Back to the Future

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He was waiting very patiently at the new terminal of Kolkata Airport. Though he looked patient, he was trembling from inside. It’s been ten years he saw her. And when he had, they were only in high school. Together. Now that’s a term unfamiliar to him since long. He’s been single, committed, married, divorced, complicated and much more in all these years.

He knew she always loved him. ‘Always’ though, began when they were entering their teens. Lectures in classroom were interrupted by tiny scribbles passed via friends. He enjoyed the attention, liked her eagerness to sit beside him in Mathematics class, was glad to help her with Economics problems. But, he didn’t love her. Not like the way she did. Crossing the eternal friend vs lover hurdle, they never had a relationship as such.

Much water passed under the bridge, she went away to study. Hurt, perhaps. In fact, he was certain she felt hurt. He went on in life, got married. She kept tabs on him from a distance. She still loved him. Why, that she failed to understand yet. Men came and went away from her, but none were like him. She remembered the way he looked in high school, sporting a light stubble, pretending to be all mature and grown up. She liked him that way too.

Things have changed now. She heard from friends that he was divorced. She wanted to see him again. Not ‘see him’ seriously, just see him once, the way friends do. She had applied for a job in Kolkata and got it too. Now came the chance to see him. And he agreed too. Who knew he still remembered her, considered her a friend.

She landed. As he had anticipated, she looked beautiful. She was, anyway. He wondered why he never fell in love with her while others did. His heart was fluttering. Is that something only to happen with women? She arrived at the lounge. Her eyes took a few moments to locate him. He still sported a stubble, no, a beard in fact.

She noticed that he looked tired. And a little old, exhausted, heckled. She decided to ask him to shave, and get rid of not only the beard, but the past. The same bitter past that had aged him beyond his years.

They might get together. They mightn’t. But she’d make sure he steps out of the past and lives. Again.

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‘This post is a part of #WillYouShave activity at BlogAdda in association with Gillette”

I was tagged by R and I’m tagging Maria, Manjit and Manjulika in this post. Please acknowledge the tags and mention that I had tagged you in this post.

An Equal Mother

Write Over the Weekend theme for this week:

This time we’re having at a mother’s day special! Your post must contain the word ‘MOM’ and you have just 5 sentences to complete your story.

‘Happy Birthday, Mom,’ Shruti had a glimmer of smile light up her face as Aanya was approaching her.

Her smile faded into oblivion as Aanya walked past her towards her mother’s portrait, like she usually did each year.

Shruti has been yearning to be addressed as ‘Mom’ while raising her dead twin Smriti’s daughter Aanya for the past ten years.

While Aanya’s father has moved on from his dead wife to her attractive twin sister, Aanya could not accept Shruti who looked like her mom but didn’t smell equally divine.

Shruti decided to wait for Aanya, ageing with her dead sister on the wall.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

A Clean Step

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R kept glancing at the woman sitting right opposite to him in the metro. He was half way through to office on a boring, gloomy Tuesday morning, already craving for the weekend. He was reading on his old-fashioned large e-book reader and not the sleek ones. The lucid, delicious descriptions of food in the book made his empty stomach growl. Breakfast in office was still twenty minutes away. R stole another glance at the woman to distract himself. She was reading a paperback with so much intent that it seemed she would be seated in this train forever. He regretted sporting a two-days stubble that probably made him look dirty.

Wednesday brought better promises with itself. R boarded the train clean-shaven with a full stomach. He spotted the woman two stops later, leaning near the door. She gave him fleeting stares, probably of appreciation or flirtation. ‘My clean shaven look bowled her over,’ smirked R. He didn’t notice her alight the train behind him. A tap on his shoulder while walking towards office made him turn around. She flashed a card briefly to him. Her Phone number? He was hopeful.

“Officer M, Cyber Crime Branch. Would you like to be under arrest?”

This post is a part of the Protest Against Smelly Stubble Activity in association with BlogAdda.

I would like to tag Sudeshna, Diptee, TheWhitescape, Parama, Soumya in this post.

Its Time for Breakfast

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. We give out creative writing topics each weekend for Indian bloggers.

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Sheer looked around lazily through the glass and sat down, visibly bored. He had always loved this capsule elevator with a seat for the elderly.

He peeked onto the airport lawn outside, the palm trees were swaying their heads in the soothing dawn breeze. It was going to be a glorious sunny morning. Yet, he had work.

He dressed as a waiter and knocked the door of a plush suite.

‘Sir, your breakfast.’

The victim opened the door after a minute. Sheer made tea for him. Then he unlocked the ice box, took out his precious weapon and stabbed the man.

One thing he didn’t know that they were being watched.

A lady escort came out horrified of the walk-in closet after he left.

Sheer went to the changing room, dressed as himself and disposed the silicon mask he was wearing.

On his way down, the morning seemed to be even more glorious from the capsule.

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When Silence Roars

(Inspired by the movie Lootera [2013])

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The snow-clad tree stood tall braving the blizzard,

for it had promised its last leaf to me, and you.

