Sabri's Scribbles

Silken Promises

2011-03-14T03:50:00.000-07:00

WRITE ONE LEAF ABOUT SOMETHING IN YOUR CLOSET YOU NEVER WEAR

The clothes came out of dryer, warm and fresh, ready to be folded into neat piles. The sensible shirts and modest skirts and trousers were for class, the long tunics and leggings she wore to the odd meal out with friends, and the baggy sweats and PJ’s she wore at home. Each pile had its own place in her tiny closet, an echo of the arrangement she had for her wardrobe back home. The colours had been sunnier, a little more variety to allow for the many roles she juggled, but the lines were the same. Conservative and smart for work, laid back for play, and comfortably frumpy for alone time.

As she tucked in a stray cotton sleeve, her fingers brushed past something silken, and froze. She knew what it was. The Dress, probably fallen off the hanger again, lying in wait.

She’d fallen in love with it the first time she laid eyes on it. Its classic Grecian goddess silhouette, which clung lovingly to her body, emphasizing her assets, downplaying her less flattering parts in a whisper of black organza. Its bold green satin sash providing a slash of colour. This wasn’t a dress that was conservative, even though it wasn’t revealing in anyway. It wasn’t laid back. It demanded you sit up and take notice. And it definitely wasn’t frumpy. It was Sexy, a word that didn’t really belong in her wardrobe. She reached for her Mastercard.

Coming back home, she had to suppress the bubble of thrill running through her at the thought of The Dress nestled in a bed of tissue paper in her shopping bag. It whispered silky promises. Late nights and smouldering stares, and maybe slow dancing.

Hanging next to her usual things inside her closet, it looked out of place. This wasn’t something she could wear to work; she’d get fired. It was too dressy for brunch with the girls. Wearing it at home made no sense. So she had run her fingers through it longingly before closing the door. Someday…

The ABC’s of growing up

2011-02-20T00:21:00.000-08:00

They were facing one another. He could feel her warm breath against his face, as she grunted with effort. The veins were standing out on her forehead, and her skin was flushed.

“Harder! Put some hip into it!” she growled.

He braced himself with his hands. She could see the beads of sweat forming on his skin, suffused with the smell of his aftershave, all earthy and mellow.

“Almost there…”

They butted knees, straining together.

“Aaahhh”

And it was done. They rolled apart, panting. The last of the big boxes had been loaded onto the pickup truck that he had borrowed from a friend, to save the cost of professional movers.

“Well, that’s that.”

“Why don’t you grab a beer before you go? I’m not going to touch the stuff, you know.”

He shrugged and followed her into the kitchen. This was the one room that still looked the same. But then again, this had always been her territory, one she guarded zealously. Most of his boxes came from the basement. With the workshop gone, she would move downstairs, get herself that big walk-in closet she always wanted, and turn their old room into a studio for her paintings. They’d discussed all this before, and he’d offered to help with the re-modelling.

“Naw, that’s okay. It’ll keep me busy. Keep my mind off, you know. Stuff.”

He knew only too well. He also figured she’d deal just fine. She was one tough customer, always had been. It was one of the things he liked about her. He grabbed the last beer in the fridge and took the seat across hers at the table.

She winced as the chair legs screeched across the tile. There was probably an exposed nail somewhere. There was a scrap of paper on the table. She picked it up. It was an old grocery list, the items crossed out in red ink. She began to tear it into thin strips, to give her hands something to do, and have an excuse not to look at him. He drank his beer without comment, watching her. She could feel his eyes on her. The silence stretched like the skin on a soap bubble, until it was actually uncomfortable.

“What’ll you do for food tonight?”

“I’ll get a pizza or something.”

“Want me to pack something?”

“Don’t worry about it. You need anything?”

“Not right now. The bills —”

“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll swing by on Saturday and we’ll take care of them.”

He finished his beer and stood up. She followed him to the door. They stood face to face, not sure what next move would be most appropriate. She crossed her arms. He stuffed his hands inside his pockets. Neither could meet the other’s eye. Just like the end of their first date.

“Alright then. I should be going.”

“Yeah…”

“You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah. I’ll…go…take a shower or something.”

“Call me if you need anything. Seriously.”

