The Floating Room

Now that Kolkata’s famous monsoons have set in, the view outside the window has undergone some significant changes. No traces remain of the lively neighborhood made bright by the white, blazing streets of Mangalam Park. Instead there lay a dim world dripping with moisture, which might be considered anything between romantic and dull, depending on your mood.

Here, I should give some credit to the peculiar position of my window. The entire scene outside is bisected by the compound wall into two equal halves- a typical Behala slum on the left, and Mangalam Park on the right. In fact, the wall would’ve run right through us, had it not swerved left at the last moment, to accommodate our building into the compound premises. Any viewer from here would get a god-like perception, being able to supervise two worlds that can’t see or interact with each other, thanks to the nine feet high divider (and other reasons).

The slum lanes, though obsolete, are populated at all times. On rainy days, several lazy hours go by observing the slum people wading up and down through knee-deep water, mostly cursing each other. The well-drained streets of the complex, however, usually remain vacant, except for few cars and occasional raincoat/umbrella clad pedestrians, for the rains are usually avoided.

Sometimes on seeing people walk by under the protection of an umbrella, I can’t help but wonder how fun it would be to snipe them through the mock shield. Oh well.

Several times in this year, the rain has been heavy enough to limit one’s eyesight within a small radius. Gazing out into endless torrential rain gives nothing short of a euphoric feeling. Everything’s smudged with the downpour and its resultant mist which hovers over every possible obstacle. The spray-layered earth seems distant and faded, and almost identical to the overcast sky. As the rain grows heavier still, the panes need to be shut to restrict the water. The surroundings disappear, and nothing remains in the endless watery universe of diffused light. Except you and your floating room.

Returning Home

Misty, winter twilights have an unconventional way of overwhelming me. It’s sadistic. On 9th December, I knew that the last homewards journey from school would be more memorable than the last day itself. It’s not that anything special happened. In fact, a premature darkness had set in due to an overcast sky. By the time I got off the bus, the world was lit, mostly, via blazing streetlights and shops.

There is a 15min walk from the main road to Mangalam Park, through a twisted network of alleys. Unfamiliar people are bound to get lost, but once you get used to it, the locality is worthy of appreciation. It’s through these lanes that I’ve been returning home for the past 7 years, and attachments do develop.

I wonder how the very idea of returning home changes over the years. Initially, it’s bliss; walking away from the horrible educational building, hand-in-hand with mom. A little later, it’s about rushing back in a desperate attempt to catch the last bits of your favorite cartoon, the timing of which is always just a bit too early. Then, slowly, as these compulsions begin to disappear, it’s just about returning home.

On a warm, summer dusk, you can walk back slowly, arms supporting the back of a thrown-back head, whistling softly to a tune of the season, with the red sky radiating a soothing heat and a warm breeze fanning the untidy hair, messed up with the activities of the day. A beautiful picture. Just that: neither can I whistle, nor does the heavy backpack allow much luxury. And I actually mind weird glances from fellow pedestrians. So, it’s not as perfect as one would want it to be, but nevertheless, enjoyable.

There’s the monsoon, when it absolutely HAS to rain every day, during this short period of ‘returning home’. Being a lazy person, I find it easier to enjoy the shower, than to open the backpack and take out the neatly tied-up umbrella. According to the norms in Kolkata, it’s seldom more than a slight drizzle, and there’s nothing like the pleasure of bathing in a fine spray. Heavy rains are best avoided, as they tend to spoil the books inside the ‘waterproof’ bag.

However, the best attraction of the monsoon remains the sight of people on the glossy streets. There’s nothing more fascinating than a figure concealed from head to toe, with a firmly held umbrella hiding the face from the halogen lights. Reminds me of detectives in some distant way.

During winter, the retreating light is bothersome, and you can’t help feeling a sharp remorse for spending another useless day at school. There are so many things to be done. More than what can be done in a lifetime. And here we are, wasting perfect days learning shit in school; most of which would be forgotten within days. Or hours, perhaps.

It is this lonely remorse, which is unbearably addictive, and what made 9th December memorable.

I remember, back in lower classes, I had to tread these walks for all my tuitions too. The lessons would conclude by 9:30pm and we would be free to fool around till 11. Of course mom would get terribly mad initially, but then she yielded, giving up all hopes of the bright future she had planned for me. I miss those carefree, happy days.

Yes, I probably won’t miss school that much, but I will definitely miss returning home.

Solitary musings

It’s a quarter after 12, and I can’t sleep tonight. I’ve been listening to a radio program which gave its concluding speech, promising to return next Sunday. So, I switch to some Coldplay music instead. It is barely audible above the clattering of rain against the window pane beside me.

A white sheet of paper is spread out on the table in front of me, under the lit table lamp. I’m sitting with heavy eyes and a pen in my hand. All ready to start writing.

