RAABTA

H e walked into the dark, empty apartment, loosening his tie and looking stressed. The workday was really hard, and the weekend seemed far away. He put the key down and opened his boots. He opened his socks and threw one to his left and the other to his right. Then he remembered,  if you don’t keep your socks with your shoes, how will you find them tomorrow? A smile appeared on his stressed face as he picked up his scattered socks and placed them in his shoes. He walked into the dark bedroom and switched on the dim lights. She had always loved the dim-lit rooms. He had learnt to live without lights now. Sitting at his bedside table was her ever-smiling face. He put his watch beside her picture. “Happy Birthday, Tinni.” He was smiling at her with a cake in hand. Her face lit up at the surprise. “Thank you, Dev, I thought tumi bhule gecho.” ( I thought you forgot) He hugged her, “No matter how busy I am, I will never forget your birthday ever in my life. What gift do you want...

She was helpless. Her marriage was fixed in her father's business circle, and their reputation was at stake. He was just an employee her father could never have agreed to give his daughter to. She heard a week before the wedding that he had resigned on receiving her wedding invite. He was going to another city to try his luck. A city where her memories won't haunt him every day, where every brick in his apartment and every alley in the city won't bring back memories of pain. He had to move on. She had wanted to meet him one last time and tell him how helpless she was, but to him, she was the one who broke things off, who chose the richer husband over her father's employee. Twenty years had passed since then. She was a lady of forty-four now, widowed, single-handedly managing the business of her husband after his sudden death in an accident. Her nearest relative now was her pet dog, Bruno. All she thought of now was work. A pendant hung from her neck. Heart-shaped and t...

She was sitting on the balcony of their lavishly well-organised flat on the 30th Floor of a complex at the heart of the city. She had a book in one hand and hot coffee on the table. The Glass separating her from the fresh air outside was crystal clear. After a hard day of what she does daily, she finally had some me time. As she turned the page, she was startled by the loud noise of thunder. Looking up, she saw the sky dark with monsoon clouds... It started to rain... the Crystal clear glass was now blurred with droplets. She put down her book. Fourteen years ago, it was raining like this that day. She was looking out of the classroom window, hoping it would stop soon. She had left her umbrella at home. She had no mobile phone to call her mom. The final bell rang, and she took shelter under the sheds of the school premises. Looking up, she was checking the dark clouds. No sign of stopping, the rain poured, blurring sight at a distance. The streets and school grounds were waterlogg...

Trams are a delightful sight in the City of Joy, the only ones in India. Slow yet full of heritage and history, from its modern glass roofs to its old wooden seats, the bell for a horn or the dim yellow lights, the trams snake through the city traffic, snarling like a child in a sprightly dance. They are never old, for the child in awe or the old man who sits nostalgic. They are a symbol of the soul of the city and everything it stands for: the heart, the culture, the heritage, and the glimpse of the once colonised yet glorious capital city of palaces, of British India. The story I am about to tell dates perhaps a decade or so back. I was a teenager back then, barely fourteen, and to my imaginative mind, these idle tram rides were my blissful escape from the rush of the everyday rat race. Quite frankly, like most teenagers, I was also clueless about my future, struggling with a bit of Algebra and Trigonometry, and trying in vain to understand the pages of basic Chemistry. Arts...

What happens when the Sun falls in love with the grey clouds? A Rainbow.   She smiled, staring up at the small arc of colours in the grayscale skyline. “What is that?” an eager child on the road was pointing at the sky. Her mother smiled. “God’s paint palette.” She smiled at the sight. Once, a five-year-old, much eager than this one, had asked the same of her mother. Years have passed by. And the rainbow remained an eager mind’s wonder, forever. They have, however, reduced over the years, due to man’s torture of his habitat. She sighed at the fading colour once before getting into a cab. Alone, the cab was silent until it filled with Kishore Kumar’s melodious voice. She smiled to herself; the driver had song choices like hers. The water droplets started pouring on the glass panes shortly after that . She closed her eyes.  The smell of his cologne was as mesmerising as his smile. She had drooled shamelessly at the groom’s best friend at her cousin’s wedding. He had asked her fo...