“I won’t. Need anything, that is, I think. But thanks. And you take care okay?”

“I will. I’ll see you Saturday”

And then there was really nothing left to say. He took the steps two at a time, turned around to wave once, and then got into the truck. She waved back, and then closed the door. The sound made an odd echo in the empty house. She slowly walked from room to room, looking all around her.

Tomorrow, she’d start making the changes. She had time enough now, and the freedom to do as she pleased. Today was still too new, too raw, though. So she kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she waited for the pain to come.

Manic Monday

2011-01-26T23:08:00.000-08:00

Write one leaf about running late.

We roared with joy as the enemy fled.

The kingdom was safe, the villains all dead.

We laughed and danced; I felt safe in my hero's arms...

...and fell out of bed at the sound of the alarm.

8:30! zomgwtfbbq, how many times did I hit Snooze?

Gotta get moving, there's not a second to lose.

Skip the long shower, slap on some deo.

Change into something fresh to ward off the B.O

No need for breakfast, an energy bar will do fine

Oh noes! Gotta speed up! It's a quarter to nine.

I arrive at the bus stand, just in the nick of time

To hop aboard the 8:40 bus of the 97 B Line

It stops and people get on and off, in the slow run to Lougheed

I check my watch, and yes, I'll be very late indeed.

The skytrain at last! I get on the Millennium Line

And I can see that it's already a quarter past nine.

Rupert, Renfrew, Commercial Broadway...

Please let the VCC bus be there, I solemnly pray

I catch the 84, with 15 minutes to go

It's killing me how this bus is so slow

By the time we reach the loop, I've accepted my fate

I run towards class, almost half an hour late

This term has been so rough, I wonder if I'll pass

...and that's when I read the note that says they've postponed today's class.

Balls!

Hot and cold

2011-01-13T18:12:00.000-08:00

Write one leaf about cold coffee.

I was on my third cup, and it was cooling fast. The other two had been taken away, intersecting brown circles on the plastic table the only evidence that they had been there at all.

Caffeine surged through my veins, fueling the paranoia running through my brain. According to the text message I intercepted unknown, they would be meeting here today. Today was the day I was going to catch them together, to put an end to this farce. Today, when I confronted them with the irrefutable fact of their perfidy, they would not be able to explain it away as the product of my overactive imagination. No. Today I would expose the backstabbing bitch that masqueraded as my dear friend. It was her betrayal that hurt the most. We’d always agreed on ‘Hos before bros.’ Him, I had loved dearly, and I still loved dearly, but on some level, I had always known he was weak, a spineless coward hiding behind excuses of ‘evolutionary drives.’ This had to end today. I had had enough.

They never showed.

I went home, feeling confused, deflated, but also relieved. The sweetness of the first sip had given way to the sour aftertaste. Part of me was glad that the confrontation had been avoided. An insidious voice in my head said this wasn’t all over.

I smelled her as I turned the key in the lock. Her distinct perfume. I walked in, feeling waves of heat and cold wash over me with each step. The lights were off, but the room was bathed in the glow of the dozens of candles flickering in every corner. He stood in the centre of the room, beaming. She sat demurely on the sofa, innocence written all over her face. I opened my mouth and closed it. The moment I had been waiting for had come, and I was at a loss for words.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“What is she doing here?”

“She helped me set this up. She wanted to be here for this.”

“For what? What’s going on?”

I felt myself start to tremble; I feared the worst. This is how he ends it. This is where he breaks me apart. While she watches.

But then he took my hand, and got down on one knee.

“Will you marry me?”

I can't get no satisfaction!

2011-01-13T02:48:00.000-08:00

"You deserve worse!"

But it was too late. She was already dead, blood seeping out from her broken body, staining my hands red. After all those sleepless nights she made me suffer, she robbed me of my revenge. I seethed at the unfairness of it all. Stupid, whiny blood-sucking mosquito!

