My Dear Ashim,

This letter might come as a surprise to you, especially in today’s age of emails whatsapp and phone calls. But more so, maybe, because it is from me. After like what…23 years? But then I aways think of you and me as a thing of the past, of glory days and happier times, of honest ways and a simpler life. When words inked on paper left their imprint deeper than borrowed quotes on whatsapp.

If you still continuing to read this then let me begin by saying I am fine. No I am not on my deathbed, lamenting my life, romanticising our past and seeking closure at the fag end of my journey. Nothing so dramatic. At least not from me…you always know that…right? As I sat by my window this morning, after sending off my kids to school and the bigger one to office, I looked out and saw a beautiful pink lily had bloomed on one of my balcony garden pots…seeing that somehow brought your memories up. I remembered you and your youthful smile which never failed to charm. I don’t know why I thought of you seeing that beautiful flower in my garden, but then the heart has its own stupid reasons I guess. Anyway, how are you?

Can you believe that I have a college going daughter now? It still feels like the other day when I stepped into college, feeling all lost in a big city like Bombay. Being a small town girl it was my first visit to the big city and the prestigious St Xaviers College at that. Could I have been more wide-eyed!! Perhaps not as much as when I saw you for the first time…sitting in the canteen with your bunch of cheap-cigarette smoking friends. I still remember the yellow checked shirt and your faded blue jeans. You played the guitar so well, though the accent was more on style than substance. You were trying to impress the girls around you, no? I for one was impressed…

I remember all the tricks I had up my sleeves to get your attention all the while making sure my desperation to get to know you didn’t show. I think my hard-to-get, touch-me-not attitude made you look at me differently from all the other floozies who were forever hovering around the rich Mr Sinha’s only son. I was never like them and God how much I hated them. Yamini Kapoor and her posh-but-fake south Bombay accent or the annoying Jaya Sehgal and her condescending attitude to anything or anyone that even remotely seemed “a commy” to her. They were the types to hand around you and make trips to Studio 29 with you. I always wondered why an intelligent guy would want to hang around with their likes. But you did.

I remember coming close to you for the first time during our annual drama festival. I couldn’t believe my luck when I realized you were playing Troilus to my Cressida. But even harder than playing the part of Cressida, was playing the part of the girl who was cool. It was the hardest act for me when you were around me. What a hit our play turned out to be eventually despite you messing up crucial lines in the climax. Do you remember losing your cool at the fumbling prompter, Nakul? How he kept messing up giving you the right cues at the right time? I had a tough time controlling my laughter on stage. But we rocked it eventually, didn’t we !!!

I remember the first time you called me. My landlady Mrs Gomes wasn’t very happy allowing us PG girls (as she used to call us) getting phone calls from strange boys at odd hours on her telephone. Although the instrument was placed on the common hallway and we were made to pay for every call we made, she insisted it was her phone and those phone calls weren’t always welcome. I remembered how I was controlling my rapidly beating heart hearing your voice on the other end, trying to sound calm and composed as I replied to you, all the while turning around and checking whether Mrs Gomes was eavesdropping or not. Those were such beautiful days Ashim. Feel like yesterday.

I remember dragging you to Kyanis for our first date. You were convinced I was a commie weren’t you? Although you never admitted it, that was how you felt about me right? You could never see yourself, son of a privileged father from high society mingling with a distinctly left-minded oddball who came from “some Godforsaken small town”. If you can be honest today, you will admit that’s how you felt at that time…didn’t you?

But then you fell in love with the mawa cake and the chicken patties and watermelon juice at Kyanis. And me…It took you longer to realize it perhaps, but I knew earlier. Girls always do…wink wink

Do you remember our first kiss? It was in the dark of the Metro cinema, where we went more to make out than see the Hungarian film, you claimed you were “dying to see”…be honest now Ashim…you hardly saw the film or let me see it for that matter. Till date the thrill of that first kiss is something I remember like real. And no one has bettered that moment. Doubt anyone ever will. I miss you…

But what about our fights and arguments Ashim? It’s amazing how despite our attraction and love (or whatever it was) we had such different views on almost everything in life. Tell me Ashim, do you still believe in the virtues of capitalism today, the way you used to back in those days? I remember our heated discussions when you dissed Howard Roarke for the more “realistic” Peter Keating. I couldn’t believe you said that then. I always felt I would ask you the same question years later. Do you still that way Ashim?

Is this letter getting too long for you to read? You always had the attention span of a humming bird you dodo. Its lunchtime I’ve just finished sending off packed lunch for my husband at work and the kids at school. I am munching on a chicken sandwich and washing it down with an espresso as I continue writing. I almost feel as if I am sitting in front of you and talking…like we used to, sitting opposite each other at Kyanis, munching those cheese sandwiches. I could die for one of those sandwiches right now

Eventually I think things had to end, isn’t it? We were always the “burning out” type rather than the “fade-aways”, weren’t we? We were too different from each other to last together, too independent to curb each other and way too head strong to make peace with each other. Neither of us could put on a fake mask of compromise and carry on for the sake of this elusive thing called love. What is love? I still don’t know till date Ashim? Do you? Is it what I feel for Sanjay? If that is love then what is it that I felt for you? Because those two are worlds apart.

I hear from some of our old friends that you and Maansi are happily settled. Brief snippets about your son Arjun also come to me from Yamini (ok I confess I am friends with her now) whose son is in the same class as him. Sometimes I feel like picking up the phone and hearing your voice. Maybe I will feel the same kind of excitement I did at Mrs Gomes’ hallway. And then I ask myself, do I still want to feel those things? Do I want to feel anything at all?

Anyway, enough of my ramblings…if you haven’t fallen asleep as yet, do send me a note…I want a writing…and NOT a whatsapp message of phone call….do you understand dodo? A HAND WRITTEN NOTE.