The atmosphere of the room brings a pleasant chill. Mostly, it is engulfed in darkness, the faint lamp being the only source of light. The packing boxes and the huge pile of books throw enormous and awkward shadows behind them, creating obscure dimensions on the feebly pale walls. Frequently, dazzling flashes would submerge the room, killing all shades, followed by ear-splitting thunder, which would leave the glass panes trembling.

If you look outside the window, you see a prevailing reflection of the lamp along with your own dull face staring back at you through the watery mess. Beyond that, you see the smudged yellow rays of glowing streetlights. They scatter to new patterns of randomness with each strike of raindrops. You notice a delicate layer of mist on the inner side of the glass. You can scribble non-sense with your fingertips, and laugh at your own silliness as the results fade away. Laugh, by yourself.

I stare blankly at the paper in front of me. I have always felt a peculiar sentiment towards blank papers and canvases. No matter what marks I make on them, I can never match my own expectations. Sometimes, I prefer neat, vacant exercise copies to some story books, dreaming of greater things that can be created on them…

This abnormality in me has led to a hobby of collecting unused diaries of passing years. What should’ve been written in them, are stacked up in MS Word documents instead. Often, dad would rebuke me for wasting such nice diaries. But I’ve never cared. There were times, few years back, when he would take a diary without my permission, and use it to scribble down notes for career exams. That would make me real mad. Later, I would collect the discarded, half-filled diaries, and cut away the used pages, like a doctor amputating an incurable leg of a patient. It all seems so childish now. I still collect empty diaries, but not with such devotion.

The screen of my silenced cell appears suddenly out of the darkness, amidst the pile of books. 1 message received. I have no wish to reply though, but it reminds me of the existence of people in the world. Assured by the fact that I’m not the lone sinner, I decide to waste the paper in the worst way possible. Sketching my haphazard mind.

And now, I have a blog post.

Nocturnal tears

Late night showers always bring along a sensation of loneliness, so terribly painful, and yet so addicting. A solitary room and a window is all you need.

But she notices. She notices me gazing intently at her nocturnal tears. Probably out of embarrassment she breathes foggy raindrops onto the glass. The outer world slowly fades away, and I’m left with my own reflection facing me. Thus concealing herself she weeps on, while I see only a pair of dry eyes staring back steadily.

Was she mocking me? Women have the power to shed tears, willingly or unwillingly. Men don’t. And it’s not always due to manly pride.

There have been several occasions when I’ve tried to cry (when alone of course), but in vain. I would have assumed that my tear glands are out of order had it not been for chopped onions, and open ammonia bottles in the lab.

It rains, clouds dissolve, and before long it’s morning and the sun is out again. It’s only then that she removes the watery curtain from my window, to reveal herself in her natural merry mood.

(Note: Since some dense people asked me who the weeping girl is in this post, let me tell you, I'm talking about Nature here, and no human being. Gawd!)

That second every week

19D, Golf Club Road, SBI Quarters... The place holds all my childhood memories, and beloved people with whom I’ve lost all contact. Dad’s job compelled us to leave the place while I was in 6th grade. Mobile and email were still off-limits to me, so going away physically meant cutting off all means of communication. I never heard from any of those old pals again. We didn’t get any chance to revisit the place for the next couple of years due to Mom’s serious health issues. By the time she recovered, I had settled myself in the new environment, made a new set of friends and didn’t bother much about 19D.

But as fate would have it, I got admitted in a Physics tuition at Ballygunj recently, meaning that every Friday I would have to pass 19D on my way. This apparently was a nice opportunity to visit the old place again. But week after week went by, I never found myself ready to ask driver uncle to stop the car in front of that rusty gate.

I’m well aware that most SBI employees have transferable jobs. What if, once inside that place, I find all the old familiar faces missing? What if my favorite guava tree isn’t there anymore? What if the guards stop me at the gate as a stranger (they obviously will)?

I love passing by the Quarters, but I will never break journey there. It will spoil my game. I would keep the place and all the people (and of course the guava tree) intact in my memory as one single entity, rather than venture into the place and find an unknown world.

Nostalgia is a strange feeling, almost like a drug. You may hate it, but you can never have enough of it. It gives a kind of painful satisfaction.

People, who have read “The Night Train at Deoli” by Ruskin Bond, would call me a copycat for using some of his words in the above note. Quite justified, but I just couldn’t find a better way of expressing this on my own.

Right turn from the main road…, a narrow alley…, a series of gates…, last one with a SBI symbol…, a glimpse of the inner-world…dark pitched path…flooded with the evening sunrays…unknown children playing…, left turn…, main road again.

Though no record has been kept, the Physics tuition have been blessed with 100% attendance from me till date. ^_^