A Date With Madam Verse

A date with Madam Verse!

Will you be my mate?
Will you share with me
My melancholy tunes
Of the lonely afternoons
Like the barren meadow?
Would you hold them in you?
Let me get lost into your innocent eyes for a while
Please come running into my bosom
Don’t get scared of me
Don’t say I am a fool
Ride with me to the clouds,
down the ocean
Or in the greens,
Please don’t run away,
Trust me, be my fate
Come let us blow away the void
Journeying into the empyrean
Breaking free of chains
Will you be my love today ,
will you be my mate?

Poetic

Poetic


On the other side of sixty, serene, frail and still beautiful Sudha considered herself to be a poet. she could create pictures with words and she thought those pictures were poems, small, beautiful and sentimental. Some of them were green some red and most of them were blue . The whole day she sits by her window, looking vacantly and wistfully out in the streets where there are people, young and old, rich or poor, beautiful or ugly, loitering, standing or hurrying. From the first floor, the forms below do not seem too distant. She wrapped the shawl tightly round her shoulders to keep away the cold wind blowing from the North. It is December, 2003.




Nearly forty-five to fifty years back, on a wintry afternoon Sudha & Binodini were on their way back from school. Two days more and the school will close for Christmas .The chill wintry wind pierced the part of their exposed skin making it brittle. Both of them were wearing blue cardigan on their school uniform but winter those days’ mused Sudha were really cold, much colder than what it is today.

Binodini was new to their school. She came to the town with her parents only a year back. Binodini’s father was a government official, so they learnt, and a very high official with a lot of influence.

So long Sudha was the first girl of their class. She was the apple of her teachers’ eye so to speak. But, Binodini, to her dismay, turned out to be a better student. Binodini was not only better in studies but she was also a very good athlete too. Sudha was becoming extremely jealous of Binodini, or we may say Sudha was upset that she was loosing ground to this new girl. Sudha used to write poems and they were not bad either. Sudha’s father Mr Bankim Roy worked with a publishing house and he had promised his daughter that he would soon publish her poems in a book form.

Sudha declared happily –Papa is going to publish my poems in a book form. Secretly she felt superior to Binodini. After all writing poetry needs a lot of talent and not everybody can do that if they wanted to.

Really ! Binodini sounded wistful.

Yes and papa says there will be my picture too in the book.

I also write poems and every body says they are very good- Binodini said tentatively and then added in an uncertain voice- will your papa publish my poems also?

Sudha started walking very fast and almost ran the rest of the distance leaving a baffled Binodini behind.

Why should Binodini write poetry too ! Why cant she leave some place for Sudha, Ever since Binodini joined their school Binodini had dethroned Sudha. Bright, supple and boyish Binodini has become the first girl, the best player, the class monitor and now she says she can write poetry too Sudha must do something to stop this girl from writing poetry.

At school however Sudha struggled hard to keep her cool and make it up with Binodini. She went out of her way to be friendly and wanted to see her poems. The unsuspecting Binodini was only too glad to oblige and she promised to bring her diary. The next day Binodini bought a beautiful read diary. It was a hard bound diary with golden borders. Inside binodini had written in her small and round handwriting some twenty poems in black ink.

If you let me take it home, I would show them to my father. He might publish a book for you too- ventured Sudha.

Binodini was so excited and also so happy- Oh you are so nice, Sudha. From today you are my best friend. I would dedicate my book to you only- Binodini exclaimed.


The phone started ringing. Its shrill sound cut into the smooth thread of her memory like a sharp razor. After all these years, these memories are almost as fresh as if they happened only yesterday . These are the lanes and by lanes that Sudha travels every day without fail, remembering every small detail, stopping at every hurdle, looking carefully at every corner- “who can it be”- Sudha came back to the present with a jerk , pushed the chair back.

Rima’s shrill voice forced Sudha to keep the receiver away from her ear- Didu what are you doing? Still seating by the window? Is my pullover ready?

