A Journey to Begin

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A person with an immense depth in her heart, 
As it is in her eyes. 
But the love struggles to sink in those depths. 
May be she has turned immune to affection,
That a guy struggles to have for someone.
The herald of emotions come in between,
And camouflage the love that wants to seed in the barren.
But the determined destiny has to come into play,
And the two souls will mingle into one.
For they are in need,
In their wish to prosper.
And that they can make it true when they are together.

The journey is about to begin.
It's dawn knocking on the threshold of their windows.

In Praise of Memories...

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The good. The bad.
He lives them all.
From the bunch of frames,
He admire that young face over and over.

The love. The hatred.
He feels them all.
From the glory of experiences,
The scar shines like the bulb in blur.

The life. The death.
He hears them squall.
From the depths of somnolence,
Life wants to rewind itself with whir.


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I watched her, enwrapped in the impeccant laughter, and met those dimples on her cheeks.
The depth of ocean seemed short, when my eyes apparently glued onto hers.
I knew her hand from mine will never get away, as she existed for me beyond promises.

Until one day, when I realized my arms never ever existed. I was born armless.

Heart Beats

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Heart needs love. It might lie that it doesn’t, but even the strongest of its kind needs love. The love that heart seeks is above kindness, and pity offered due to assumed depravity of the seeker. Love is the language that hearts chose to speak in midst of multi lingual existence around. Words from mouth can have different forms and different intentions to trick hearts. Through tides of time, heart has been tricked so often that gradually they have stopped talking to each other. They are now allowed to meet only out of pity and kindness for one another. 

Heart has desires. Desires that are afraid to escape from mouths, desires which are constrained within complex control of brains, they thrive inside hearts safely. The desire that’s taboo to the world is dear to someone’s heart. For heart has never learnt to discriminate, it homes desires of all kinds. Desires are slaves to brain, and to the societal values. They are cared for by their sole protector, their guard who packs them safely within thick thumping walls. Desires may get punished, but are never killed by their guard. 

Heart is pure. Heart is whiter than the whitest pearl that the mankind ever witnessed. White catches dirt easily. Is it the fault of white that it’s fairest of all? In the rampage where hearts are made to run, it’s evident that splashes of blood will spill out, and spill onto, hiding the purity that hearts have. The neighborhood is cold. The warmth of togetherness is a history that jargons play in their songs to bring attention and fame. Hearts know to sing too. But who will cure these ears which are audile to jargons’ dissonance only.


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Beauty lies in everything; in each thing that bears an honest intention. A delusion is beautiful too, if it’s not veiled under a mask proclaiming it to be true. By the way, her smile was not a deception, or something which you can comment of being delusive in order to earn something. She had a lovely smile; a smile not assayed with intentions. It was of a kind which can easily start to flow in ocean of your sub-consciousness. But this smile was not to live forever. I am talking of an old lady whom I used to see each day on my way to office. She indeed had a beautiful smile. She was of age not less than sixty.

She had grown too weak to walk. A slightly bent stick accompanied her wherever she tried to go. With each footstep she took her stick made one step more, making her difficult to walk. I often found her sitting among the crowd near temple and sometimes around the local masjid too. While sitting she painfully kept her right hand forward, while rest of her body trembled to balance her. Her trembling hands begged before the passersby, who I am sure never walked passed without giving her something if they saw her smile. I happened to be one among such people who gave away bits from the pocket to her. She was happy to accept everything, even if someone walked away giving nothing.

The most interesting thing about this locality where the lady lived is that it has a temple to one side and masjid at the other, and in between them there is a roundabout, called chowk in the local language here, where stands a giant statue of Tagore. The name of this chowk is Kutumbakam Chowk. The meaning this name holds is truly signified with the ambience here, but with a difference.

What was this old lady’s name, from where did she come, if she had a home or not; none among us knew enough about her to answer these questions. What we knew about her is that she was a beggar. She could be spotted around the chowk easily, either with some of your footsteps extra towards the temple or may be with some footsteps less around the masjid. But why would someone lookout for a beggar?


One day while I was returning from office, I stopped at Rajju’s shop. The taste of betel that he prepares savors inside mouth till eternity. He is the best paanwala in this locality.

While Rajju was preparing my paan, a typical Banarsi betel with some of his secret spices, a conversation advancing in a group of middle aged gentlemen caught my attention. Feasting paan in their mouths, each one of them passed on their opinions, one after another. With some little patience and focus on their words, I figured out partially what was the burning topic about. I am still new to this place, and my Bengali has not improved much. So I thought of getting it confirmed from Rajju. With a grin Rajju confirmed that I figured out the topic right. They were discussing from which side of chowk the old lady belonged.

“But why are they keen to know this Rajju? Do they even know her name?” I questioned Rajju.

Rajju grinned again.

“If they knew her name, then why this discussion would have popped up? They don’t know anything. But it seems they will figure out everything tonight.” Asserted Rajju.

“Heat... See the heat the discussion has gone into. She is from the other side dada.” Replied Rajju. His hands gestured that she was not from our side. With ours, he meant his side where I happened to be too.

