She woke up long after the police left. She yawned and stretched her long hands. It felt stiff. The sniffer dogs had left a long trail of saliva and grime on her Persian rugs. It disgusted her. The chocolate rug, her favourite, gift from Rahul on her twentieth birthday. She trudged along to the adjoining bathroom. The mirror was tainted. The entire place had a mossy smell. "Ahh I should take more care......" she said lightly touching the glass. She hovered for a while eyeing her reflection. A square white face with deep set sunken eyes and hollow cheeks grimaced back at her.The air smelled stale, damp. The tiles on the floor slippery. Slowly she went to the opposite bedroom. The bed was unmade, it's sheets musty. Even the curtains felt damp; cold and wet. " but where is Anisha?" She wondered................
Bookworm's Corner
Thursday 12 November 2015
The storyweaver returns....
Hey, I am back....finally. it's like a long hibernation. But I've always meant to return. And now I've returned as the prodigal worker! But I promise you my readers I won't desert you again. Now I'm part journalist part researcher and part philosopher and a sceptic. My humour and sarcasm levels are a couple of notches up. I apologize to those who don't like it. But then, that's me. But I think going beyond the discourse of the new me and the old me I will just slide back to where I started, what I do best.........my stories. With the Halloween and Diwali mood still on I would love to give you a dose of thrills and chills and real shivers up your spines. So coming soon The Awakening, a short story of mine promising to give you a creepy flavour that you crave this season. So friends just stay tuned for more......
Tuesday 21 October 2014
Language of the soul- a short story by Sampriti Biswas
Hello Friends,
hope you all are enjoying in this wonderful festive season. This story is a small Diwali gift from me to my lovely readers. I hope you all like it. Till then see ya folks!
Language of the soul
It
was noon. The midday blazing sun was high on the cloudless sky, as if glaring
at every living, breathing creature. The underground metro station was buzzing
with the humdrum of office goers, school students, home makers, college-goers.
Popular Bollywood masala songs played incessantly on the suspended flat screens
of the station. As an air conditioned train approached, everyone hurriedly
jostled with each other to move forward, eager to have a seat in the comfort of
the AC; it was after all a blessing for the middle class, a temporary relief in
their hand-to-mouth existence. Everyone entered as fast as possible, most of
them had to stand-it was still a relief to find some foothold, some space. They
complained in their own way- some cringed up their noses at an odour; some
stamped other’s feet while adjusting to be more comfortable; some elbowed their
neighbours; some pushed; others uttered noises of irritation arghh, ahh,
ughh......evident sounds of discomfort.
As
station after station passed more and more passengers came aboard. In spite of
the Air conditioner the train was literally a pressure cooker, brimming to its
full. It smelled of sweat, grease and heat had its own unique smell.
In
a particular coach, the ladies section was especially in a very bad shape. A
few of them had even resorted to tactfully verbally abusing each other. As the
busy women sweated profusely, their impending doom of household chores at the
end of the day loomed at large, in front of them. They are always
‘double-burdened’. They were, after all, tired, edgy, after a hard day’s work.
“Please keep your feet off my sandal madam, in case you don’t know, it hurts”
screeched a lady, irritated clad in a pink chiffon with a black leather bag,
her golden danglers sparkling as she moved her head in rage. “Oh in case you
haven’t noticed there’s not an inch to move, so just feel free to move away
your sandal clad, delicate feet instead”, retorted back her neighbour, a middle
aged woman in a white salwar-kameez. She dabbed her head with her kerchief
quite frequently. Three sitting college girls, giggled out loudly at some
joke-some of the standing women glared. An old lady, eyes closed, went on
silently praying, her rosary beads in hand. Few lucky women, sitting, tried to
rest awhile. Ne even snored softly, her mouth half-opened, drool lacing her
parched lips- someone quipped ‘bloody disgusting’.