Stay well Ashim, keep that smile and breathe…

Just remembered these lines by Emily Dickinson

I measure every grief I meet

With narrow probing eyes

I wonder if it weighs like mine

Or has an Easier size

Love,

Radhika.

The letter lay on a polished mahagony table, alongside a few bills and flyers, on the 21st floor apartment of a swanky highrise in South Bombay. Thankfully, some people still receive and read paper bills, so the chances of the letter going unnoticed and unread are slim…

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

MY TOP 5 BOLLYWOOD BOOKS (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)
1.       DON’T DISTURB THE DEAD – THE STORY OF THE RAMSAY BROTHERS (AUTHOR: SHAMYA DASGUPTA)

2.       FUNKY BOLLWOOD – THE WILD WORLD OF 1970S INDIAN ACTION CINEMA  (AUTHOR: TODD STADTMAN)

3.       PARVEEN BABI – A LIFE (AUTHOR: KARISHMA UPADHYAY)

4.       RD BURMAN – THE MAN, THE MUSIC (AUTHORS: ANIRUDHA BHATTACHARYA, BALAJI VITTAL)

5.       40 RETAKES – BOLLYWOOD CLASSICS YOU MAY HAVE MISSED (AUTHOR: AVIJIT GHOSH) 

Popular Hindi cinema or Bollywood as it is now commonly known as, has seen a splurge of books in the recent years. After having been starved for good books on hindi cinema, fans are now spoilt for choice, as almost every month or two there are new books out on the shelves, waiting to be picked up. Publication houses have successfully managed to tap an area that was waiting to be discovered. The huge interest in Bollywood in India (and amongst the NRI crowd too) has finally been acknowledged and is now being milked to the hilt. It is but natural that this demand has led to huge quantities of Bollywood related literature and trivia, anecdotes and reminisces, interviews and reviews flooding the market. Not all of it is worthwhile to be honest Actually a large number of these books are quite low both on quality as well as information (Wikipedia and hearsay seem to be the most common sources).However there are a few books that stand out from this deluge of Bolly-books, that deserve special attention and mention. They need to be cherished and appreciated. Here are my top 5 books from the hundreds I have read so far. These are not in any particular order, but are indeed my personal top five books on hindi cinema…at least as of now…until something even better comes along:

DON’T DISTURB THE DEAD – A STORY OF THE RAMSAY BROTHERS (SHAMYA DASGUPTA)
Eve since I read about the arrival of this book, in an article in India Today magazine, I was waiting with unbridled joy and nervous anticipation. Rarely had I been so keen to get a hold of a book, as I was with this one. After all The Ramsay Brothers were amongst my favourite Bollywood people and I always felt they had been treated shabbily by critics and film lovers alike. They had created a very specific niche for themselves in hindi cinema, and I for one thought it was high time that it was recognized. Shamya Dasgupta’s book did just that…and more !!!
Right from the fascinating cover (what more iconic than the gruesome Saamri from Purana Mandir, the Ramsay’s biggest commercial success) Dasgupta gets it all right. He charts the beginnings of the famous brothers, starting with the father. The story of the fabulous brothers is told simply but with the necessary and relevant details. Interesting anecdotes, personal recalls from the brothers, and some fine analysis of their work, makes this book enjoyable and riveting at every point.
There is an underlying honesty throughout the book. Not even once does Dasgupta try to elevate the brothers as great filmmakers or anything even close to that. And there is a disarming honesty by the men themselves, as they speak about their work. And what eventually comes across is their love and passion for cinema and the firm belief in their kind of cinema. And that is infectious. Once I finished the book (in 2 straight nights) I picked up all the available dvds and immersed myself to indeed “disturb the dead”…what a fascinating journey that turned out to be. Thank you Ramsay Brothers. Thank you Shamya Dasgupta.

FUNKY BOLLYWOOD – THE WILD WORLD OF 1970S INDIAN ACTION CINEMA  (TODD STADTMAN)
If there ever was a true labour of love then this is got to be it. It was serendipitous to stumble across this book on a rare search in Amazon. It was exactly the kind of book I was looking for and for it to fall right on to my lap was more than a blessing. Todd Stadtman takes us through the heady 1970s Bollywood, discussing, analyzing and introducing to us some absolute gems. If anyone was waiting for Bollywood to step out of its (tired and clichéd) stereotypes, Stadtman surely must have been listening. He picks and chooses some absolute gems and the way he goes about them, only goes to bring out his true love and passion for Indian cinema. Talking about the likes of KSR Doss, Brij and Manmohan Desai, Todd Stadtman reveals to us what a lot of Indian fans did not know or truly appreciate till then. He calls Dharmendra, the action hero, “genetically bred” for this kind of cinema…and one knows one has a classic in their hands. The book is studded with some lovely pictures and amazingly apt (and funny) descriptions. The list of films chosen is superb and yes this is a book which even talks of bit players like Shetty, Mac Mohan et all…bit players yes….but oh so crucial for the history of that period of hindi cinema.
Putting it simply….THIS BOOK IS A GEM !!!

PARVEEN BABI – A LIFE (KARISHMA UPDHYAY)
This is another book I was very keen to pick up. Simply because so little has been known to most of us about this enigmatic actress who lived a troubled life and died a lonely death. I started reading this book with a fair amount of circumspect, because I had never heard of the author before or her connection with the late Ms Babi. But by the end of the night (I started reading it one evening) I had finished more than half of the book. It was simply unputdownable. The journey of a simple, sprightly girl from Junagadh to the topsy-turvy world of hindi cinema, searching for her own self in the Bombay of the 1970s is a fascinating one, lined with tragedy and sorrow. Parveen Babi’s is the classic sad case of a life wasted simply because no cared enough to get her treated. She practically died untreated of an ailment she was seriously suffering from.
Had this been a work of fiction, it would have been a definitive depiction of urban alienation and human disconnect. But unfortunately, this was real life and hence an unbearable tragedy. Moving, telling, pathetic at times, but always riveting. One of the best written books on hindi cinema I have ever read.