A faint smile lighted up Sudha’s face, softened by her love for the owner of the voice at the other end –“No darling the buttoning and seaming are to be done yet.”
Do it quick Didu- next week we are going to Shimla from school.- A very demanding and bubbly voice indeed; Sudha could almost visualize the pout accompanying it
Ok dear come tomorrow evening - it will be ready for you.
Sure!
Sure.
----------------------------------

Next morning before the first period a very buoyant Binodini approached Sudha =” Here are my poems” Binodini gave her a hard bound beautiful red diary with golden border.
I will give it to my Papa –Sudha said solemnly.
Sure!
Sure

That night sudha went tiptoed into her father’s study. ‘Papa- may I seat on your table and fill my pen with ink from your inkpot please?”
“Ok dear! But be very careful. Don’t mess up things. I have important papers there”.
“No papa, I will be careful”
Sudha took the inkpot from Papa’s desk opened the diary and emptied a generous portion of the blue-black liquid on it and watched with satisfaction the river of blue ink engulfing the little creations like raindrops.

Binodini could not belief her ears- but how, but why.
“I am so sorry,” Sudha made an angelic face, so innocent, so devoid of guilt that poor Binodini never could imagine the treachery hidden behind it “ feel like a murderer. Papa asked me to put the diary on his desk- but how was I to know that he had forgotten to put the lid on the inkpot. The whole inkpot overturned and all your poems have been washed away.” Sudha brought tears to her eyes.

Binodini was shell shocked. Of course , it was an accident but still Sudha could have been a little more careful. Throughout the school session Binodini kept by herself refusing to talk to anybody. She did not volunteer to solve any of the problems posed by their maths teacher, arousing a lot of curiosity among her class maters and a lot of concern on the part of her teacher. When she reached home, Binodini went straight to her room and jumped on her bed face down and sobbed her heart out. Binodini’s mother however was a very practical woman. She stroked her head gently and said “look here child don’t cry and don’t lose heart. You must try to remember what you wrote and try to reconstruct them once again. Take it as a challenge. If you could write those twenty poems at such a young age, you would definitely be able to write many more as you grow up. Next time be very careful when you give anybody your writings to read. First make a copy and keep it with you then you can easily give them to whoever you like. So do get up, wipe your tears and start again from this moment.”


Down the street corner came a little procession, four people carrying a body and the rest walked solemnly behind chanting- Ram Naam Satya Hai, Raam Naam Satya Hai. The strong smell of incense reached Sudha even up at her first floor window.



Ram Naam Satya Hai, Raam Naam Satya Hai- They were taking Papa to the burning ghat. Sudha looked fascinatingly at the body covered with white sheet, garlanded and incense burning at his feet. Sudha was only fourteen and already an orphan. Sudha’s mother died while giving birth to their only child. Her father never married again. Sudha lived with her father and her widowed grandmother. That fateful morning she was called back from school at the second session. Sudha came back with Shekharkaku, who was absolutely silent throughout the journey from school. Sudha asked so many times as to the reason why she was being taken home suddenly. The thought never crossed her mind that something so dreadful could have happened to her father. She learnt later from grandma that her father suddenly collapsed on the way to office at the bus stand. People there recognized him and bought him home. Their family doctor was called and he pronounced him dead. Family and friends were informed, preparations were made for the funeral and Sudha was brought back from school.

Somebody had decorated his forehead with sandalwood paste , had covered his body with spotless white sheet . They had also put on a lot of white flowers on him. People were touching the his feet which were sticking out of the cover. Someone took Sudha and asked her touch his feet. Mechanically Sudha stooped low and touched his feet and instantly drew back shocked. Her father was cold as ice. She took a step back and clutched her grandma like she was lost .
They started taking up the bamboo stretcher that he was lying on and murmured under their breath ‘Ram naam satya hai…” She stared blankly and uncomprehendingly at the little procession taking away with them the most precious thing in her life and strangely enough the first thing that struck her was that her book of poem would now never be published.