Bare Tundra

2010-12-25T21:18:00.000-08:00

Source: Picasa

Waking up wasalways hard. The first few seconds of blurry confusion as the cobwebs of sleepdissipated, remembering who or what or where one was. KC lay still for afew minutes, blinking, feeling that familiar sense of desolation sink in. Hishand automatically patted the bed beside him, only to encounter emptiness. Oh,right; Sheila had already gone back to Birmingham. Fuck. He wondered what timeit was. The windows had been taped down for insulation, and with the weatherbeing shite, a peek through would be useless. He tried squinting at the wallclock from his prone position, but the numbers remained a blur. He guessed itwas probably some variation of late o’ clock. Not that it made a difference.

Herolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Shave, shit, and shower, and hewas back in front of the basin to brush his teeth. The floor mat in front ofthe washbasin was littered with strands of fallen hair. There were more strewnon the floor of the shower stall, clogging the drains. Patting his head, hecould feel the scalp frighteningly smooth under the ever-thinning cover ofhair. He squatted and ran his fingers over the mat. There were a few longerstrands that were most likely Sheila’s but most of them were his. He sighed ashe scooped them up, rolled them into a ball and tossed them into the bin. Hewasn’t a vain man, but thirty wasstill too early, for Chrissakes.

Hiscloset looked starved without Sheila’s things hanging there beside hist-shirts, meagre lot that they were. She’d made exactly one attempt to convincehim he could do with a few nice shirts to wear to work interviews, but heretorted that buying fancy clothes he didn’t really need felt like replacinghis knob with a flashy new model. That shut her up good and proper. He hadto hand it to her, she was a quick study, alright. He wondered what she saw inhim at all, jobless and aimless and a stone cold wanker that he was. Theirgoodbye at the station last night had been an awkward affair. She’d taken hersuitcase from his hand, and thanked him for a pleasant week. He supposed, giventhe last few days, some show of affection was in order, but he’d chosen insteadto cram his fists into his pockets in an uneasy silence as he shifted from onefoot to the other, not daring to meet her eye. She got it, bless her, andpatted his arm before turning around and walked away without a backward glance,leaving him feeling a queasy mixture of relief and regret. Or it might’ve beenindigestion; he wasn’t sure.

Hemade himself some tea and switched on the television. Predictably, the news wasall about the big blizzard and the monstrous cold wave sweeping across Europe.It was about -8C here in London, and he suspected the folks up in Birminghamweren’t faring much better. Probably not. The shops were closed, and the roadswere blocked, and then there was that kerfuffle over the five trains stuck inthe Channel Tunnel. So much for nipping out to the chip shop for breakfast. Heflicked the channel and someone else was talking about the economy. Cut to avox pop featuring some chav with a gold tooth to match the obscene amount of jewelleryhe was wearing, talking about ‘peak times’, which was supposed to be what the weefolks were calling the economic downturn these days. Flick. Some addle-pateddiscussion about the Royal Family. Balls.

He switched off the offending device, set down his empty tea cup, andyanked open the refrigerator door, rooting for food. Belatedly, he recalledthat he’d polished off the last bit of the shepherd’s pie they’d got lastnight. There were a couple of pork chops, a few spuds, marmalade, leftoverready-made tomato purée for the spaghetti he’d bought three nights ago, andsomething on a plate that had turned a shade of green that didn’t inspireconfidence.

Sighing with resignation, he tugged open thecupboard to take stock of what he could use. His gaze landed on the pressurecooker the old man had brought and left behind during the week he stayed overbecause the ceiling of the kitchen in the Birmingham place had caved in.Cooking was the one thing his parents had had in common, aside from the boys,of course, but ultimately even that wasn’t incentive enough to stay together.KC stared at it, remembering the first time his father had brought it home. Mahad screeched loud enough to wake the neighbours, and for weeks afterwards, thetwo of them had conjured many an elaborate meal for the boys to try. He made asnap decision, and pulled it out. It would probably take less time and createless mess than pots on the hob.

The problem now was to figure out what to do with it. He stared at thepork chops. They stared back. Fuck’s sake. He reached for his mobile phone.Like everything else in his life, this too, was falling apart; the camera wasbroken, the display scratched up and hard to read. He stabbed at the keypad andcalled his mother.