RD BURMAN – THE MAN, THE MUSIC (ANIRUDH BHATTACHARYA AND BALAJI VITTAL)
Two things make it difficult for me to talk about this book objectively. The subject matter and the author. The former being perhaps my single most favourite personality connected to hindi film music and the latter being a very good personal friend. But then what is life without such wonderful challenges?
Even if it is coming from me, make no mistake, this IS a magnificent book. Never before has RD Burman been so well humanized. A far cry from the mythical memoirs we have been subject to (not just on Rd but most film celebrities), RD Burman The Man The Music is an in-depth analysis of the music of the man and the man behind the music. Written with an abundance of knowledge, a whole lot of empathy and tremendous passion, this book is not merely a book on Pancham, but a book on music of that period of hindi cinema, with RD at its helm. In an age where were used to (and almost expect) people talking about topics they’re not qualified to talk about, the authors come across as pleasant exceptions, with their knowledge and passion on everything they speak about here. Myths are broken with solid facts and musical analysis is qualitative and not just hollow hyperboles. It was most obvious thing to listen to RD Burman whilst reading this book, but what it did gloriously was, that it made us appreciate more, the work of the maestro. Every song I heard after reading this book, I appreciated more. I understood more. I loved more (if that was ever possible)

40 RETAKES – BOLLYWOOD CLASSICS YOU MAY HAVE MISSED (AVIJIT GHOSH)
Now this is a true hidden gem. Not much was known about this book, at least I had never heard of it before or read any review about it, when I happened to see it amongst a plethora of Bollywood books during an Amazon search with the keyword Bollywood. I still don’t remember what made me pick this book up at the time I did, but whatever be the reason then, I am now convinced this was a happy accident.
From the time I picked this book up I knew I had a winner in my hands. For an avid fan like me, it was always difficult to find 40 films which I had not seen before or heard about. And moreover lists are always a dicey area to tread upon, given their inevitable subjectivity. Despite that, I was hooked. For starters, it did have movies I had not cared about much (some, I confess, I hadn’t even heard about). But once I went through this book, it made me hunt for these films and watch them and more often than not, I was not disappointed. Even some film from the list which I had heard of (and even seen before), I revisited with a fresher and different outlook. There is nothing more appealing and joyous for a movie lover to be exposed to new cinema not seen by him/her before. This book did just that for me. Exposed me to a bunch of films I had missed out or ignored (inexplicably) before. Thank you Avijit Ghosh for doing that.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

She felt a tinge of sadness as she disconnected her mobile phone. She went about her work in the bookstore without showing too much of how she was really feeling. On the bus ride back home in the evening, she leaned on the glass pane of the window seat and it came back to her again. Somehow throughout the whole day she had managed to keep her feelings at bay because of her work. Now, alone, on her way back home, it all kept coming back to her.

She was really looking forward to their visit. She had planned a lovely time with them when they came over and had also got her leave sanctioned for a week. And then this morning her sister told her about their plans for a trip abroad during the holidays. She missed having a family and her sister and her family was the only one she had. More than her sister and her husband she missed the kids. Whenever they came over, she would spend hours with them. Taking them to her book shop and letting them play there, taking them out for ice creams and pastries, movies and picnics. She felt alive when she was with them.

The phone call had suddenly downed her mood.

She took a half-eaten sandwich from the fridge and had it along with her espresso, absent-mindedly sitting on the empty dining table. After her frugal dinner, she sat with her John Donne for a while before settling in her quilt. Her eyes remained open for a long time that night after the lights were shut off.

She woke up at her usual time the next morning and went for her jog. As always, Carole King played on her earphones as she went past the usual faces in the park, before settling down on her bench. She sipped on her fresh-lime water from her sipper, when suddenly she saw him. At first she could not place him, but on closer look she realized, it was him… after so many years. She was seeing him after over two decades.

Memories flashed across, from the time she saw him. She remembered some of her happier days in life, her college days and those carefree days of freedom. There was so much to look forward to in life back in those days, she smiled throughout the day, even when she was at work. She wished she had gone up to him and spoken, but then again that was just not her. She hesitated, wondering if he would even remember her or not. Despite fact that they were close once upon a time, she wasn’t sure whether he still thought of her or not. But she felt an unknown surge of happiness that whole day.

She kept thinking of him that night, as she devoured her Chinese take away and even whilst reading her customary Donne at night, she found her mind wandering off to his thoughts. She wondered if it had been a one-off or whether she would see him again the next day.

 She had rarely jogged with as much enthusiasm and hope as she did the next morning. She looked at each and every face that crossed her in the park just to spot him. But he wasn’t there amongst the people who crossed her while she was jogging. But as she went and sat on her bench she found him sitting on the bench close by. Exactly on the same spot where she had seen him yesterday. She felt a sense of relief mixed with happiness as she stared at him. He had aged but gracefully so. His wavy hair had thinned considerably, his sideburns had generous grey in them, giving him that distinguished look. His light blue eyes still seemed as deep and penetrative as they seemed to her in their younger days. He was as lanky as he was before, although she suspected he had developed a slight paunch with age. She found that cute. She felt embarrassed as she realized she smiling to herself as she shamelessly stared at him.

The next few days seemed to follow one another exactly in the same routine. Every morning she saw him and felt happy enough to have a smile plastered on her face the whole day, but never confident enough to step up to him and meet him like the old friend he was. Somehow she felt happy in this little set-up fate had created for her. Just seeing him every morning, felt good enough for her. She found herself humming on the bus, most evenings. She slept better too.