Sudha spotted the postman. She was already at the doorstep when the postman pushed the bell. Ms Sudha Rani Saha, 15 Chandramoni Lane, Kolkata 700020, the name and address written neatly in her own hand stared back at her. Sudha tore open the envelope a sadistic smile hovering on her face-

The Editor sends his complements for your contribution but regrets his inability to reproduce the poems.

Sudha opened her father’s chest of drawers and carefully put the note alongside the ones collected since he died.

She came back to her study. The next post would come only at about 4 pm. There is enough time to finish reading Binodini’s latest Book of Poems

Pishimoni

Pishi-moni

When I entered the room every thing seemed so dark I could not make out the figure lying on the bed. . The wooden doors and windowpanes were shut tight excepting the door by which I entered. Gradually things started taking shape. The room was reeking with the smell of stale vomiting and then I saw her lying on a single bed that stood by the wall in the western side of the room. A human skeleton. Nothing in that figure could relate to the image I held of Pishi-moni. Only the head and a bent knee were exposed to an otherwise covered figure. A horribly shrunken, discoloured and rickety frame of the once beautiful person that I was so fond of was lying listless, almost like a body without the trace of life in it. She was covered with a dark coloured printed blanket. A matching pillow case framed her small head. The bedspread , pillow cover and the blanket were proof of being costly once upon a time. Just below her bed was an open bucket and from this the foul stench of retching hit me like a bullet. During my brief stay pishi-moni threw up on the bucket three times.

“She is dying” Priya announced before us, it seemed to me, to create a dramatic effect. Myself and my two teenage daughters were admiring the exhibition of Sparkles diamond jewelry being held at the small ball room in Park Hote when we bumped into Priya, Priyambada Sengupta to be more precise, the vibrant chatterbox, as she was secretly called by us, her relations by marriage.

We looked at her uncomprehendingly?

“It is my ma-in-law, your Pishi-moni. Doctor’s have given notice. There is no chance of survival .It can be any day now. You may come and look her up if you want to. Ok! I am pushing off.” So saying, she vanished mingling with the crowd. She came and went like a whirlwind robbing me of my peace of mind.

The sentence kept coming back throughout the week. “She is dying” . my childhood days floated before my mind’s eye like a chain of delightful dreams. Pishi-moni was our favourite aunt. She was the most intelligent among them all also. Pishi-moni was youngest of the six children that my grandfather had. Those days, we used to spend our holidays at our father’s native place at Uttarpara.. My grandfather had a huge house, with a vast garden which held a pond as well. The garden was full of trees, particularly mango, guava. Pishi-moni would lead us in all our mischievous explorations including making merry on the trees, plucking unripe mangos and guavas, jumping on the pond and swimming to our hearts delight..


She would also arrange for picnics near the pond. We would prepare an oven with three pieces of bricks and make fire with broken twigs. Pishi-moni would then prepare food items like potato curry and rice. Most days the potato would be undercooked and the rice overcooked. Pishi-moni would put enough chilly to make our mouth burn, but we would enjoy it nevertheless gulping water with every mouth full. We would finish off with home made sweets, which Pishi-moni would make us steal from grandma’s room.

I particularly remember the day when I was caught stealing “narkel nadu’ (home made sweets from coconut) from grandma’ cupboard and was made to stand on one leg in the corner of her room with my hands on my ears. Grandma would have let me go unpunished but I was caught by my own mother. As was our secret rule I did not divulge the names of our gang members but somebody informed pishimoni of my plight. She came and straight away declared that it was all her fault only and that she had directed me to steal from grandma. In our childhood one would require a lot of courage to own up to such crime, as our elders were not misers in terms of meting out justice to their juniors. Such punishment as standing on one leg with your hands on your ears, standing bent down like a chair , writing down 120 times that you are sorry, etc were their favourite . From that day on Pishi-moni became my idol.