Suddenly
a baby from a corner seat bawled out loudly. The incessant crying went on for a
few minutes. Then, quite astonishingly he gave out a wide toothless grin and
then with a peal of laughter ending only with a loud belch. Everyone’s
attention quickly, shifted to that one tiny mite, about a year old, in the
corner clad in a pretty blue dungaree. His mother, sitting beside him, tried to
feed him a bottle of milk which he vehemently refused. As the delightful
creature squealed in evident pleasure of catching a lock of hair in his hands
from his neighbour, a smile appeared on the women’s tired faces. Everyone
became engrossed in watching the little adorable child, his frolics, antics,
forgetting for some time their pain, their desperation, their daily monotonous
existence, the same crowded metro-train ride, the same struggle for a little
footing-without speaking yet in a common language, that little life, united
them all. Or perhaps, it’s the unspoken language of the soul.
Tuesday 5 August 2014
History of the eternal captives....
Hello,
here's my insight on women; although published, this article is very close to my heart.......I hope you all like it.....
History
of the Eternal Captives.
In our illustrious country India, women are
worshipped, respected as deities. From Mata Durga the saviour, Mata Kali the
demon punisher, Mata Lakshmi the goddess of wealth to Mata Saraswati the devi
of learning; all are held in great reverence; each and every God fearing noble
citizen abide by them, seek their blessings earnestly. Fortunes are spent in
appeasing them; pujas, yajnas etc are made to do by pious Brahmins. Yet the
“fortunate” women do not find such great honour in their individual lives. All
over the country they are discriminated, they are the victims of domestic
abuse, heinous crimes such as rape, infanticide, killing of girl foetus, murder
etc. In this context it is apt to say that brutal crimes are committed against
them not only in India but also all over the world. They are that hapless
gender, the commodified gender; the eternal captives.
They have lived caged lives from time immemorial;
from the valiant emperor’s harem, to the once geisha districts and the hellish
red light areas. They are the daughters, the mothers, the wives, the sisters;
they are the home-makers, the peaceful ones, the forgiving ones, the embodiment
of love, values and honesty, the nurturer of all things beautiful. But they are
made the scars of the society forcibly. They are burned in the name of dowry,
raped and mutilated; her limbs torn apart in the name of lust, her face
disfigured beyond recognition; driven to the brink of insanity with acid
attacks by spurned lovers. Can we ever forget Delhi’s Nirbhaya? Or the Afghan women who went through unthinkable
circumstances in the Taliban rule? Or the recent abduction of school girls by
the Boko Haram? Every other day
these crimes are increasing in number globally. The very character of the
torture meted out to women is changing. The patriarchal system is trying its
very best to repress women from seeking their true destinies. They are blamed
for their clothes, their figure, their ways of life, their thoughts, ambitions
and so on .Their purity, their modesty is of utmost importance. Unwritten special codes of conduct exist for them
all over the world. In the less developed countries the scenario is even more
dangerous. For example the Dalit women face great struggle for their survival.
But most of us, the educated global netizens, know
all these. So it will be a futile exercise to support these facts with statistics;
the prominent daily newspapers give us our regular dose of crime, their related
data and statistics. Instead I would try to shift the reader’s attention to the
history of these eternal captives as I strive to uncover the long forgotten
tracks that have finally led them to their present situation. These tracks have
been well covered by time, blood and soil so the journey will be tumultuous.
But the endeavour is rewarding nonetheless as it might unearth the very history
of our unfortunate kind. The very first question that plagues my mind is that
when did the first discrimination happen? Was it with the early cage dwelling
man , our forefathers, who first divided their work, for the ease of their
daily difficult existence, the first division of labour; that the women would
look after the aged and the young ones whilst the stronger male would hunt for
food? If it’s so then physical strength had a substantial role to play in this
division. Women are matured yet soft, understand emotions and values and to
inculcate all these they may have been given the duty of upbringing of their
children. Also nature creates a bond between her and her young ones through its
own unique creation. Thus the era of stay at home, vulnerable, women started
under the protective wing of their chivalrous men.
