Blind Bee

“Kill me, kill me.” mother shouted, from the kitchen. It’s her daily phrase, this time a warning to my father, not an invitation. 

Father came late from the office, didn’t eat his tiffin. The box that nested warm chapatis, boiled eggs, onion fries came back hinged, unappreciated. The hotchpotch would go now to the fridge, in the household’s icy realm, where the diligent food maker’s present mood resided.

That day my mother died. The attack came to her suddenly, stealthily, making her hit the kitchen tap, blood gushing out of her head, staining her beloved kitchen sink that she had polished a minute ago. We did not go to fetch her on time. As father was sulking at the verandah. I was playing outside the blind bee.

It was the end of a love story, I suppose. Because father loved mother. Mother loved father. They loved me and I loved them back helplessly. The whole procession of each other’s love came to a sudden halt.

Because, after a week, my father died too. In their bed, more silently than my mother, with a pesky smile on his lips and an old alluminium tiffin box sitting on his chest like a brittle minar.

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Moon


A Stubborn Monk

A stubborn monk came to the village of Bahiruli. But how stubborn he was was not apparent till Sudama, the weaver, went one day to offer him a dish of fruits and milk. Sudama- otherwise a hard headed man- under his wife’s counsel took it upon himself to buy the fruits from the Wednesday’s market. It costed him the price of four cotton plaids (which was equal to the price of six kilograms of rice, or, twenty-five bundles of hay- depending on what a man lacked at the moment: food, clothes, or a shade). But the wife was adamant and Sudama preferred to abide by the woman than acting like a Yaksha to his ever-depleting coins.

As per the prescribed decorum (while in front of a pious man)- with folded hands and a trembling voice- Sudama begged, “Let me be at your feet Baba- let me water your feet- my life would then be complete. I would be content, then. Only. See! See. See, how blessed is the village where you have appeared. And blessed is your diminished son who is no one but me. And my wife too … I can tell now, Baba … who is not even here … my wife … she is blessed too … already … at home. My ancestors … who are not even living …” He paused for a moment to assess the impact of his outburst; and then, pressed on with the same vehemence: “Where do you come from, Baba? The Himalayas, I presume. Don’t try to fool me, baba. I am only your diminished son- but I too can see. That is how your skin is glowing like copper. How your eyes observe Gods everyday. But, how sweaty must you be feeling now, Baba, he-he, in this horrid weather of the plain. Here, here, let me fan you with my plaid.” at the same time assuming a certain adventure and strain to be a part and parcel of the monk’s life.

The monk- in response- hurried out from the behind of a snake gourd bush- where he was resting- presumably- noisily, trampling the fallen long red fruits and a part of the shrub on his wake- with red eyes- as if he got out of a deep sleep just then, unwittingly, wafting the smell of a burnt charcoal or something like that, and spat on the ground in front of Sudama in a wild fury. Sudama, who was well versed on the subject of eccentricities that were displayed by the superior men was nonetheless stunned. The behaviour- didn’t resemble either that of the Devas or the Danavas, or the ferocious Rishis or raging Munis or even the Asuras- not even the most vindictive ones- as they were portrayed at the nightly village plays or were recited at noon by the Pola Giri’s widow from the Shastras on the Ekadashi days.

Thereafter he didn’t have the heart to tell the monk that he had a few more favours from him to ask. Like, say: His wife, Pramoda, whom he loved dearly and irrefutably didn’t love him as much in return. Whatever money he had inherited from his father had been dwindling and he didn’t know how much more miserly he should be in his affairs. His eldest son failed in the school examination- which was not such a trouble as the boy would be promoted as per the school norm. But Sudama found in him the first thin streak of rebellion against paternity which was worrisome.

The strange event of the morning turned even stranger when Sudama reported the encounter back to his wife and she began to laugh. “He is a stubborn monk. A stubborn monk. An egoist and stubborn.” she said. “That’s why I made you visit him thinking, ‘How worse can he be with you? You are no less stubborn yourself.’ Oh, but, he triumphed. He triumphed. But, you forget him, now, you hear? Forget him. Let him be. Let him live alone and be dry as he is.” she said, without a sign of remorse or shyness which bothered Sudama.

Then in a strange act of intimacy Pramoda brought her mouth near to her husband’s left ear and whispered, “Hear. Let me tell you one secret. The Pola Giri’s widow wants to bear a child. See, nothing big. Only a child. So she went to that hokum-god and asked. She said, ‘Prabhu, I keep fasts. I go to pilgrimages. I read sacred books for days. But, still, where is my peace? Those books are not my relatives, those are not my friends. They keep me alone. They keep me awake at nights and still do nothing to help. Have pity on me, Baba. Give me a son, avatar. He would be my joy, my own, and my walking stick when I am old. I will leave this village and I will go to the town and I will not ever come back. But this life is unbearable for me.’ She said that to him. Hear? Willingly. She said that to him. Do you know what the Baba said?”