To us Pishi-moni was the picture of perfection. So loving, so witty and so strong. Later in life when I grew into womanhood and was happily married, I came to know of her disastrous married life. I still remember the day she got married. In a red silken saree woven with golden zari all over and traditional make-up, with gold ornaments that almost covered her small and delicate frame from head to foot, she appeared to me as the princess from my story books. Sambaranda, as I called my new found uncle, her husband was equally, if not more stunning in his looks. Tall, handsome and princely, the envy of the woman folk present on the occasion. After a few years of happy married life, pishi-moni was confronted with a second wife with a child. The marriage it seemed was not registered and the woman was from a very doubtful background. But as I told you before, she was the picture of strength and she dealt with such transgression with so much dignity and resilience that others including my own inquisitive mother could not get the whole truth out of her. Sambaranda was actually in awe of his wife and behind her back carried on with innumerable such affairs with the opposite sex, much to the embarrassment and grief of our beloved Pishi-moni. Ultimately Pishi-moni severed all ties with Sambaranda and lived alone with their only son Ajay.

A very grand reception was given to all when, Ajoy, Pishi-moni’s son was born and also at the wedding of this son with now famous Priya. By the time Ajay graduated from B.E. college, Shibpur and joined a Multinational Company, Sambaranda returned to Pishi-moni, the prodigal husband, a man broken in health , spirit and purse. Sambaranda’s widowed mother, however was living with Pishi-moni all through and told her only son that he can come back only if Pishi-moni forgave and allowed him to and an ever graceful Pishi-moni obliged both. Priya was just the opposite of Pishi-moni. That she talked too much was to underestimate. She talked non-stop and she talked loud to the discomfort of the general listener. She was handsome in a crude sense of the term. A tall, fair and broad girl , in short a buxom woman, with a square face, small nose and smaller eyes, she had a mean look about her. We usually tried to avoid her in the family gatherings as she did not fit in with our mental picture of Pishi-moni’s immediate family.

I was aware that Pishi-moni was suffering from cancer and that her days were numbered. I have also met her in some family gatherings about may be a year back. She appeared washed out and very ill, but still she retained her cheerfulness and her innate strength that I admired most in her.


I decided I must give her a visit. Pishi-moni lived with her son and daughter-in-law in their new pent-house in the posh Alipore area. Sambaranda passed away after a brief illness about a year and half ago.. I went up to the first floor landing. A young girl in her early twenties answered my calling bell. It appeared she was the caretaker appointed by Ajoy & Priya to look after Pishi-moni and from her I could gather that Ajoy and Priya were out and after enquiring about my antecedents she led me to pishi-moni’s room. The room seemed almost dark when I first entered it but gradually things started taking shape before my eyes.

I sat on the chair kept beside her bed most probably for the nursemaid and put my hand gently on Pishi-moni’ burning forehead. There was no response from the ailing figure and I called her in almost a whisper, for I found it difficult to find my normal voice. The nursemaid came to my aid and shook the frail frame with vigour and called in a loud and ugly voice

‘ get up masima (aunty) , see who has come “.

I cringed involuntarily’ be careful, I wanted to say but refrained. The shake was too much for the frail body on the bed and she looked up at me with fear written large on her eyes. I smiled and stroked her gently to calm her and said ‘Pishi-moni, it is me Sujata, your Suji (it was her nickname for me)’. The fear changed slowly to a very vague and distant look in her tired eyes. Clearly, she was finding it difficult to place me. Sujata, she repeated the word slowly and deliberately in a very weak and almost inaudible voice. I had to come closer to hear what she was saying.

‘Sujata, will you give me something to eat. I am hungry.’

With horror I looked at my Pishi-moni, the strong willed woman. The picture of perfection in my mind started crumbling down violently.