A mini snapshot of different parts of the world
would help us in the analysis. In the Enlightenment, the philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau argued that the
domestic role of women is a structural precondition for a modern society. The
Age of Reason did not bring forth much for women; men including most of the
Enlightenment aficionados believed that women were naturally destined to be
principally wives and mothers. The higher class women needed to be educated and
knowledgeable whereas the lower class women were expected to be economically
productive; both for the benefit of their husbands. Here the Nazi Germany
deserves special mention. Before 1933 women played important roles in the Nazi
organization and were given some autonomy but after Adolf Hitler came to power the activist women were replaced by the
bureaucratic women who naturally emphasised feminine virtues; the Nazis
believed that women must be subservient to men. But in the time of The Second
World War, women worked as nurses, seamstresses, support personnel and in the Luftwaffe
although their wages remained vastly unequal and were denied leadership
positions. The Nazis viewing the women as agents of fertility murdered two
million women in the holocaust. Chinese Women’s Life History is a historical
book written by Chen Dongyuan in
1928. This book is thought to be the first to give a systematic introduction to
women’s history in China. It intends to explain how the principle of women
being inferior to men evolves. He recalls the abuses inflicted on the Chinese
women from the ancient times. From McGranan
(2010) we come to know how the menstrual blood was thought of as a
contaminating agent as she examines the role of the 20th century
women in Tibet. In Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution feminist lobbying
gained suffrage and nominal equality for women in education and the workplace.
In 2012 feminism was called ‘mortal sin’ by a lawyer representing the Russian
Orthodox Church. In South Africa owing to the legacy of apartheid and other
extreme social agendas women have become the major victims from drug abuse,
gang culture etc. In the United States a pioneering work by Deborah Gray White ‘Ai’n’t I a Woman? Female Slaves in the Plantation South’
(1985) opens up a great analysis of race, slavery, violence and feminism. The
foundation stone of contemporary feminism was laid by Simone de Beauvoir’s 1949 treatise The Second Sex. She pens down
exquisitely about the atrocities inflicted upon women. Women’s sexuality is of
course a tabooed subject all over the world; family planning, abortions etc are
thus topics of much debates and discussion. Evils of Dowry are still rampant in
major parts of the world. Women have always been the worst affected by the
wars; we can easily refer to the comfort women of the Japanese Military. Numerous
women were raped, tortured and killed during the Bangladesh Liberation War and
before that in the Indian Freedom Struggle. Tahmima Anam’s ‘A Golden Age’ is a heart wrenching read centering
on the Bangladesh Mukti Juddha. In the times of the wars especially the world
wars the women came out of their homes losing their husbands, brothers, fathers
to work in order to support their families. They even worked in the factories
to feed their children. This at least gave her liberty to some extent.
But we also have some very powerful women in the
history of ‘man’kind. We have women of great merit, valour and perseverance. They
were to a great extent the game changers and today’s women owe to some of them
significantly for the relative betterment in their existence (for certain
section of women in certain parts of the world). Hatshepsut, one of the most successful pharaohs, was the fifth
pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty of the ancient Egypt. Women of the Vedic
Period in India (circa 1500-1200 BCE) were epitomes of intellectual and
spiritual attainments; Ghosha, Apala,
Lopamudra, Maitreyi and Gargi were some of them. Gorgo was the wife of King Leonidas, king of the Greek city of
Sparta. She was named by Herodotus and was known for her political judgement
and wisdom. The Valide Sultan was the title held by the queen mother of a
ruling sultan of the Ottoman Empire. The position was the most important one
after the sultan himself and she exerted great influence on the affairs of the
empire. The most powerful and well known Valide Sultans and Haseki Sultans in
the history of Ottoman Empire are Huerrem
sultan, Nurbanu Sultan and Koessem Sultan. Anne Boleyn influenced religious development in England indirectly
by leading Henry VIII to divorce Catherine
of Aragon and break away from the Catholic Church.
Mother Mary continues to give solace to the wounded souls of
the world. A’isha, wife of Muhammad,
the prophet, narrates the largest number of Hadiths. Parampurush SriRamkrishna Paramhansa saw
divinity in his wife Mata Sarada Devi.
