“I’m writing my story so that others might see fragments of themselves.” - Lena Waithe

Stories

My Story

That evening I lost myself. I lost myself in words, in thoughts, in imagination. I was no more available to myself the way I had been so long. I play football to forget myself…the me who is fragile, the me who breaks every other day, the me who tries to hold on to myself. Time passes on. The pain that once felt unbearable, now you gradually learn to live with it. The desire that once used to be the dearest to you now finds its way into the darkest corner of your mental space. The world doesn’t happen the way you want. People leave, the situation changes, and you gradually learn to live with what you have. Letting go of things, people, and things loved is an art. You have to learn it the hard way sometimes. With every passing moment, those memories sink into deep oblivion, where you start wandering but cannot figure it out anymore. The deep lanes of Banaras, the shadowy lanes of Bengal, and the old street of Bombay all remain as a diary kept but never opened again. But there will be days when those fond memories will haunt you, haunt you hard in your loneliness. The unsung song, the unsaid words, and the unwritten stories will haunt you back and look for an expression. And there you will find peace. A peace in looking back. A peace in truthfulness. A peace kept safe in dedication. The lost me of that evening still plays football…it still enjoys the memories of missed opportunities…it still lives, but in a different tune altogether.

Baba’s Old Steel Box

On both sides, salty water stretches to the horizon. The remaining thatch roofs of the mud houses float; uprooted trees, dogs, fish, and utensils are scattered everywhere. They are walking through a sea of leftovers of the storm. The water level rose to the chest height of Devika in places. Seeing the devastating sight, tears rolled down her cheeks. It is no more than a year since the villagers partly got out of the scars of the last flood, and here another came knocking down everything again.

Bhakta Dadu: The Becoming of Someone Else

Chaitra, the last month of the Bengali calendar, is the month of Spring rituals. Every year, on the advent of the Chaitra month, mid-April, the villagers gather at the temple premises to witness the worshippers, the bhaktas, and their various rites and bodily feats. Managing time from his daily homework, Bittu often finds a narrow escape to be an eye-witness to all the rituals of Gajan happening near his home at the Gajan tola.

Dutt-a-nubhab

How often do we take so much valuable time in life for granted? We hardly realize the importance of it. Between parting with my hostel friends at Kolkata airport and getting into the car, I felt lost: lost for anybody and everybody I could call family, I could call in time of crisis. We all are searching for those few people with whom we can share our pain and pleasure, happy and challenging days. Somehow we all are united by a need to be together, a need to be with each other, a need to feel community, and a need to be hand in hand.