‘Don’t start that again before the visitors. You have had what boudimoni directed to me to feed you with. Have more and you are sure to vomit. It is me who cleans the dirt. You know “ this was directed at me “boudimoni takes so much care of her still she is not happy. She is, after all , a nuisance. She is a cunning old woman. See, how she asked for food from you. This is only to make you feel bad about boudimoni “

The shrill and crass voice rang out clear and ugly . Pishi-moni looked helplessly at her and then at me.”

I could not help myself and asked her to shut up rather curtly. Sensing my disapproval the girl rambled on in her coarse voice

“Yes, it is very easy for people to feel sympathy for her . They come and go away. Boudimoni has to take care of this old baggage of bones. She is doing so much for her, spending so much money, still people only criticize her.”


May be it is true that any food at this time might be harmful for the patient but could she not demand to be treated with a little more dignity perhaps. I looked at the girl and wondered at the uncanny resemblance with her employer, Madam Priya, her boudimoni.

I still remember the way Pishi-moni nursed her own old and ailing mother-in-law. She might not have provided her with the luxuries of a paid nurse, and costly surroundings, but she treated her with dignity. She treated her with gentleness and care. She treated her with love. I always marveled at the near fresh and spotless white look of the cloths on and around the old and ailing woman. I could almost smell the ever-present sweet fragrance that emanated from the incense burning in a stand near the bed. I had seen an earthen pot with the lid always on kept under her bed. I have witnessed how very careful and gentle Pishi-moni was in handling the old woman. And yet here she is at her deathbed, at the mercy of a paid nurse, who is not even instructed to handle her with care and respect. She was not probably aware that the first and foremost duty of a nursemaid is to treat her patients, who are totally at her mercy, with dignity. I wondered at the irony of fate. As I knew Pishi-moni, the last thing she would tolerate was indignity. Life is so full of contradictions. One who chose to live alone but with dignity was destined to die without it.

It seemed Ajay and Priya would be late so I prepared to leave when I realized Pishi-moni wanted to say something. Again I bent close and she whispered in a halting and incoherent manner which if phrased properly would sound something like this “Don’t get cross with Priya. She is doing her best. I should not have lived so long. Pray to God that I may join your Sambaranda soon”.

Night of dark shadows

Night of dark shadows



I saw her enter the room. Wow! what a figure. I pretended to be busy with my files. Let her stand there waiting. I mentally laid her flat on the floor. Damn her. Nothing I do seem to touch her by a feather. What is so special about her! They ask me…. my friends? Well that she does not respond to my signals is enough to turn me on. Well even I thought I am taking too much of a time, so I looked up from my files..”Yes, Reema !” I leaned back and raised my eyebrows and gleefully noticed the slight exasperation in her expression..

Here are the details of bills outstanding with our H.O.. Manish said you wanted it. Reema sounded impatient. I was laughing inside. I pushed back my chair and took three quick and long steps and stood just behind her looking down her low-cut neckline ..at the paper in her hand and….. guess what! She stood there red faced and flustered Cool as a cucumber she was not any more but red as an apple and I like eating them just as ripe as she was. Hmm….The devil of a phone started ringing and she left the room. Damn it. The picture of Ranu’s fat bottom hit me in the middle. Curse her! Curse her hunger like a starving Hippo, you feed her and go on feeding her, she would only want more.

Reluctantly I picked up the phone
“It is me, Ranu here!’ the same line every day
“Yes Ranu darling, what is it!”
“You have not taken your lunch box today!” Yesterday it was my blood pressure pill …. the freshly ironed and scented handkerchief, the day before…..
“I was in a hurry darling. Don’t worry I will have something from the office canteen.’
“Be careful, don’t take too much fried things, it is bad for your ulcer”
“Ok darling I would be careful”
“and don’t forget to take your medicine before the meal. It works better that way”
“As you wish Ma’m”

Manish walked in and leaned over my desk with two hands on the table a worried expression in his eyes. Not that Manish was worried about anything, he just have that kind of a face , with drooping lips and sagging jaw lines, he loves to carry on him a sad face. “Why don’t you try Dr. D R Mecheta . She is very good. If you want I can make an appointment for you, she is a very good friend of my sister”

“Well, thanks Manish. I suppose I will have to try her also. But I am seriously thinking of going for a surrogate mother. It is costly, I know, but still worth trying. Don’t you think so?”