It was a Sunday that morning, and she usually didn’t go for a jog on that day. But for whatever reasons on that particular day, she went. To her disappointment, she didn’t see him there. She felt sad at not seeing him there but then rationalized to herself that maybe like her, he too came to the park only on weekdays. And hopefully she would see him the next day. But then on Monday she didn’t see him. She waited a little longer than usual on her bench, just in case he was late, but there was no sign of him. A young couple came and sat on bench after a while, much to her irritation. She wished they would go away leaving the bench vacant for him to come and sit. But they sat there holding hands and cuddling up, much to her annoyance.

She did not see him the next couple of days.

Her mood which had been significantly lifted for over a week now, felt crushed all over again. She seemed unmindful at work and the whole day felt like a drag. She kept wondering what could have happened to him. Maybe he was in town for a little while and had gone back to where he came from, she wondered to herself sadly. She regretted at not going up to him and speaking. She would have felt bad had he not recognised her, but surely not as bad as she was feeling now. Despite not going up to him and talking, she felt a lot less lonely ever since had spotted him on that park bench, regularly seeing him since then. Her loneliness engulfed all over again now. Days were a drag and the evenings felt more miserable, as she ate her dinner and read for a bit before having long sleepless hours at night.

She went to the park the next day and jogged like always. The faces were a blur to her again like before. The bench next to hers was vacant as it used to be, before thjose few days when she felt sunshine and happiness. She sipped on her lime water and was about to get up when her mobile phone buzzed. She picked it up to read a short message, from an unknown number:

It took me a while to get hold of your number. Wonder if you remember me after all these years. If you do, turn around and look…

She kept staring at her handset, as her hands trembled ever so slightly. She kept looking at the message, transfixed. She did not know whether she should turn around or not. After what seemed like ages, she turned around…

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

Sandra’s lips trembled as his finger encircled them softly. Every touch ignited her. Her eyes shut as Keith pressed her lips open with his finger. She suppressed a moan as she knew they were in the next room.

Their respective spouses were busy enjoying dinner. The salad is to die for, his wife, Jane said, to Mark, her husband, as she passed on the bowl to him. You might like to add a bit more of the dressing though she smiled as she passed it to him.

Keith had met Mark in the club. They were squash partners and soon bonded over other common interests. He had seen Sandra for the first time when they were invited to their house for a meal. Both of them felt an instant connection.

They were both inherently happy and settled in their marriages. He was married to Jane for nearly 9 years now and Sandra and Mark were high school sweethearts married for over a decade. And just like any affair there was no apparent cause other than an inexplicable yet undeniable attraction. They did try to resist it initially but couldn’t for long. It seemed inevitable.

Their secret meetings started with seeming harmless coffee outings. They both couldn’t have enough of each other’s company. He found her magnetically attractive. Her dusky complexion, long silky hair and those deep searching eyes which he always felt were piercing into him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She found his charm irresistible. And whenever their hands touched accidentally she felt a surge of desire running inside of her. She knew she couldn’t hold on to her control for too long. The coffee meetings were harmless at the start. But neither of them mentioned them to their spouses. Hiding it was what made it wrong. And strangely enough,exciting.

A harmless domestic disagreement acted as a catalyst for them to take their meetings to the next level. Sandra was upset with Mark over a trivial matter and called him, wanting to meet. Keith suggested the same place where they usually met but she asked him to come home. He did. She hugged him on opening the door. She felt a delicious mix of relief and desire and she hugged his body tightly he head resting on his strong shoulders. He felt so tough and reassuring. His hands went around her body as they hugged, his head resting on her back as he lost himself in her hair, loving the way she smelt. He kicked the door close with his foot as they made it to her bedroom and made passionate love.

It was 3 months ago and now it seemed like settling down. They both realised the danger of it all. The early stages of an affair was fun primarily because of its newness and excitement. The process of discovering each other was an unknown pleasure that had engulfed both of them. But as time went on, the familiarly of it all became more settled. And dangerous. They knew they had to end it before it brought up scary situations.

Situations like today. She and Mark had come over to his place for a meal and he had on a pretext brought her to the kitchen where he could not keep his hands off her. The thought that both their spouses were in the room next door not only did not deter them, but in a perversely strange way excited them further. She managed to push his finger away from her lips, adjusted her hair and dress, controlled her breathing as she went out of the kitchen back to the dining table. I think he can’t find the right spice she looked at Jane and announced with a slight smile.

Jane got up and headed towards the kitchen to see him hunt for something inside the top drawer. Not there darling but here, she smiled as she pulled out a tiny box of saffron from the cupboard and handed it to him. This is what you want right? By the way the food is excellent today. You’re such an amazing cook honey, she cozied up to him and gave him a soft smooch, away from their guests. More later tonight, she winked at him, as she went out to join their guests.

That night when Keith made love to his wife he imagined Sandra.

You know darling I always imagine you when I’m with him. That’s what helps me go through it, Jane said, as she snuggled inside Mark’s chest. The two of them are so busy discovering each other in their new affair they’re more concerned keeping it hidden from us than to doubt us, Mark smiled as he hugged Jane tighter and closer. The two lovers lay content in their hotel bed. Their 4 year old affair was way deeper and secure than their respective partners’. Mark dimmed the room lights as he turned over to kiss Jane once more.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

He walked along the deserted sideways with the moonlight kissing his back softly. He loved his post-dinner walks by himself. His wife knew this habit of his and gladly let him go every night for his stroll. She knew the drill all too well. He would go out for a walk, be back in about 15 minutes and do the dishes. It was his strict instruction to her not to do them. And over the years she knew better than to not listen to him on this one thing. He was very touchy about the dishes himself. His usual mild-mannered self took a backseat if she ever did the dishes herself, just so to save him the trouble.

He felt a slight nip in the air as he walked along, his hands inside his jeans pocket. He wished he had put his jacket over his t-shirt. The breeze felt colder than usual. Winter’s coming, he thought to himself, as he hummed an old Sam Cooke tune.