Sudama, astound, whispered, “What?”

“The Baba said, ‘I would rather live with the rats.’”

“What? Rats? Rats? What does he mean by rats?”

“Who knows.” Pramoda replied.

Without comprehending Sudama experienced an indecipherable wildness, within himself.

Exasperated he imagined how it would feel to lay with the Pola Giri’s widow in her hut, on an old soft straw mat, at night, and, how it would feel to father a child with her, and God willing, a daughter. He felt sad that an opportunity so grand like this would only be offered to someone who seemed to have a higher stature than himself though that person might be such a careless man.

Sudama itched to complain, “He is a monk, that’s why he could afford all these nonsense. If he were a weaver like me this foolish behaviour would have made him an utter failure and an incomplete man.”

Fearing repercussion he kept quiet.


A Naked Tale

One morning my grandmother made her daughters sit beside her and began to describe her last night’s dream. Her three daughters, the eldest being my mother, left their morning chores- cooking, dusting, cleaning- and instinctively gathered around the mother- knowing men were not in the house and thereby they were free; even if that was only for twenty minutes.

“Last night I dreamt I was running naked.” my grandmother began. “I don’t know why. I was jumping up the stairs, running to the rooftop, dancing around the kitchen- not a thread on my body, not a thread. Every one was begging, Nidhi, Nidhi, wear something, wear something. But I was not listening.” She heaved a sigh. Remembering. Almost happy.

The daughters flapped their eyelids and hesitated to speak, as the current topic had gone far beyond their regular conversations on intimate subjects. It was not that they didn’t speak about sex, as one of her daughters, my mother, had been six years married and had my brother and me. But the subject of sex came like a touch and go, to evoke a giggle at a silent corner of the house, or at a delicate moment, to show liveliness where there was none, as a momentary relief to the drudgery of their small town lives.

Or as a cautionary tale.

“The Banshi guy, han, the Banshi guy. Beware of him, I tell you. Beware of him. He is dangerous. I tell you. Has done some horrible things to the poor Didimoni- that poor school teacher! Horrible!” One Masi would warn another. As the protector of the chastity of her sibling. As the good deeds for her pleasant afterlife piled up for her.

“The school teacher is not that pure either.” the warned Masi would reply. In protest. It’s not that she was not fearful, but submission to her sister’s wisdom was even worse.

“That’s alright. Her problem. You beware.” the warner Masi would persist.

If I was around the conversation, it would please me a lot at the apparent predicament of a school teacher as I had begun to go to a primary school and therefore was afraid of teachers and assumed all of them were harsh.

“What happened to the teacher, Masi, what happened to her?” I would ask to relish her ill fortune.

In a moment both of them would break free of a spell that only a great but not so imminent danger casts, and forget the usual decorum of affection toward me and shout in unison, “Who allowed you here? Who? Don’t you know you shouldn’t listen to women’s conversations? Didi, Didi, take your son away from here.”

My mother who had a reputation for being an angry woman and exemplary strict to her children would come to the room stomping, pulling me by hair toward the wall and banging my head against it. Probably in an effort to make it all go away, from the head- all the nasty imaginations of the world.

***

But that morning I was there- silently sitting between the daughters; my brother was sleeping in the crib- the summer sunlight shining through the latticework of the window warmed the vegetables. And no one said a word.

“It happens sometimes,” the middle daughter finally said. She was the heartiest of them all and the most talkative. “Like sometimes I dream I am falling down. I feel I should stop- after a while. But I fall still. Till I actually sometimes fall down from the bed.”

And everyone began to laugh. When my grandfather came back home after his morning walk, everyone became responsible and fidgety again and went quietly back to work.

Only I had the leisure till the lunchtime to imagine a little girl not more than ten years old, floating around our house. Her hands waving, her fingers dancing, and her blue sari floating, before flowing away from her, mingling with the surroundings and being absorbed by the sky.

An unknown sensation that felt like happiness, and a thrill, emerged from the heart, spread across the chest and gave me goose bumps for being able to see her dance and, see her.

Even now I see her often.

When the wife looks up from the far side of the bed, waiting, for a twitch of the eyebrow, or a flicker of inattention on my face- while I read- a deep sigh, or anything that says I would now come to her- and the light from the bedside lamp warms her breasts, I often fear if I don’t hurry up and grab her she would fall down from there.