Today’s women politicians like Germany’s Angela Merkel, India’s Sushma Swaraj, Mamata Banerjee, Sonia Gandhi, the late Indira Gandhi, Burma’s Aung San Suu Kyi, Pakistan’s the late Benazir Bhutto, Michelle Bachlet the head of UN Women, Hilary Clinton the US Secretary of State, Michelle Obama the first lady of US, Christine Lagarde the French finance minister are some of the
notable key players in the global politics. Women like Florence Nightingale and Mother
Teresa are immortal in the hearts of millions of people around the globe.
Perhaps
there is hope for the freedom for the eternal captives as the above mentioned
women and many others continue to inspire and encourage the millions of
downtrodden helpless women all over the globe. There is change, of course, it
has come with time, but the pace is slow and unequal. The 1987 paper Gender and
cooperative conflicts by Nobel laureate Prof.
Amartya Sen is a very important and interesting read. Prof. Sen says, Household activities have been viewed in
many contradictory ways in assessing production and technology. On the one
hand, it is not denied that the sustenance, survival and reproduction of
workers are obviously essential for the workers being available for outside
work. On the other, the activities that produce or support that sustenance,
survival or reproduction are typically not regarded as contributing to output,
and are often classified as 'unproductive' labour. So women can be both
‘productive’ as well as ‘unproductive’ on the home front depending on how
people perceive it. Again working women face the ‘double burden’ of both
working outside the home as well as working inside it.
Novels
like Arthur Golden’s ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ or Katie Hickman’s ‘The Aviary Gate’
or Tracy Chevalier’s ‘The Virgin Blue’, Khaled Hosseini’s ‘A Thousand Splendid
Suns’ etc portrays captive women and their sorrows, fear, joy, their undying
spirits and their shackled lives. The celebration of the International Women’s
Day will have no meaning whatsoever if the society does not change its attitude
towards women. The society must acknowledge that she is an independent, free
spirited, mature, loving yet firm entity. Given the same care as her male
counterparts from childhood she lives longer. Women must be educated everywhere
and allowed to pursue their dreams; they must be freely allowed to make their
choices and the world must make itself a safer place for them to live in. That
unseen chain bordering their lives must be eradicated and this can only be
possible if along with the Government, the NGO’s the common man comes forward.
Otherwise measures like the Gender related Development Index or the Gender
Empowerment Index (started from 1995 by the UN) will never be able to showcase
the real scenario and will just be a bunch of data. The over expectations that
a common woman face both from her family and the society confines her, confuse
her, embitter her and she breaks down both physically and mentally
subsequently. Today’s urban women in India are confused in the face of
globalisation; should they be traditional or contemporary in body mind actions,
what should be the ideal concoction of traditionalism and modernism that the society might approve of? As the gender
politics and positions shift, the society points its finger at women known to
be in live-in relationships, or indulge in pre-marital sex etc but never care
to stop the commodification of women.
I will end with a positive note; Scottish tennis
star Wimbledon champion (singles title) Andy Murray recently chose Amelie
Mauresmo as his coach. In the sporting world this came as a big shock. His
mother Judy Murray evoked a striking metaphor in a speech she gave in London
last month. She said “women are like snowflakes; we float around, we look
pretty, and we usually hit a wall and melt away. But if we stick together, we
can form a snowball. And snowballs can cause trouble.”
Friday 20 June 2014
Book Reviews
Hello friends,
Ah! the sweet monsoon is here..........one can curl in a nice, cosy couch with a warm cup of steaming coffee and read a lovely book. Herein comes A Golden Age by Bangladeshi author Tahmima Anam. I tell you my friends it's a must read for all book worms. Also Katie Hickman's The Aviary Gate is very commendable. Friends I will soon be back with the review of these brilliant books and so just stay tuned. Till then, goodbyeeeeeeeeeeee.
Ah! the sweet monsoon is here..........one can curl in a nice, cosy couch with a warm cup of steaming coffee and read a lovely book. Herein comes A Golden Age by Bangladeshi author Tahmima Anam. I tell you my friends it's a must read for all book worms. Also Katie Hickman's The Aviary Gate is very commendable. Friends I will soon be back with the review of these brilliant books and so just stay tuned. Till then, goodbyeeeeeeeeeeee.