The neon lights of the cafe close to his house still shone on. It was one of those late night places that remained open for a long time. He hardly saw anyone eating-in at that hour but it stayed open nonetheless. Another night of sluggish business he thought to himself, as he waved a hello to the owner from outside the stained windows of the cafe. He walked on towards the riverside of his small town. As he reached the pier, he stood still, gazing aimlessly at the river, which rippled softly making the blue moonlight reflection on it gently dance with the breeze. He felt a surge of bliss fill him inside as he stared into the waters. He had lived in the town since his birth and could never ever think of leaving it. He had grown up here, knew everyone and everyone in turn knew him. He was the amiable owner of the best second-hand bookshop in town. They knew him to be kind warm and funny. And one who could always recommend a good book to anyone.

He found his regular bench by the river and sat down. He put up his leg on his other leg making himself comfortable. For some reason he wanted to stay on a bit longer than usual that night. He leaned back on the bench and shut his eyes, feeling the cool breeze kiss his cheeks. His salt and pepper hair swayed with the wind that was blowing. The air felt sweeter that night.

After a long time he remembered her that night.

She loved him. And his poetry. A chance meeting at a London library had led to their diaries getting exchanged and she had read his poems. Poems that were so close to him that no one else had ever seen or even heard of them. They were an intimate part of his soul which he kept dearly to himself. And here was she, reading them, devouring them and taking them all inside her. By the time he had realised his diary had been mixed up he felt shattered at first and then consled himself that it probably was with a stranger who would never know who the author was. His anonymity would remain intact. So he was surprised beyond belief when he opened his hostel door to her knock that July afternoon. Somehow she had managed to track him down.

She was the most beautiful girl he had seen. Her eyes danced when they met his. Her brown wavy hair cascaded her lovely oval face and her smile seemed to light up the entire space around her. She was stunning. I think this is yours…she said as her outstretched handed him back his most precious possession. He awkwardly invited her in his small room. Lets sit out for coffee instead, she suggested.

As two strangers sat in a little coffee shop in East London that afternoon, there was magic in the air. Conversation flowed  as smoothly as time seemed to move on. They didn’t realise when the day was done and evening was nearly running out of time, but they felt as if they’d just started. They kept meeting each other the next few days, at the same coffee place and it seemed like the first time each day. He couldn’t remember what they spoke but they just went on and on. It was just one of those connections, he would read about in books. But this time it felt real.

They kissed for the first time, at the Embankment by the Thames. It felt like magic.

The transition from magic to reality was as difficult as he had imagined it would be. She wanted to stay in London with him. She could pursue her career and he could write his poetry and get them published. She had a lot of connections with publishers who she could tap. She seemed more excited than him at the prospect. Something unnerved him about her surety. He could never plan anything the way she could. Her clarity of thought amazed and scared him almost at the same time. Her spontaneity was in direct contrast to his hesitancy. And there seemed to be no half-ways. Especially where she was concerned. Sometimes things are just too good to last. He never understood the connection with goodness and longevity but it seemed an obvious one, especially with relationships. The better they felt, the more prone they seemed to veer towards failure.

He left London heartbroken.

He knew he could never his small town for good. He did odd jobs in his town for a while before a while before he decided to open the second hand bookshop. He settled down in his business and got married to a sweet girl who too was from the same town. Life seemed peaceful  again.

As he sat by the river reminiscing, he felt a tiny surprise. In all these years he had rarely thought of her. And suddenly all those memories came back to him that night. He didn’t know how and why, but old memories had this habit of popping up unannounced, unprovoked, mostly without any warnings.  His silent thoughts were broken by the beep on his mobile.

Arent you coming home for desserts?

He looked at the blue light from the mobile phone that night and smiled as he got up from the bench to walk back towards home.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

She sat at the corner table. Waiting for him. She absentmindedly twirled her stirrer around her coffee mug. She had ordered it a while ago and still hadn’t taken her first sip. Her eyes were fixed at the door of the cafe. She once looked at the burly man sitting behind the cash counter at the cafe. The owner looked at her questioningly and she shrugged her shoulders. 

And then he walked in. 

He was strikingly handsome. A bit over 6 feet with black wavy hair and steely brown eyes which could pierce through one’s soul     The blue denim shirt fitted him well as did his skin tight jeans. The grey sideburns were the only giveaway to his middle-age years. His face was still disarmingly boyish. 

He sat across her table in the cafe and ordered himself an espresso. His head was bent down on his phone and he seemed to be furiously scrolling something on it. He didn’t even notice when the coffee was kept by his side. She kept staring at him. Her coffee lay untouched. 

A message beeped on her phone that broke the spell. She sat up and took her phone out of her handbag. She read the message and typed a short “yes I remember” to the sender. And then she got up from her table. She decided to make a bold move as she walked towards his table. 

Excuse me, may I, she asked, and without waiting for his answer, sat down next to him. She loved the look on his face. A mixture of confusion, surprise and shock were well painted on his chiseled face. 

You know..I’m…I’m waiting for someone…so it’d be better if you…his voice trailed off, as he stared into her face. God she as beautiful. Her dove eyes sparkled in anticipation, and her silky brown hair fell beautifully across her dusky attractive face. He was mesmerised by her. 

Oh are you waiting for a friend or maybe someone special, there was mischief in her tone that matched the sparkle in her eyes as she asked him. He shuffled uncomfortably on his seat not knowing how to to react. Well she’s a friend but a special one all the same, he meekly replied, after what seemed liked ages. She loved the effect she realised she was having on him. 

They sat together for what seemed an eternity before she broke the silence. What time is she expected, she asked, just as a polite conversation starrer. Well she was very specific about the time. 6.30pm 24th September. And so here I am. It’s nearly 7 now and she’s still not here, his voice was a mix of disappointment and concern. She’s never usually late you know, he looked at her as he spoke. 