Twenty years of a marriage is a long time. It nauseates me now to reach out and touch her.

Probably why, when I look at her hesitantly she asks, “Who do you want me to be tonight?”

I tell her, “How many times should I tell you, Kuntala; on a bad day you are a strict teacher to whom I do horrible things; and on a good day, you are Nidhi, you are Nidhi, a naked girl.”


137

In the bed, like every day, under an unceremonious compulsion, Mr. Biswas began to count.

It was by 137 he had to stop. Mrs. Biswas opened her eyes to see Mr. Biswas was crying.

Her husband was a sensitive fellow, she knew. Who had written a love poem on her last birthday and bought her The Selected Poems by Jibanananda Das, an old Bengali poet. She didn’t care to read the book but was thrilled to find her name on the second blank page.

In the lotus hands of darling Nirmala” handwritten in cursive by the husband and that was enough for her.

“What happened? What happened?” she asked Mr. Biswas with furrowed brows. The hollow of her eyes had sunken further in mild anxiety. The loose end of her sari was spread across the Mickey Mouse bed cover.

“I was smart once, Nirmala. My IQ was 137, once.” Mr. Biswas said, crying.

Mrs. Biswas got up in the bed, coaxed her unruly hair back with her fingers and sighed.

It was an old story fashioned by her husband, but an every day one. That when Mr. Biswas was young, he was a brilliant student; particularly good in mathematics and geography; as much as when a psychologist from Kolkata had visited the school, he had found him in possession of an abnormally high IQ, higher than everyone in the class.

That only should have settled his future, ensuring him a rewarding life. The unbridled enthusiasm in the teachers’ room at the event and the extra affection that had been showered upon him aftermath were tremendous. So much so that Mr. Biswas would end up being a private tutor of English, in this small sub-divisional town, for a small monthly sum, was nobody’s prediction.

The meanhearted among the relatives who had followed Mr. Biswas’s career path eagerly went as far as calling it a psychological disaster.

Mr. Biswas, himself, believed the psychologist though. He had believed in his lucid explanation of the esoteric theories, his seemingly strict science. Moreover, he still felt a great surge of emotion just below the rib cage that sometimes felt like a violent thud of a hammer that he fondly named inspiration that called to wake him up time to time.

Those moments were magical. The day then would suddenly seem colourful and cheery. Every town folk would seem capable and overtly friendly. The town itself would look like preparing for Diwali. Even the unkempt shrubs at the front garden would seem at ease and in wait for a benevolent sun.

Those moments didn’t last. He would wake up in the morning to hear the old mother mumbling- pungent curses- for him not buying her a tout medicine for running stomach: for receiving a son’s brazen disobedience, instead of careful service by his dead father. His friends- acquiring permanent jobs- of peonship, teachership- by bribing, political canvassing- making Mr. Biswas feel incapable and jealous. The god-fearing wife (His marriage was well below his intellectual stature and lack of faith), with a slivered face and buxom legs applying Fair & Lovely to her skin before going to bed and coaxing him to join her; not with words but with a befuddling elbow nudge. The spell of the magic long broken, Mr. Biswas found an escape from the ignominy of hopelessness, by alienating and hating the world, especially her.

He had devised, in fact, a silent but elaborate torture. He had decided he would remain aloof when he entered her. It was a difficult plan for him to execute. Thinking about other unrelated topics during the intercourse, for example, geography- all the wonderful places in the world – invariably took him to pleasure. Pondering upon art took him to the memories of his favourite actresses; those imaginary faces of the movie starlets made him hurry up. Many trials and tribulations later, his old studious pride came to his rescue. He began to count his thrusts.

As the act progressed, he became more and more engulfed in a cloud of supremacy and, with every increase of the count imperiously separated from her.

That he broke down today was surprising, even to himself. The obvious emotional surrender to his wife made him overly distraught.

Mrs. Biswas could sense her husband and begged, “You were smart. You are smart. You will always be. No one can take that from you. But enough about yourself, now that you have a daughter, think about her.”

Mr. Biswas sneered, “Don’t talk about daughter. She is only like you. An idiot. Doesn’t even know the capital of Mongolia.”

Mrs. Biswas said, “But she passes her exams.”

“Everyone passes exams!” he said, in a fury.

Mrs. Biswas was obstinate. She said, “She passes her exams and she studies everyday. She tries and tries, but never complains. Probably she will go far because she doesn’t carry any of your burdens- ”

That made Mr. Biswas calm.

Mrs. Biswas- God knows how- making sense.

He said, “We will teach her English well, Nirmala. We will send her to Kolkata and thereafter to Sweden- that’s in Europe if you don’t know- for higher studies. The education is free and they speak English there.”