Saturday 19 April 2014
Life in a box- a short story
Hello friends,
I am back again.........I hope you are all well. Belated happy poila baisakh to you all, I hope a wonderful year awaits everyone. And here I am with a fresh new short story exclusively for my readers. I hope it delights you. And do give me your much awaited comments...........and then I will be back with more.Till then........bye.
I am back again.........I hope you are all well. Belated happy poila baisakh to you all, I hope a wonderful year awaits everyone. And here I am with a fresh new short story exclusively for my readers. I hope it delights you. And do give me your much awaited comments...........and then I will be back with more.Till then........bye.
Life
in a box
Everyday Shikha saw
the lady with her petty wares on the road. She laid them out with utmost care
and diligence, her wares mostly cheap, outdated and dirty to some extent being
exposed on the roadside for long. Gently after laying those down, the plastic
soap cases, safety pins, tapes, boxes, spools of coloured threads, scrub pads
etc, she would dust them and then burn incense sticks in front of a picture of
a deity, asking for divine blessings. Her stall was by a very busy, dusty main
road with buses, taxis and autos honking loudly all day. But it was the child
that caught her eye........... a merry kid about a couple of years old or maybe
even less sitting inside a big cardboard box. His mother kept her wares in it
every night. The child was not as boisterous as any other children of his age;
he was rather a patient, soft and sensitive kid. Sometimes he seemed shy
sitting huddled in one corner of the brown hard box, sometimes he laughed out
loudly pointing at something and showing it to his mother. At times he even
slept inside the box, cosy and unaware of anything around him. His mother
looked tired in her threadbare, cotton saree, or frayed salwar kamizes, her
sunken eyes filled with a silent grief. Yet the same eyes sometimes lighted up
at some antics of her child and she smiled. Sometimes Shikha stopped to buy a
packet of cheap ear buds or safety pins for her mother, on her way back from
college. It was at these times that she watched Dev, the child, more closely.
Shikha was fascinated by Dev, she had never seen a child like him before, small
that he was he was so uncomplaining and sensible that she became very
respectful of his mother Fulari didi. Even in the hot humid days of summer in
Calcutta the duo would be out. Shikha sometimes brought him a sweet, or a
lozenge, or an old toy and watched in joy when his soft little fingers clutched
them meekly yet with confidence, as if he knew he deserved those.
It happened in the
time of Shikha’s final exams. Some of the local goons had threatened Fulari to
leave that small space for a friend of theirs who intended to open a cheap dvd
stall, selling mostly pirated dvd’s. But Fulari did not go away; it was her
only means of livelihood for her fatherless child and herself. So they burned
her tiny place down, in the dead of the night, she barely escaping with Dev on
her shoulders. There was not even much smoke. As Shikha walked home from
college on the last day of her finals, she noticed Dev sitting in front of a
shoe store by her mother. The old cardboard box was nowhere to be seen. Fulari
lay on the ground, her tear stained face caked with dirt. An aluminium bowl was
by Dev’s side, some of the passerby’s threw coins noisily in it without even
glancing at the duo. A gaunt man standing in Fulari’s place shouted out loudly
with a dvd in his right hand, le jao le jao sabka tis, sabka tis..... A horde
of people had gathered around him, of all ages.......busily toying with the
much valued items. Shikha bought a chocolate and handed Dev. He took it
silently, never meeting her in the eye. His angelic smile was no more on his
face, instead, there was a fire in his innocent eyes, they burned with such intensity
that Shikha felt afraid, afraid for the civilized world she knew. She touched
Dev’s cheek lovingly, he pushed her hand away.
Wednesday 2 April 2014
The Decision- A Short Story
Hello friends,
I am back once again with a short story once again written by me just for you all. Its a story about a 'he' and a 'she'.........a story that I am sure many will be able to relate to. This story signifies the pain often faced by unfortunate lovers, their thoughts, their determination. I hope you all like it. Do give me your valuable feedback friends and till then bye.....