“Well, it depends. It is always hard to chose some one for being a surrogate mother to your baby, isn’t it?”

“May be, but I don’t have any choice. If I don’t go for that Ranu is sure to go for adoption. But before that I would like to have a last try. “


What lovely cleavage.. and her skin, oh my …. smooth as butter. She gives me a tingle every time I look down her… you know what!. Baby you just wait and see. The day I catch you, you would simply stick by me. They all do.

I reached for my mobile. Dr Benugopal Majumdar !! I would like to have an appointment with you. If you would be so kind to give me a date .Next Friday.. at 7.45 pm.!! Mr & Mrs Rudraneel Sen . Ok doc. Thanks a lot.


I could imagine what is going on now at my antechamber. That sad-faced weakling would comfort the firebrand Reena with open arms. and there conversation would be something like this.


Oh what a creep; I feeling like slapping him every time I go into his room Reema is sure to exclaim with apparent disgust and I get more turned on when she is in that mood.


I could never have guessed that this chum of mine was head over heals in love with her had I not caught them talking in the following line a few days back.

Manish gave her a sheepish grin. “Most woman melt under his macho gaze and he is not at all used to being ignored by them. So be careful lady”.

What the hell !! He can’t even touch me by my hair…

Don’t tell me you are modern day Sita.

Well, I could if only you’d find a Rama for me.

Reema, you are absolutely nearsighted. Am I not good enough for you. I am the most eligible bachelor in town, trust me. Manish sounded wistful

Reema looked at him sharply . You know Manish how fond I am of you.

But only as a friend. Isn’t it so? Am I so uninteresting Reema. Really, you make my self esteem go down the drain.

Please Manish don’t make it so difficult for me. You know I like you sooooo much.. You are a darling. You would make a very good husband no doubt about it. But you know how it is with my family. Who ever marries me, has to take Bibi in dowry,

Why don’t you put her in an asylum?

Please Manish I don’t want to enter into a debate where no body wins. You know my mind. I am not going to leave my sis in the ditch. You don’t want me to act inhuman –do you? If you want me, you have to accept her. And that is final.

The next few hours both of them would work with utmost concentration carefully avoiding any conversation.

I realized I have a dung headed bloke of a friend who cant even convince the woman he loves that it is a sin, wasting her assets for the sake of an imbecile sister, who should have been in an asylum long back, both for her own good as well as for the society at large.


Had I not done so? Am I not human? I could have kept my brother with me and driven Ranu out of her mind and out of my life. According to that prude , I am a brute, a selfish wolf.. To hell with her. What does she know, what does anybody else know of the sleepless nights I have to spend, the dark days of guilt that I had to bear. What do people know of the dark shadows covering my existence? Was it my fault that my father and mother should beget an imbecile, a half-wit and leave the creature to their able son and go for a joyride heavenwards together or was it towards hell. I still remember the evening the two left for their weekend booze party from which they would invariably return drunk to their toenails in the wee hours of the night, when I slept with my baby brother by my side, clinging to me like a leech. The two would howl like dogs and fight like cats for long until the steam would go out of their flaring nostrils and both of them would slump to their bed like two heavy logs. But that fateful night there was no sound of the car screeching to a sudden halt, the garage gate being opened , heavy footsteps coming up the stairs accompanied by filthy and high pitched abuses. Instead, the police discovered the car in shambles, the front seats smashed with the impact of hitting headway a road roller that was parked at the wrong side of the road. It seemed the car hit the road roller headlong coming in a breakneck speed. Their lifeless bodies were extricated from the mess after carefully cutting door at the driver’s side. I was 21 and my baby brother was only 7 . They had left a fortune for us. A huge house at the posh locality of Manadavile Gardens at south Kolkata. Two cars. A bank locker full of jewelry and a fat pass book.

