ears and asked, where is your school, direct the driver. She quietly said one right then left.

I asked her, what your name is. She replied in a confident voice with a smile, Vijaya. This was the first time she smiled.

‘Do you know what it means?’

‘Yes, mother says, I will succeed in whatever I will do. I always win in kabaddi. Even with the boys, I am able to win. But I am not allowed to play much. They are frightened I will beat them. I run too fast also, and I can fetch more pots of water from the river in less time than others.’

‘And tell me about your studies, what do you learn in school?’

She didn’t reply me and turned her face towards windows, and asked ‘right from here’.

I wondered why she was not carrying her school bag, any books and note books. What kind of school she is going. This was my first visit to this village and I was not much aware of the localities here. I was here for an inspection of a solar plant that my team was installing nearby this village. We moved as per her directions, and reached the school.

The big signage board of the school says ‘Prathmik Bal Vidyalaya’.  She got down from the car, and entered the main gate, followed by a playground where boys were playing. Soon she was lost in the crowd and my big smile turned into distress.

The Mute Bird

She was standing along the porch and watching the sunset. The vermilion shades of sky were reflecting on her face and impression of bright yellow sun in her dark eyes. Her long hair was tied in a big bun, with a few strands falling on her face. Her knee-length dress had purple flowers on white base, adorned with the chicken laces on sleeves and bottom. Her left arm was resting on the railings, while fingers of right hand were writing something in the air. She was lip-syncing an old Bangla song.

The clock behind her was about to strike seven. And he is coming towards the main gate of their house. He is never late for a single second. His grey hair was shining with few white streaks. He was wearing a short half-sleeved brown checked shirt and loose black double pleat trouser with black leather sandals. His thick glasses were making a convex shape of his eyes gazing at her.

As soon as she saw him coming she opened the entrance gate for him, and headed towards the kitchen. She kept a pan on the stove for boiling two cups water. She just turned fifteen last October on the day of the first Durga Puja. And he was completing his fifty seven, but still she is a mentor to him. She does everything for him, from cooking to washing and ironing clothes, making his bed and cleaning of the house. Her soul was imprisoned in this house for years. She never went out for a long time. As the water started boiling, she poured two spoonfuls of Darjeeling tea leaves in it. She opened the sugar pot, but it was empty. She walked towards the Puja room, to fetch the sugar from the big can kept there.

He called her with a gruff voice, Pakhi.

She turned towards him. He asked her to oil his hair. She forgot about the sugar and rushed to take the coconut oil and started oiling his grey hair. He was sitting on an armchair, with his arms resting on it, and head resting on the back. She stood behind the chair, poured some oil on her palms and her thin fingers started dancing on his scalp.

He took a long breath, sighed, Pakhi you remember Dasgupta, she nodded her head as her father couldn’t see it. He continues he is no more, he left us today. A tear dropped on her cheek.

He didn’t come to the office today, then I called to his home, his son picked up the call.  He told me when Dasgupta was coming to office today morning; he measured about 10 meters of the distance from his house, a motorcycle with two people sitting on it came and parked nearby him, the guy sitting behind took a black revolver and shot him with two bullets. After hearing all of that, I hung up the call and went to the site, the police was still there, a white silhouette was created around Dasgupta’s body, he fell with his face up and one leg folded towards another, his one hand high from his head and one on his chest, holding a rolled newspaper. When I entered his house, his wife was sobbing heavily and sitting on the entrance gate. His body was still with the police and they were investigating. They were trying to find who those men were. His son Subroto introduced me to the Inspector handling the case. He started asking me about Dasgupta’s friends and enemies.

Pakhi has stopped oiling her father’s hair, her fingers were stiff but still on his scalp. Her eyes were getting darker as her tears mixed with the kajal of her eyes, and looking like the black tea she forgot on the stove. Her breath was choked; she could only hear, could not express, could not ask and could not even cry loud. She is mute since her mother had been killed similarly when she was five. Her father continued telling the details of Dasgupta’s murder as much as he knew. But Pakhi went in a vortex of memories.

It’s been ten years now, and she was too young, but she remembers everything of that day. Her mother was sitting on the floor of the porch, plucking spinach leaves and eggplants were there in a basket with a knife. She was going to prepare spinach with eggplant. The time was six in the evening, and Pakhi was playing around with a wooden house. Her mother always wore saree, that day she was wearing a turquoise tant saree with black borders. Pakhi remembers her mother was more beautiful than she is today. A small radio was kept besides the wall playing bangla songs her mother loved.

