RAABTA

  Festivals in the Bhattacharji household had always been a grand display of our once-established Zamindari. Now, the tradition continued, and all the relatives, cousins and friends whose forefathers once stayed in the village, came flocking back for each and every one of them. The only people absent from the family gathering were my Dadu’s first wife’s children. We didn’t know much about them except that Thamma was his second wife, he was initially married to her own eldest sister and had four children with her. The children, angered at the sudden decision of Dadu to marry a second time when they were all grown up, stopped contact as soon as he died. From the information I had gathered, I believe Thamma used to stay in this house long before her sister passed away and had been an emotional support to him ever since he was widowed. Yet he had waited for his children to reach a certain age to finally marry her. Somehow that still affected them. Thamma never tried to go out of her way t

Afternoons were the time Thamma met with the contractors and tenants of our various properties and decided on what should be done, especially with those on rent. The Khajanchi Khana would be full of such people. People unable to pay their rent were warned and threatened by the law. Although she appeared tough on the outside, Thamma never forced anyone out of their homes. She said these people had already faced it once. I had sat through such a long session, reminding myself that I needed to start liking what I do if I don’t want to go back to the city of honking cars. After she decided to retire for an afternoon siesta and the men dispersed I stretched myself and looked at the watch on my right hand. Still a good few hours till dusk. I decided to make good use of it. I placed the stacks of fresh papers down on the table and poured ink into the fountain pen. This was something I did on my own time.  Note down my thoughts after reading something. First my examinations, then the dilemma

“Who will write the name on the answer sheet?” The headmaster of Bhalas High School frowned as the girl struggled to tie the sheets into a knot. She grabbed the pen in a hurry and wrote down her roll number, followed by her name. “Snehalata Chattopadhyay.” The headmaster snatched the answer sheet as the last bell rang. She walked out as everyone left and sighed in relief. The examinations were finally over. She would read novels for hours, uninterrupted, after helping with the chores. Shobha, who lived two houses down the road and studied in her class, came up to her and tapped on her shoulder. “Let’s go?” She nodded as they made their way to the cycle parking.  “How was the paper?” Shobha asked, worried about her silence. “I think mine went well.” “All the suggestions Deb Da gave me worked, but it was too lengthy to finish,” Snehalata complained, wiping the sweat off her forehead with the end of her saree. “Only because you knew all the answers.” Shobha reminded her with a faint smile

While all the men my age decided to stay back in the bustling life of the city that was full of opportunities, twenty-odd years after India’s independence, my heart still yearned for home. I hated staying away from Thamma and my siblings, especially since Maa’s untimely demise but I had to leave for college, at least for the weekdays. But as soon as the week was over, I always hopped on to the next available express train and came home. Every time though, I had to bring my siblings sweets. They didn’t ask much but their wishes were like commands to both me and Dada. The four of us had lived all our lives looking after each other. Dada is the eldest. Bibhabati is six years younger than me, owing to my parents losing two children at birth between the two of us and Ananta is the youngest, a decade younger than me. Now with a degree in my hand, another day more at Calcutta seemed too long for me. So I did what I always wanted; to be brave enough to do. I packed my bags overnight, putting m

  I started writing professionally in my early thirties. Being a writer came naturally to me throughout most of my life. Initially, I used to scribble my thoughts into journals, and then I began to type out stories on typewriter-like professionals. But sometimes when in doubt I would always use the traditional pen and paper like I am doing now, before finally drafting it on the typewriter. Let me be honest here, there were very few people around me who knew I could write, or encouraged it. It took a successful bestseller for friends and family to actually acknowledge me as an author. Even my small stint as a journalist had them in doubt. That was a journey to talk of indeed. But narrating a story you have lived through, is admittedly tough. Many times my friends have pestered me for it and my brain, often idly, has pondered over where  I should begin. A writer is often born out of his or her own personal experiences. That would make this story my biography. I never intend to paint a pi

This is a one-shot spin-off outtake from " Rishta Tera Mera " after the chapter " Truth ". This was written back when I was doing part 2 " Barrister Babu " for the story and there is no better day than to post it on the first anniversary of the story. Thank You for all the love you poured in. Also, This is a special tribute to all those named and unnamed people and their families on both sides of the border whose blood, sweat and sacrifice made this day possible. Jai Hind!  My Beloved  Sampoorna, I know I have lost the right to call you what I used to. I also know there is a chance you are reading this because you realised I will never come back. I know you are angry with me for hiding my true self from you. Your anger is justified. I had left without a goodbye, forgotten all the promises I had made to you and to my family. I had let all of you down. I am sure the entire village had made their opinion on a run away like me, perhaps I was cowardly, perhaps