“Arey moshai, tumi dekhe chilen? Oi haathe naam ta?” One of the gentleman shouted bringing some evidence into play. He said that he had seen a name etched on her arm, and it was in Farsi. So she must be from the other side, everyone concluded.

Rajju noticed that I was riveted in the discussion. Offering me my paan he said, “I have seen her around temple most of the times. She even wears a laal dhaga on her left hand. So intermittently my instinct says she is not from that side. She is from ours.”

I took the paan, and preferred not to utter anything.

Rajju questioned me, “Which side do you think she belongs to dada bhai?”

Crunching the ingredients in paan inside my mouth, I smiled and replied, “I really don’t know Rajju, neither I am interested to know.”

As I strolled down towards my home, I kept thinking why people were so keen to know about her. There were so many beggars in this area. My keenness strengthened towards the lady too. Not to know from which side she belonged, but to know why would out of sudden people would want to discuss about her.


Saleem’s dhaba is known for the Chicken Badshahi that he cooks. The dhaba is center for partying for bachelors like me, who have limited earning. Within one hundred rupees you can have a grand meal here, and a glass of buttermilk. Last Sunday I went there for dinner. I was surprised to see people were discussing about the same lady there too.

“She says she is saving money for a journey. I really don’t know where she wants to go.” One of the guy claimed.

“May be she is saving money for going someplace where she has her relatives, or may be her son lives there.” Some other guy replied.

“Don’t make this more dramatic. Moreover what kind of saving is this, saving money by begging?” The first guy replied back.

“These are just her tactics dada, you don’t know beggars? They weave stories so that you offer them money.”  Saleem interrupted them while serving food on their table.

“Saleem da!” I called him to order my food.

After he took the order, I politely asked, “Saleem da, why everyone is discussing about that old lady?”

“Don’t you know dada? That old lady has saved a lot of money, just by begging. We are seeing her here for years now. She says she needs money for her journey, and begs in front of all people.”

“What journey?” I asked.

“No one knows what journey she talks about. She herself never answers this question. She just smiles, and says you have enough time to know. But she must hurry… Umm yes, something like that.” Replied Saleem recollecting the answers from the old lady that he remembered.

“I see…” This was all that I could say.

“Just wait for a moment dada, I will be back with your food.” Saleem replied.

“Ah. Just wait. How do you know she has saved a lot of money?” I quickly questioned him.

“Everyone says that. It’s said that she has been saving money in a trust for last one year.”

“Saleem! Oh Saleem!” Someone called Saleem at the counter for billing.

“Aschi dada, ektu darao.” Saleem hurried towards the counter.

Things started to shape in my mind. So it was about money. It became clear to me that people were focused about the money she had saved. And as she did all of this by begging, it was pricking their eyes.

I started to talk to myself. Yes begging is not good, but what else could that old lady do? She was not even able to stand properly. She might have been left alone in this world, no one to look after her, and in this condition what would a person resort to for living? Her begging for living was justified before me. I did not care about what she was saving for. Everyone saves money. Even I save money from my salary. Is that weird?


On Monday morning when I reached the chowk, I looked for the old lady. I spotted her quickly. She was there, at the stairs of the temple. Her left hand was open forward, and her head was facing up towards the passersby. I came to her, leaned closer and gave her a ten rupees note. Her wrinkled face carried a sober smile. Just before I was to leave, my eyes fixated at her feet. Her feet wore black rubber shoes with several holes on them. I felt very bad. I leaned back, took out a hundred rupees note from my purse and offered on her palm. Her smile stayed the same.

While returning from office that day, I stopped at Rajju’s. I was amazed to find that there were no wise men around the shop. This was very unlikely to what I had been seeing here for several weeks. I observed that Rajju was himself very silent that night.

“What happened, I don’t find any heating discussion going on around your shop tonight. That’s very strange Rajju.”

“She died dada bhai.” Said Rajju ruefully.


“Kakima died. She died today. She was here just few feet beside my shop. She was standing here, but then suddenly collapsed. Hemorrhage may be…”

“That old lady?” I questioned.

“Yes” Rajju replied.

It was for the first time that I heard someone calling her ‘Kakima’. You call your aunt as Kakima here. I didn’t know what to speak then. I stayed silent before Rajju, with my mood for paan almost spoiled.

“We don’t know what happened to her next. How her funeral was performed; was she buried, or was she burnt. People from a trust company came and took her body away with them.”

Rajju leaned forward at the counter to hand over the paan to me, and just then he saw that his shoes on the ground were disheveled over one another.

“Shit” Rajju uttered and came down from the shop counter to put them properly.

“Why, what happened Rajju. They are just shoes.” I asked.

“This is a bad omen dada. Shoes must not stay disheveled and tossed over one another. It brings unintended journey for you. I am a poor guy. I don’t want any of this.”

“I know you will not believe in these superstitions. But sometimes they turn out to be true. Then why take a risk of not following them.” Rajju added.

“Hmm…” I sighed.