Did you say 24th? Well for starters it’s 23rd today she smiled at him, amazed at his unmindfulness. You’re a tad too early I’d say, she found it hard to suppress her laughter. Those almond eyes sparkled even more this time. 

He looked at her stunned. Surely she was wrong. It can’t…it is…and then his eyes fell on the calendar on the cafe wall. It clearly said 23rd September. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing! 

He got up from his chair instantaneously. I’ve been…I’ve been…such a fool. He quietly muttered to himself although she could clearly hear him. She was still sitting on her seat as she placed her hand on his. He looked at her again. He was confused with the signals she was sending him. He didn’t know how to react. 

Let’s go to my place for a drink, she offered. Just like him, she too was surprised at her boldness. He looked at her disbelievingly as she gently tugged at his arm pulling him towards the door. She looked at the cafe owner and winked knowingly as he smiled back at her, shaking his head in mock disbelief. He slowly went towards the calendar on the wall and changed the date. It WAS the 24th of September. 

As the two lay in bed, she looked at his sleeping form and ran her slender fingers on his forehead adjusting his hair. He was sleeping peacefully like a baby. She remembered as they were making love he kept taking his “special friend’s” name. There were tears in his eyes, which made her swell up too. She gently rested her head on his sleeping shoulders and dozed off herself. 

He didn’t know how to face her the next morning as he walked groggily out of the bedroom. She was standing at the balcony with a mug of coffee in her hand. She turned around to face him and smiled. He mumbled a meek good morning and before he could offer any explanation for the previous night, she cut him short. Last night was beautiful, but I know you got to go back to your friend. Don’t worry I won’t cause any problem. You’re free to go after lunch. Today’s the day you meet her, right? He was surprised at her cool demeanour. 

She dialled the same number from her mobile, the one with the message from the previous evening. It was the cafe owner on the other side of the phone. He might be headed to your cafe again today if his dementia sets in again. Looking for me. You know what to do, she sighed as she hung her phone up. 

Paul’s dementia had set in ever since he had his accident seven years ago. It was the day before their engagement. The 24th of September. He was to pick her up from the Mocha Memories cafe and head home for the ceremony, when he had his crash. He survived the crash physically although his mind never recovered fully. Every now and then he’d revisit the cafe waiting for her to arrive, so that they could go and get engaged. 

Rita adjusted the frame on the wall. It was a picture of the two of them in happier times. She looked at the picture for few moments and wiped her eyes as she turned away to head for the cafe again. 

She had to get him back home. Again

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

The white page stared back at him. Replying to his silence with the same. A loud deafening silence. As he stared into the blank page intently it reflected his current state of mind. The emptiness he felt inside of him seemed to engulf him on the outside too. It was a rainy September evening, as he stared out his studio apartment, seeing washed up cars move along the drenched streets.

It had been over a month since he had stepped out of his place. And a couple of months more since he had last written something worthwhile. From time to time he’d get the urge to pen his thoughts down, but the moment he’d sit down to write, the ink from his pen, like the words from his head, refused to flow. Each and every time he drew a blank. And couple more sheets found their way into the bin by his writing table.

He read more in these last few months than he had in a long time that he could remember. From Kerouac to Hughes, Yeats to Larkin, he devoured them with a hunger he didn’t know he still had inside of him. Every time he picked up a book he thought he’d be stirred up to write something. But the end result was still the same. Different blank pages of his exercise book stared back at him with monotonous regularity.

He got up from his chair and walked towards the window, pressing his face on the glass pane staring aimlessly into the rain. He remembered a time when he loved them. He romanticised the rains like most people. He felt a sense of love and longing each time it rained. Now it seemed like a drag to him. He decided to step out for his cigarettes, bread and jam. Damn the rain he said to himself, still pressed against the weeping window pane. He wanted to go but something didn’t let him move.

He laughed out loud as she pressed his head against the wall. He could have used his strength to overpower her and push her against the wall but he loved being bullied by her. Each time he heard that laugh of hers, his heart skipped a beat. He felt joyous and ecstatic all over. He didn’t know whether the adrenalin rush he felt at such times was love or not but he loved whatever that feeling was.

He suddenly felt light again as he moved his face away from the pane. Sometimes her thoughts felt so real to him it was almost as if she was there. He looked around the sparse room. His pile of books lay on one corner right next to his vinyl player. A few jazz records were strewn around making the place look more untidy than it ought to have, given the minimal things there were. Almost like a robot he headed towards his pile of books and picked up Emma by Jane Austen. It was the only Austen book he possessed. Gifted to him by her. He leafed through the book and found a tattered note along with a stained and discoloured photograph of two young people in love. He stared at the part of the picture where they held hands. Clasped tight, that picture spoke so much more than he could feel. He stared blankly at the picture before turning it over to read the washed up ink that almost obliterated the writing. Keep yourself thoughts happy, he read aloud. He shut the book almost instantly.

He didn’t know how long he sat in his writing table that night. The cigarette pack remained unopened, the jam jar untouched, the bread likewise. As he felt the morning rays of the sun kiss his face through the still wet panes, he realised he had filled up quite a few pages of his exercise book. After ages. He didn’t even remember what he had written. But he felt lighter that morning. His wrists hurt, perhaps with the constant writing. He kept his pen on the side of the table and shut his exercise book.

An old Hoagy Carmichael tune waifed through the room as he moved his tired wrists to spread raspberry jam on his white bread that September morning. He felt hungry after a long time. Strangely he also felt an equal measure of satisfaction.

The pages in his exercise book were blank no more.

The divorce hit him hard. He tried his best to avoid it but he couldn’t do a thing. She was hell bent on leaving him. He tried to cling on till the last minute hoping for a change of heart. But is just didn’t happen. She finally had it her way. She wanted out and she was out. He was shattered.