She answered almost before the first ring, andwhen she heard his voice, launched a breathless interrogation. Was he alright?Indoors? Safe? Warm enough? She’d been following updates on the Eurostar trainson the telly, those poor, poor people, such a shame. He could picture her roundface turning red with excitement, and he felt an insane urge to wrap his armsaround her and hold her tight. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited for herto stop, and when she didn’t, he rudely cut in. He heard her falter, heard thehurt in her voice, an echo of the many hurts he’d given her over the years. Heknew he was being a right bastard, and he hated himself for it, but not as muchas he hated her for having the power to make him feel that way.

He stated his dilemma with the chops. Hervoice changed and became businesslike. Did he have any spices on him? Spice?Yes, spices; ginger, coriander, and the like? Did he take her for some kind offancy French poofter? What use would he have for coriander? Mind yourlanguage, she said, but he wasn’t fooled by the sternness. He knew she wasfeeling smug. This was the first time in a while her firstborn neededher. So they went back and forth for a few minutes until they decided on ano-frills pork dinner. He grabbed a biro and wrote down the directions on theback of an old electricity bill, fussing over his penmanship.

Thanking her hastily, he disconnected the callbefore she could get sentimental again. It was time to get to work. The recipewas a simple one. He tossed in the chops along with the purée, seasoning withsalt and pepper, and cooked it for fifteen minutes. It took another fiveminutes to carefully release the pressure, so’s to avoid an accident. He laidthe chops out on a dish, side by side, and ladled the thick sauce on top.Mmm...

Inspired by his little culinary achievement,he cleared the crumbs off the table and brought out the good crockery. He setthe dish down next to the plate, and stepped back to admire his handiwork,allowing himself a broad grin.

There were four chops on the dish.

There were three mismatched chairs at thesmall table.

There was one plate, next to one glass ofwater, and one set of utensils.

His smile wavered. He stared for a momentlonger, and then reached for his cell-phone again, and this time, he dialledBirmingham. She answered. It had been almost a year now, and he stillcouldn’t use the word ‘step-mother’, not even in his thoughts. It was always thatwoman, or some neutral pronoun. It was childish, perhaps, for someone hisage, but he was damned if he would lie down and accept it. To give her credit,she didn’t waste time on niceties either, just put him on hold and hollered forthe old man. A muffled exchange, and the shuffling sound of the phoneexchanging hands, and he was speaking.

Where’s the fire, he wanted to know. Did he get into trouble? Run out ofmoney again? Naw, nothing like that, fucksake. Had he found a job yet, his Papressed on. Not yet, but the folks at the university had liked the work he haddone on their August journal, and there was talk of a stint as a substituteteacher. Teaching? Whatever happened to being an architect? KC gritted histeeth and kicked the nearest wall. The old man heard what was beingcommunicated by the silence and blessedly decided to drop the matter. They madesome small talk about the weather, and KC asked after his brother. TJ was overat a mate’s, and would probably be spending the night there. After that, therewas not much to discuss.

Putting the phone down, KC slowly walked to the table, feeling old andweary. The food had grown cold. He cut a piece of chop, and chewed, thinking ofnothing at all. He pushed the rest of it around his plate before giving up andpushing the plate away. He no longer had an appetite.

One of Sheila’s books was lying on the desk,next to the manuscript KC had been copy-editing for the college. When thefootnotes and annotations began to run together in his head, he shoved themaside and picked the book up. It was dog-eared in many places, and the coverwas creased. The inner jacket had rave reviews, calling it a ‘triumph of thehuman spirit over adversity’. He let his thumb run across the pages, idlywondering if it was one of those twee romances with the candyfloss endings. Hehated those.

Heglanced at the manuscript, which looked like so much bumf right now. It wascold enough to guarantee schools would be closed for the week. The collegewould have bigger things to worry about than the journal, at least for the nextfew days. He got up, cleared up the table, stowing the chops away for lunchtomorrow, brushed his teeth, and took the book to bed with him. He read untilthe words began to blur, and then lay there, savouring the moment ofsuspension, knowing that dreams were just around the corner.

Outside,it began to snow again.

Seeing Red

2010-10-23T21:25:00.000-07:00

Source: Joke.co.uk

The squeak of the chalk against the board makes the hairs on myarms rise. Ms. Sonia,, that bullying cow, knows very well how the sound bothersus, and always takes pains to draw it out whenever she writes.