I had already completed my masters in Economics and finished my MBA with flying colours. My kid brother could never even finish his nursery lessons. He had an ugly gait and impaired speech but otherwise looked normal. Any one who did not notice him for a few minutes would take him to be normal, may be a little odd, may be a little spoilt. His nursemaid handled him with care, dressed and fed him properly and took him out for walks regularly in the afternoon. But he was fanatic in his love for me. Once I was in, he would not let any one come near him. Dada..dada… dada… he would dance like a two year old, clutching my hand.


He showed the first signs of violence, when I introduced Ranu, my bride to him. Ranu was a very loving young woman, full of sympathy for my unfortunate kid brother but he grew violent whenever Ranu made an effort to be friendly. He spurned all her efforts with iron feast. He would deliberately and cunningly spoil her food, her dresses, her cosmetics. The first hurdle was to remove him from my bedroom. His attendant had to fight every night to put him to sleep in his room. He was now grown up , a sixteen year old, and had immense physical power. And I had to replace the frail woman with a sturdy man servant. But like a cunning fox, he would pretend to fall asleep and as soon as the attendant dozed off to sleep, he would come out of the room and start banging on our door. He had an uncanny intuition to chose the time when Ranu and I were in an intimate mood. After one and a half years Ranu gave me the ultimatum, “Either I stay, or your brother”. I could not blame her.

My brother accompanied me to the asylum that would be his home for the rest of his life, like a faithful little dog, putting all his trust in his benefactor, his elder brother, who was more like a father and a mother figure to him. After all the formalities were done, the relevant papers signed, cheques given, I handed over my brother to their custody . The child looked up at me with his big innocent, trusting eyes and haltingly uttered.. dada.. you.. come. Like a butcher I disentangled my hand from his grip . You go in baby… I would come afterwards.

Those halting wards started hunting me day in day out. Dada.. you.. come.. I could not sleep, could not eat.. could not rest and could not work. How could that child live without me. How hurt he must be. Six months went past and I received a letter from them that my brother was in a better state and that I might take him home with me. So one day I set out for the asylum with my car . I did not tell Ranu anything about it. Kid was so happy to see me again. But he seemed changed. He did not come running into me but stood there at the door smiling uncertainly. I opened my arms and embraced him into a bear hug.

The doctors gave me his prescriptions and advised me to keep him away from Ranu as far as possible. Though the kid was far better but after all he was mentally retarded from birth and he regarded me as his sole property. He felt extremely insecure whenever he found me and Ranu together, sensing the intimacy.

I had booked a room at Hotel Seahawk at Digha for two of us and drove our car a few more kilo meters to Digha, the asylum being situated halfway between Kolkata and Digha. We reached the hotel in the afternoon and spent the day watching the sea from our terrace. It was a deluxe room and sea facing. The food was excellent. I ordered all the favourite dishes for my brother. In the evening we went for a walk along the shore . kid was terribly excited to see the roadside stalls. I watched my brother chatter incoherently, so happy, so excited, to be alone with his beloved dada. That night we slept like two children closely embracing each other. We were to leave the hotel in the afternoon so in the morning after breakfast I took Kid to the sea. I jumped into the sea and asked him to sit on the sand. As I guessed rightly , after a while he started coming step by step into the water towards me. Dada.. dada… I .. too .. come. My brother had never been at the seaside and he knew nothing about oceans, its depth, its waves, its enormity and its dangers. But he was very fond of his bathtub in our huge old fashioned bathroom.. I pretended not to hear him and he was already waste deep in water when I spotted the waves coming his way and I saw his two hands searching for mine over the swirling waters.

It was an accident. DO YOU HEAR ME- IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. Nobody blamed me. But the voice had never left me since then. It cries in my sleep, in my waking hours.. in imagination, in my love, in my hatred…… dada…. dada…. dada.