The mood lifted, as the moments passed, and as he became more and more satisfied with the plan, Mr. Biswas strode upon Mrs. Biswas again, and penetrated her.

This time he chose not to count his thrusts, instead, secretly submitted himself to pleasure.


Saggy Hopeless Legs

“Ripped my foot, ripped jeans my foot,’ Madhumita pounced. In a second she was upon Krishna, tickling, giggling, scratching his blue jeans with her vinyl nails, the manner of a slithery cat etched on her body. Ajay stood watching, laughing, gurgling, not even two feet away; his cheerful eyes unknowingly measuring the emotions between the colliding two. Best friends. We are best friends. He thought as he began to feel jealous.

The mock fight ended in minutes, leaving Krishna flabbergasted and Madhumita thereafter chose to go to the bathroom. That was the only time alone between those two men.

“What is the meaning of this?” Krishna asked.

“She loves you.” Ajay said.

“Really?” Krishna asked.

“Um-hum” Ajay nodded his head, rued.

“I don’t love her.” Krishna declared.

“I know.” Ajay said.

Probably Krishna didn’t hear him or didn’t care to stop.

“I just need some fashion tips, that’s all.” he said.

“I know.” Ajay said that again.

“I will go for Garima, you know. Any day. That’s decided.”

“I know. I know.” Ajay kept nodding.

“You know everything, wise man!” Krishna left the room making an ugly face and without waiting for any of them.

The memory of two female hands was still feeling up his legs; wiggling around and warmly coaxing his newly bought jeans.

 

Forty years later, as an old man, lying alone, Krishna would imagine and reimagine the scene again and again. He wore a lungi now, but in his old soul fancy he would imagine a shy tigress on heat had crawled upon his legs, her face glowing and keen in expectation. Before, of course, he would put his forbidding palm on her forehead stopping her sly advance- commandingly- and forcing her on his crotch in an uninhibited spectacle of dominance.

Penis in his hand, not horny yet, not hopeless yet, this thought would suddenly hit Krishna like an unknown trepidation. The almost forgotten memory of Garima was the witness- she died young; married but without children- that he couldn’t love her. But she was never spurned while wanting sex per se.

But an unattractive woman, restricted further in the garb of a friend if ever wished sex and was refused summarily by a man where would she hide her face?

There was no hope he would come today- Krishna thought to himself before rising up in the bed- yawning and stretching and resigning to another dull lonely day- while wishing for a moment to think something more extravagant to lift himself. Lifting his lungi around his saggy, hopeless legs he chose to visit the bathroom again.


16 Sixteen Word Stories in 2016

1. Frauds

Abe drew his knife. “Is he looking?”, the boy whispered.

“I hope so”, the father said.

2. Kindness at Zombie town

Blood trickling down. The old man lent his umbrella.

They don’t eat what they don’t see.

3. Long Journey

“Goodness needs no intent.’ The co-passenger said waving my purse at me.

‘Next time, I buy.”

4. Mary

Upon hearing Mary said, “John ain’t my son, Isaiah. You are. Come down…look after me.”

5. World Cruise

My penis envy was not apparent till I married a Filipino girl on a world cruise.

6. Gravity of a Romance

Without looking away from the apple, Issac said, “Could you wait, Kathy, till I solve this?”

7. Royal Affair

Kalpurnia sobbed, “Big breasts?”

“No, no”, Caesar said.

“Tall? Lascivious?”

“No freaking way.”

“Then?”

“A teenager.”

8. Broken Roof

When Mt. Everest melted, Kalki was at Pamir. Water poured in to fill up the roof.

9. Laughing Matter

‘Haha,’ thought the mother hyena. One thing to kill the woman.

The baby would be another.

10. Sixteen and Counting

“One… Two…”

“What you counting?”

“Words in my novel.”

“Really? How far could you go?”

“…Sixteen…”

11. R2-D2

D’Qar bound, R2-D2 bleeped, ‘It’s not that I don’t feel regret. Just that regret repairs nothing.’

12. Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

When the children are asleep, I stay awake.
For my gift.

– A good father

13. A Poet’s Sexuality

‘A poet’s sexuality is a strange thing’: Neruda wrote in the morning and snored all night.

14. Time Pass

“Kiss me.’ the dragon nudged the princess. ‘There isn’t much to do till the prince arrives.”

15. Bad Dreams

Putting children asleep, Mrs. Goebbles had a terrible vision. That she had crept inside their dreams.

16. Blind Lane

One lane. One house. One tree. The tree jumps. The house giggles. The lane turns blind.