Silence has always been the bridge between us – me,

the princess and you, her knight in shining armour.

I chirped like a true Pakhi, the myna or magpie,

while you listened draped in a shawl of intent.

Now, my voice is miffed by blood and dread,

while you rant away chasing to hold the life in me.

Ours is a story of pain and love, where I

bare myself in words, and you express

When you say nothing at all.

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Dasvidaniya

Arriverderci

“I have something to tell you.”

Tony muttered as Marc bent to pick an Edelweiss for him.

His words lingered in the thin air of Swiss Alps.

It was fourth day of the trek and they had climbed high.

The tone of his lover surprised Marc as he felt the downhill thrust.

“Arriverderci.”

Auf Wiedersehen

“I have something to tell you.”

Mark didn’t look at her. His eyes were still shut softly.

Toni repeated the words to her twin brother.

Mark still lay lifeless. He is in coma for the past ten years.

Toni severed all medical ties that kept him alive.

Now she could finally bid him , “Auf Wiedersehen.”

Sayonara

“I have something to tell you.”

He said apologetically before she could undress him.

Nahoko couldn’t wait any longer. He was a rare Italian gigolo in Tokyo.

As she opened his shirt, she was shocked by the full-body tattoos.

“Sayonara,” he whispered while slashing her throat.

She was the wife of a Triad lord.

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda – See more at: http://blog.blogadda.com/2013/06/21/weekend-creative-writing-india-bloggers#comments

Fine Line of Desire

Ira was not feeling guilty being caressed by another man. He was an old friend she had always liked. He might become her soul mate with time, who knows!

The husband had blasted her with the fact that he liked another man. After six months of marriage.

Ira felt her friend come closer, wanting to make a move. She too was aroused, by the scent of his presence.

Something metallic fell off the inside pocket of his jacket with a clang as he pondered over.

Ira picked it up. It was her husband’s silver tie-pin.

She had lost track of the cheat sheet. The vicious cycle was up and running.

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When The Twain Met..

Mimi was gazing through her office window towards a lip-smacking summer sunset in Calcutta. She was ruing over her date planned with Soham that evening beside the Ganges. It had to be cancelled.

Her baba had called to come back home early. Being over-possessive, he disapproved of every guy she dated. Ma, had expired.

Soham hadn’t been able to impress baba the few times they met, despite Mimi hoping otherwise.

There was a power cut in the area as she approached home dejectedly. Entering inside with her set of keys she found them both, her baba and beau prattling along over tea and samosas.

She loved summer now, more than ever.

Photo Courtesy : Rajdeep Mukhopadhyay

Lost in Translation

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 38; the thirty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is “The Woman on Platform Number 10”

Paddington Station, London [clicked by myself]

I was standing in the main courtyard of Paddington station with electronic display boards, men and women wrapped in scarves and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee surrounding me. When written this way it may feel surreal, but in reality I was late and the scenario didn’t seem pretty. The antique clock up high reminded of my boss Alex’s face which looked like a beetroot when he got angry. For a moment I went blank in my head, not knowing where to go next. I had my tickets, I already knew where to board my train, and still, my feet were glued before my favourite coffee kiosk. Like every Tuesday, I saw her again today. She was whom everyone referred to as the woman on platform number 10. She wore a mustard yellow parka with a skirt and stood there on the same platform every Tuesday for the whole day. She was the only passenger who never boarded a train from Paddington. I guess today she’s late too, she passed by me hurriedly towards her platform.

I have been witnessing her act for the past few months. She never seemed to miss a Tuesday for her day-out at the Paddington. I had, like all others, wondered why she would do it week after week. She was not a homeless asking for help, or a beggar. She looked quite well-off in her clothes and accessories. Yet, she looked as hapless as anyone could be. At times she looked as if she has lost everything in life. Her attire kept changing with different climates and seasons, but the mustard parka was always there. The pale mustard seemed to reflect its paleness on her face too. Some days I noticed her, other days I was in a hurry or pre-occupied with books or my tiny music player. I too inquired about her, like everyone else. No one had the courage to ask directly about her plight, and yet everyone seemed to know her reason. My co-passengers had always whispered among themselves about her, on Tuesdays. From the scrapes of their conversations, I gathered that a man had left her, boarding a train from platform number 10 in Paddington, and never came back. She waited, every Tuesday for him to return. She is not insane, she works somewhere nearby, leads a normal life and yet there is this bit of insanity in her to wait for her lover every Tuesday.

I lead a normal life too – I have a grumpy boss, a demanding girlfriend, irritating friends and distant parents. Yet, every time I see her, I seem to gradually realize her insanity and loneliness. Her pale mustard parka and black scarf in contrast have become a symbol of something to me, something unexplainable, not insanity. People around me whisper how she’s wasting her days waiting for an imbecile. I feel a pang when I see her though, I feel as if she’s giving back her debt of memories to life in the form of a few days. I feel I too will become insane some day, and wait for eternity, perhaps in Paddington itself.

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