She was trying to copy her mother and singing the song with her. She didn’t know these would be her last vocals. Unexpectedly, a thin slender man came on a cycle, tying a red towel around his face. He threw his cycle in front of the entrance gate, and entered the porch. In a second before Pakhi or her mother could understand his motive of entering the house he took a knife from his pocket. This knife was bigger and sharper than the knife kept in the basket with eggplants. He inserted the knife in her mother’s stomach and blood was smeared on Pakhi’s face. She closed her eyes and screamed like anything, she didn’t remember what happened next.

When she opened her eyes, she was in her father’s lap. He was sitting along the scattered spinach leaves which were no more green, her mother’s dead body, lying beside. One leg folded towards another, one hand high from her hand and one hand on her stomach, stained with blood. Her gold ornaments were missing from her dead body. Policemen and neighbors gathered around the house. A white silhouette has been drawn around her mother’s body. And police were asking questions to Pakhi, who was the man, how he looked like, and more. But she was unable to reply as she gone mute forever after the breath-taking scream.

Turn the Page

Turn the page before it spells the name,

Before it says what it should not,

Before it asks you to leave,

Before the rescue door closes,

Before the excerpts make you nervous,

Before the thought of left alone,

Turn it to save the smile,

Save thousands of memories,

Save the broken dream,

Save the willingness to live,

Save the faith you have,

Save the treasure unspoken.

Save what you want to for the next page.

Want to paint...

Want to paint some black today…

Wondered from where shall I pick the black..

From the black stole in my almirah..

Or from the kajal in my handbag..

Or shall I pick from the iron pan in the kitchen..

Isn’t it better to pick it from the black book…

Or shall I wait till night.. to pick it from sky..

I want to paint the day black..

Thus there will be no difference at all…

Baatein

Kahne ko hai baatein hazaar,

par shabd nahi,

Shabad bhi jo mil jaye agar,

to koi saath nahi,

Saath bhi jo chal de koi,

to halat nahi,

Halaton ke sawaalon me jo hum phase,

to koi baat hi nahi.

Ek khwaab jee kar aayi main

Ek khwaab jee kar aayi main,

Jubaan pe uska swaad chadha tha,

Kuch tez namak aur tez meetha tha,

Ek hi pal me dil muskura bhi raha tha,

Aur annkhon me kuch gila sa bhi tha,

Muthi band thi jisse ret ki tarah kuch fisla to tha,

Phir bhi na jaane kaise mere hi aanchal me simta tha,

Labon pe mere pahle se hi jhuta sa koi kissa tha,

Sach se khud ko chipaya aur usko churaya jo tha,

Yakin aaj mujhe khud par bhi nahi tha,

Pankh khol kar jo maine yeh safar tay kiya tha,

Ek khwaab jee kar aayi main,

Aur khud se mil kar aayi main…

Barf ke gole

Ek chatt ki deewar se latakte hue us bachche ne zor se awaaz lagayi… chuski wale bhaiya rukna jara! Main apni kitaab haath me liye khidki se bahar gali me dekh rahi thi, ek barf ke gole ki theli guzar rahi thi, jisme rang birange botlon ki Qatar lag rahi thi aur ek ghanti uske chakke ke paas hi bandhi thi, jo chakke ke ghumne se lagatar baj rahi thi… par us theli se pahle us bachche ki awaaz ne mujhe apni aor kitcha, tab mera dhyaan us barf ke gole ki theli par gaya!

Bachche ki awaaz sunte hi, theli wala apni theli rok kar us chatt ke neeche khada ho gaya.. par woh bachcha mujhe abhi nazar nahi aa raha tha. Daudta haafta woh koi dedh minute baad apne ghar ke darwaaze se nikla haath me dus rupaye ka note liye, usne dus ka note us theli waale ko pakdaaye aur use chilaate hue kaha.. do gole bana do saaare rang daal kar! Uske kahte hi gole waale ne jaldi jaldi haath chalana shuru kar diya, barf ki silli lekar apni machine se uska chura taiyaar kar glass me daala aur baans ki ek phatti beech me daal kar use thok pith kar taiyaar kiya aur glass se bahar nikal kar us gole par sab rango ki shishiyon se thoda thoda ras udhela… woh bachcha badi badi aankhen kar use gole ko banata hua dekh raha tha, jaise ab uske haath me who gola aaye, woh jhat mooh khole aur meethe ras se lababab woh thanda barf ka gola uske mooh me jaaye… ye nazara meri khidki se jyaada door nahi tha, so uski aankhon ki chamak mujhe saaf deekh rahi thi!

Ek ke baad doosra barf ka gola jhat se taiyaar kar us theli waale ne us bachche ke hath me diya, koi saat ya aath saal ka woh bachcha, usne apne dono haath badhayae aur dono hi gole ko dhyaan se pakad khaane ki bajaye ghar ke darwaaze ki aor muda aur chilaate hue apne ghar me ghusaa.. bibji ye lo aapke barf ke gole!