“Well Rajju, do you know the address of that trust you were talking about. That one which took Kakima with them?” I questioned Rajju.

“Oh yes I know.”

I took the address from Rajju. It was not very far from our locality. I decided of going there the next day. The impact on me on having heard the demise of Kakima was huge. That lady was of an age close to that of my grandmother’s. But like everyone said, I also began to recall her as Kakima. It felt so natural to address her as Kakima. The old lady got a name, but only after she was no more. But this name was not enough to unveil that to which side of the Kutumbakam Chowk she belonged.


I went to the charitable trust the other day. I tried to inquire about Kakima there. In mid of all events that were happening one after another around me,  somewhere I also became keen like Rajju to know how her funeral was performed. People at the Trust were very strict with their principles. They completely declined on sharing any information on Kakima. However, they told me that she had already made provisions for herself in her life, and she had been granting money to this trust for the same. I was told that I must not worry about what happened to her after her death. Everything was performed as she had wanted. They even warned me that if I tried to sneak more information on this from them then they own the right to call legal actions against me. They politely took me out from their office.

Just before I was to step out from main gates, my eyes caught hold of a pair of shoes, tossed over one another on a shoe rack. I stopped there, my eyes fixated on those shoes. Those shoes belonged to Kakima. These were her black rubber shoes with several holes on them. Having witnessed those disheveled and tossed shoes I recalled what Rajju had said to me the previous night. He had said that shoes must not stay like this. It is a bad omen. It brings unintended journey for you.

Kakima had died. She indeed left for a journey. But she intended this journey, and even planned everything for it. At once her smile on her wrinkled face came in front of my eyes. I realized that I must not know how her funeral was performed. No one should know how her funeral was performed. We must not know to which side of the Kutumbakam Chowk she belonged. What we must know is that she had left for the journey… the journey for which she had been begging and saving. Each one of us is bound to go on this journey one day, despite of the fact that from which side of the chowk we belong.


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You shine like a star
 In my cold and empty room.
 Through the years in the storm
I wished you meet me soon.

For I have been alone,
Every time after school.
I have talked to my heart,
In there where you rule.

The long you prolong the wait
More weak I tend to go.
Though I remember the date,
I never cut my birthday cake.

I imagine the sweetness
Floating in my mouth.
When your lips will seal on mine,
It will rain on the land of drought.

Come to me in real,
Out from the phantasy land.
Or kill me in this world,
And drag me to where you stand.

You shine like a star
 In my cold and empty room.
 Through the years in the storm
I wished you meet me soon.

Brain-sick's Diary #6 | Conundrum

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In the lucid smile, there is a not so lucid story.
A story of coming of age… A story so confused in itself to be narrated…
Silence prevails, in attempts to unravel the mystery,
Of looking inside, of looking within.
And what is apprehensible? It’s the outside world…
The world that eyes witness.
Doubt prevails, when eyes assume to have found the truth.
In situations so common, why emotions are anarchical.
Emotions fabricated from love… Emotions fabricated from loss of love.
Silence prevails, in attempts to unravel the mystery,
Of looking inside, of looking within.

A Surprising Weekend to come...

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As I moved myself to the billing counter, the biller handed me a lucky draw coupon. I scratched it and to my dismay I found I was one of the lucky winners to get two VIP passes for an event night at Salt Lake Stadium, Kolkata. On inquiring further with the biller, he told that its about a dance and music show, which is going to be performed by Allu Arjun and Anushka Manchanda. As he said the name Anushka Manchanda, my wife jolted with happiness. She is a music freak and is one of the fans of Anushka Manchanda. And me being a dance enthusiast, I knew the deadly dance moves owner Allu Arjun. He has given some of the finest movies and his acting cannot be scaled in any way and so is his dancing skill. It couldn’t have been a better surprise for us. This weekend we wanted to celebrate and the occasion now became so grand.

We have seen a lot of actors in different movies. But very few among them are those who come out of their comfort zones to give their best. Allu Arjun is one of them. The superb acting done by him in movies like Arya, and Arya 2 is beyond any description. The critic’s acclaim that he has got in so less time is very appreciable. I am a dance enthusiast and the killing moves by Allu Arjun just leave me speechless. My wife who has a passion for music, she loves to listen to Anushka. I have often remarked her that she tries to copy the articulation in voice which we find in Anushka’s. She proudly accepts that yes she does and she owns the right being her fan.

We are enthralled to go and watch the dance and music night tomorrow. Just imagining the evening together with my wife, watching our favorites is making me feel warm. The duo is so perfect together, and their performance would combine to present a memorable jugalbandi, which might be the best in many years to come. Whatever be the occasion, the duo can perform together and set the stage on fire and deliver total entertainment to the audience.

Music is a best medicine to de-stress yourself. And this weekend is going to be very special for us two as we have turned out to be lucky entrants into this grand occasion in our city. My wife thinks she might be lucky enough to get their autograph and a selfie too. I don’t know if she would be that lucky or not, but one thing is sure that the musical performance will be awesome.

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