This was his second divorce but this one jolted him more than the first time. That was something he wanted. And he managed to get it without much fuss. His first wife was upset but it didn’t matter much to him. He felt happy to be off that marriage. This one was different. He thought he’d finally found true love and letting her go was too painful for him.

As he drove from the courts to his apartment his mind was filled with thoughts about them. Memories of happy moments flashed across him and he kept reliving them in a hopeless attempt to think of a recovery. Could he ever get her back in his life, he wondered. He kept speeding as he raced towards his house.

He entered his empty apartment which no longer felt like home to him. She made it home and now in her absence it felt odd. Almost everything in the flat reminded him of her. He dropped his car keys in the bowl and headed straight for the bar. Which they both had designed and filled up. With their choice of spirits. So many moments of red wine and whiskey, music and musings, passionate love making, all came back to him. He pulled out a bottle of single malt, which they had bought together from a local brewery in Pitlochry, Scotland. It was her anniversary present to him, only last year. So much had changed in just one year, he thought to himself as he took a swig straight from the bottle. He flopped himself down on the couch, bottle in hand, as he stared vacantly in no particular direction. His life seemed just as aimless to him at the moment.

He didn’t know how long he was on the couch. But he woke up almost after a whole day. Or so it seemed to him. His head was dizzy and his eyes felt unfocused. He faintly heard the doorbell ring as he groggily lifted himself off the couch and headed towards the door.

He opened the door to see her standing. With a bright smile on her face.

It was Isabelle. His first wife.

Hi honey, she smiled. I knew how heartbroken you might be and thought or checking on you. She was carrying a brown paper bag and a bunch of pink lilies.

I knew you’d probably not eat well and hence got some groceries for you, her smile was intact as she handed the big bag to him.

I’ve been through this myself so I know well. How it feels to be rejected by the person you love the most. And have no way of getting him back in your life. I know the pain, she spoke nonchalantly, looking directly in his eyes all the while.

He was too stunned to react.

How can you, how is it…he could barely complete his sentence before he felt like he was slipping in to a deep sleep. He could almost feel himself collapsing against the open door. Her smiling face was the last thing he remembered seeing before his eyes shut.

He woke up at his own door after an eternity by the vibrations of his cell phone in his pocket.

Isabella passed away last night, alone in her council house room in Brighton. It was a message from his sister. She had kept in touch with her till her last days.

He was still lying by his door, his cell phone in his hand. From the corner of his eyes he could see a bunch of dried up pink lilies.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

He sat crouched one the narrow wooden panel by the bay windows and watched the rain incessantly lash down on the city. The city traffic packed as ever seemed to crawl as cars buses and bikes were being drenched by the lashing August rain. He felt a strange comfort knowing he wasn’t down there, as he snuggled the warm cup of green tea in his hands.

Nellie McKay was playing in the background but her soft voice was drowned by the din coming from the open kitchen nearby. The sound of the chopping board punctuated her mellifluous singing. “It was just one those things” McKay sang. And there she was, her black hair tied in a top knot as she made steamed momos. He looked at her once, turning away from the bay window. She was earnestly alternating between stir frying the chicken on the pan and chopping the veggies. He smiled softly as he saw her beautiful face.

“What is this new nonsense of turning veg” she enquired, a tad irritated. She would’ve ideally loved to make just chicken steamed momos without having to make a veg option for him. He smiled back sheepishly.

This meeting was an unexpected one. He had come to the city for some official work and had planned to get back the same evening. His work was done a couple of hours earlier than he thought it would. He decided to surprise her with a visit.

“You’re lucky I’m home you know. Come in unannounced and usually you’d not find me home. Harsh is out of town and I have the car to myself. It’s just that the rains were too heavy today”. She always knew how to hide her joy at seeing him quite well.

“Yeah right. I know how much you love leaving your four walls”, he smiled to himself as he took off his jacket at the corridor.

She was about to make momos for herself with the leftover chicken and was happy she had company. His announcement that he’d given up meat surprised her, although she was used to his sudden whims by now. “Your latest fad eh”, she mildly rebuked him as she ruffled his wet hair. “Go dry yourself and let me make momos for you in the meantime.”

As he kept staring at the traffic and the city from the 15th floor apartment, he remembered a time when the city was his own too. The memories came back flooding as he sipped on his hot tea. Their high school years and then their sophomore years. Years of joy fun and laughter. Years of love.

Nellie McKay was now singing “How About You”, as he found himself dozing off by the window porch. He could still hear her voice in the background, chattering away over Ms McKay’s soothing vocals. He loved the fact that sometimes she didn’t even wait for his reply. She just loved talking. It was a sign that she was happy. She tended to clamp up at other times.

“Wake up and have the second best steamed momos and watch me devour the best of them”, she gently shook him from his slumber.

He woke up and looked at the two plates with the piping hot food staring at him from the adjoining dining table. The first bite of his momo took him straight back to the good old days of college. When they’d bunk their lectures and sneak in to see a movie midday, hiding their piping hot steamed momos from the ushers. The thrill of sharing a hot snack with her in the darkness of the movie hall came back to him as he devoured his momos.The spicy red sauce that accompanied it was also doing its job…watering his eyes, making them burn in pleasure. She looked at him in eager anticipation to know how they had turned out. He kept munching away, oblivious to her presence. He was way too lost in the past.

She kept staring at him for some more time, still hoping she’d get a reaction from him. But he was too lost to notice. She smiled softly seeing him enjoy his lunch. She knew she’d got her answer. She got up from her chair and went across to sit next to him. He was still devouring away his momos with gusto. She put her head on his shoulder as she put her arms around his arm. He looked up and turned to see her. This is…this is…awesome you know, he finally said his mouth still filled with food. She didn’t say anything in reply. She shut her eyes and kept her head on his shoulders. Her afternoon was perfect.