I am back once again with a short story once again written by me just for you all. Its a story about a 'he' and a 'she'.........a story that I am sure many will be able to relate to. This story signifies the pain often faced by unfortunate lovers, their thoughts, their determination. I hope you all like it. Do give me your valuable feedback friends and till then bye.....
The
Decision
She knew she had
made the decision..........she knew it was wrong yet she could not turn back.
She knew the Gods were laughing at her, yet she moved on. She knew time could
never be turned back yet she trudged on. She needed tranquility, inner
peace.......she was too long at war with herself. She wanted an answer once and
for all. She knew only then she could move farther. It was never for the best
person, oh no, he was far from it. He was fickle-minded, selfish,
unsophisticated and brutally realistic. Yet there was a part of her that
belonged to him; it was her weakness, her secret which she knew she would carry
to her grave. Yet she sought an answer.......an answer which had the potential
of changing her life radically forever. She mustered every bit of courage she
ever had and with a thudding heart she said what she had discovered long back,
“I love you, do you love me?” She knew the answer; it was supposed to be that,
anything other than that would have shocked her. She grasped the full meaning
of the simple no and the ensuing explanations. He was not a gifted orator and
did not choose his words with care; they were like thorns inflicting wounds to
her trepidating heart. She understood time had distanced them enough and there
was the possibility of another woman...........yet she had perhaps hoped
against hope. And when she got the much awaited answer she knew it was all that
was for her; it would always be that. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet, she was
not unhappy; he was rude, yet she was not unhappy........a heavy burden was
lifted off her heart for ever. What remained was a lifetime of bitter sweet
memories that would surely fill all her voids in life. What remained was the
warmth they once shared........like a flickering fire. What remained was a ray
of hope.........maybe someday, a promise to see each other, a hug that had been
postponed for years. That was their moment. As tears flowed freely down her
cheeks, she could hear their merry laughter ringing in her ears.....hers and
his, years before, over a silly joke. She had let go of all that to embrace a
lifetime of pain and pretense. No he was never the perfect person, yet she knew
she could have had the perfect life with him. But it was all gone, gone forever
to never come back in its original shades. The young love was intoxicating, yet
never acknowledged. She was foolish not to realise it then, only to lament
later. She knew even that she suffered for him was foolish.........yet she
pined for his love, his stupid laughs, his stare, his advice. He promised he
would always be there, a good friend, even more than that. That was
all..........for her.
She had learnt to
live her life in her own self created way. She had learned to live in the face
of adversities, both big and small. She was on a turbulent sea, an immature,
young sailor on a mere raft. Yet she had tried to smile......to carry on. It
was then she had understood her true self and realised her mistake. The full gravity of it shocked her. It was too
late. Until after years....he came back. His mere words opened the gates to a
flood of memories. Oh no, they had never confessed love to each other- their
relation was far from that. Yet she knew she loved him in a way, a different
way; a love from respect, admiration. She longed to be with him, backing out at
the precise moment when they could have met....but they met only to as if
lament of the past, to see how they had changed, aged and hardened. There was
no future for them........ He was even two faced, at time yet she loved him
unconditionally. He kindled her hope and retreated time and again, yet she
never could forget him.
Until she made the
decision of finally confronting him, was she at deep pain. The pain came back
and forth.........sometimes forgotten only to come back with terrible depth. He
gave the final reply, she knew it before..........yet she heard the soothing
voice, the familiar joking voice, and the sharp reprimands. Yet she found her
place back in life, her peace. She knew she had to carry on with
life........but she made the final decision too. That she would
wait.......wherever she was, whatever she does, whatever he does, she would
wait for him even if it took her forever, a lifetime......maybe someday the
laughing gods would just pity her; kindly make her happy..........after all
that’s all men crave for. She took the decision that she wouldn't deceive any
one, not even herself and carry on but she would wait for him and him only as
he was truly the man who visited her in her dreams. It was only there he showed
his raw, visceral desire for her, his fiery love and promised a lifetime of
togetherness. It was only for that dream that her decision to wait lived on.....it
was for those wonderfully, precious dreams that her waiting was worth for. She only had to
be patient.........for her love.......for her untitled life.........for her
unfinished dreams and ........her decision.
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