As he finished his lunch he looked up at her. She was still sitting next to him. Her chicken steamed momos untouched, sat on the beautiful china on the table.

“You better finish your lunch.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

They sat next to each other for the whole afternoon talking, reminiscing and laughing. It was as if time stood still that afternoon, as two friends revisited their lives with each other in intimate detail. And neither of them wanted to come out of it. The rains continued to play havoc outside, sweeping the dirt off the city. It was almost as if the cobwebs of time were removed to freshen up those memories all over again.

It was evening and both of them were now at her balcony as they watched the endless showers go on and on.

“Looks like you’ll miss your flight this evening”, she said without looking at him.

He looked at her and smiled knowingly. She smiled back as she buried her face in his shoulders.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2020. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used instead.

He loved pav. The smell of the local bread, the sight of those fresh buns rising in those local wood fire ovens thrilled him like nothing else.

And he loved her smile.

Every time she smiled he felt his world light up just that little bit more. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled and he felt a wave of happiness run through his entire body, knowing it was for him.

They sat together that day in the tiny dilapidated Irani joint. They sat in silence.

A handful of tables around them were occupied. Thanks to the plethora of modern coffee shops and bistros that had mushroomed all over town, these Iranis were rarely visited by people. Only a handful of loyalists came here to sip on milk tea and take a bite of bun maska and mawa cake. The younger lot had stopped coming.

They both looked around the place and once again looked at each other. Her wavy brown hair now had a few silver streaks visible in them. Although she had tied it in a simple ponytail the volume of her hair was still evident. He loved the way it bounced when she walked. Her eyes had lost a bit of the sheen but there were still traces of that old sparkle. Her porcelain skin as delicate as ever. She looked still the same to him in her white chikan kurta and blue jeans. The oxidised jewellery on her was his favourite. She knew it and probably that’s why wore it. His thinning hair was more salt than pepper. There were crow’s nest around his eyes which made him look like a sage. She always felt there was an inner calm about him despite his often aggressive exterior. His present appearance seemed to confirm her belief. As always, his black denim shirt and faded blue jeans remained the same. She was glad somethings hadn’t changed in all these years.

It was nice of you to come, she finally broke their silence.

He looked at her and smiled. He had no words in response.

I know you won’t understand and maybe even think it’s not fair to you but I need to do this, she continued, as she looked straight into his eyes. She placed her hands on his for the first time that evening.

You know when we reconnected I told you about my marriage. And how I was struggling to stay afloat. You stood beside me like a rock when I was trying to keep it alive. You never let me feel alone. And today I see a glimmer of hope. I see a change no matter how small it seems at this time it still is a change. And I don’t want to let go now. And yet I don’t want to be unfair to you either. I must move on and get it back on track. She was suprised at the ease with which words flowed out of her mouth. She hadn’t known how to break to him but as always, she felt so much of comfort and ease being with him, she didn’t have to try very hard. They just came spontaneously.

He didn’t say a word, as he just kept looking at her. He was reading her eyes as much as he was listening to her. He gripped her hands tighter as he felt hers on his.

As she kept on talking, he was hearing lesser and lesser. He could see her lips moving, her hands stroking his hands from time to time, her dazzling smile and a few moments when her eyes swelled up too. But he couldn’t hear a thing. There was music playing in his head. Songs from the past kept kept playing inside him as he took a trip down the road he had avoided all these years. Those heady days of college and after. Those days when they were both young. And in love. That’s all that mattered then. Armed with love they were ready to face the world without realising how inadequate their preparations were for its challenges.

Life had skittled them apart like ninepins and before they realised it they were busy in their real lives in the world. A far cry from the dreams they had woven together.

A chance meeting at a college reunion had brought them face to face again after decades. And they tried to pick it up from where they had left it. She was in the middle of a troubled marriage and he was battling his inner demons from within. But with each other they found a strength and a calm they both needed in their separate lives.

The waiter brought cheese straws and an omelette pav and placed it on their table. A cup of milk tea and black coffee accompanied them.

He drew his hands away from her as he picked up the cup to take a sip of his tea. She was taken by surprise by his sudden action. Instinctively she drew her hands closer to herself, turning her face away. She picked up a cheese straw nervously, trying to hide her feelings, her face turned away.

I knew you wouldn’t understand she said again breaking the awkward silence which was shorter than what it felt like to her.

He reached out his hand towards her this time but she moved hers away, still upset at his earlier action.

I understand, he finally said for the first time that evening. I may not agree or accept, but I understand. He looked right into her eyes as he spoke. She felt that same magic she felt every time he looked at her that way. It hadn’t changed in all these years.

You’re pushing me away again, he continued, his tone getting slightly more aggressive than the understanding and empathetic one a moment ago. Just like you did years ago. Just your way. Your decision, your wish. Almost as if I don’t have a say in this at all. It’s always like this, his voice kept growing louder as he got up from his chair and pushed the table slightly towards her.

You left me then without giving me a reason or even half a chance to explain. It was all about you then and it’s the same even now. After all these years, he was furious by the time he was walking away from her.

She looked up at him, as she was recovering from his verbal volleys all this time. She had forgotten how his silences would often be punctuated with the vilest of words. She remembered all that now as she looked up at his standing frame. His crinkly eyes had a lot of anger.

As he walked out of the Irani, she kept sitting there, with the uneaten cheese straw still in her hand. Her eyes went on the half finished omelette pav on his side of the table. She picked up his cup of milk tea and took a sip. A hidden tear managed to find its way out of her shut eyes.

Later that evening he stared blankly at the half torn calendar in the wall of his studio apartment. Would it be another 17 years till they met again, he wondered. Or was this really the end?

The smell of freshly baked pav wafted through as he stood by his window shutting his eyes, lost in no particular thought at all.