She finishes with an extra-screetchy flourish, and steps back likeshe is Van Gogh. She’s drawn a large cartoon flower. Pathetic. Does she thinkwe’re in kindergarten or something?

“Alright, Anika. This one is for you. Go label the diagram.”

I roll my eyes and stand. The least she could could do was give mea challenge. “Parts of a Flower.” Puh-leez.

The whispers started as I start walking from my seat in the secondlast row towards the front of the class. With about five minutes to go beforethe next class, I figure the others are already in the mood to pack up thisone. That I would ace this pathetic exercise is a done deal.

“Oh my God, Anika” Shakib, the chubby back-bencher gasps. He ispointing at me, eyes wide. Now the people up front are stretching their neckstrying to look behind me. I get it. They’re trying to create some distractionas a means of annoying our teacher. I’m not in the mood for this. My stomachhas been cramping horribly for the past hour or so, and I am tired. I swingaround and tell them to cut it out, turning my back towards Ms Sonia.

She clears her throat behind me.

“I see. Anika, go back and sit down for now, someone else will doit.”

What? Does she think I actually don’t know the answer? Everyone isstaring at me now. This pisses me off.

“But Miss I know--”

“Now, Anika” she repeats firmly, coming towards me

“But...”

“You’ve stained your clothes, silly child” she hisses.

I feel something freeze inside my stomach. I half-turn to check myback, and sure enough, a bright red stain is spreading fast against theSurf-Excel whiteness of my kameez. I don’t dare look up. I don’t need to. I canfeel the twenty-eight pairs of eyes staring at me. I can’t move.

Monica, the head girl seems to snap out of it first.

“Miss, if you permit me, I will take Anika to the washroom and lether clean up.”

Miss considers for a moment, and nods.

“Go”

I start to thank Monica, but she just gives me a little push, andimmediately wipes her hands. Like I am contaminated or something. She islooking around her to make sure no one notices us. Probably doesn’t want to beseen with me. I don’t blame her. If this happened to anyone else, I would havefound it terribly gross. Oh my God. I am going to become that girl, theYucky Chick...like Saima in 7B who has bad breath, and everyone teases herabout how she could probably blow a hole through a tin plate.

Luckily, no one has seen us go down the corridor. I keep my headdown and walk fast. Monica walks behind me, not too close, going at an anglewhere my behind would be hidden from view. The supervisor in front of thegirls’ toilet looks at me, shakes her head and writes down my roll number andfetches me a fresh napkin.

"Seventh-grader, eh? It’s always seventh grade. Next time,wear the school skirt on your days, and always keep spare pads on you. Saveyourself some grief."

Her tone is gruff, but not unkind. I thank her weakly, and thendive through the door. Inside, I change, and then try to scrub out the stainswith hand soap, and wring it dry as best as I can. My hands are trembling. Afat teardrop lands on the back of my hand, and then another. They are hotagainst my skin. I grip the edge of the basin as the world turns blurry. I havenever felt so embarrassed, and so alone. When I think of the way everyonestared, and Monica moved away from me, I want to die from shame. I don't wantto go back.

There is a loud knocking against the door. So much for my safeplace. I dry my tears, wash my hands quickly and hurry out, as the knockinggrows louder. I can hear the bell ringing too.

"What took you so long, stupid? I almost went in mypants!" The surly eigth-grader pushes past me. I check my back one moretime, and then step out. Every step feels like my feet are made of lead.

Mr Hai is already in class when I enter. He frowns suspiciouslywhen I ask permission to enter.

"Why were you outside the class? Didn't you hear thebell?"

"I was not feeling well."

"You don't look feverish to me."

"It's not fever, Sir."

"Then what is it?" He would have to ask that, wouldn'the? Pervert.

"I can't talk about it, Sir" My cheeks are burning now.Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my classmates squirming. They look likethey are uncomfortable and fascinated at the same time.

"Why not? What foolishness is this? Are you lying to me? Isthis about the class test?"

Oh shoot. I had forgotten we would have a class test today.

"No sir."

"SIR! ANIKA IS TELLING THE TRUTH! WE ALL SAW THE BLOOD!"

The class has gone completely quiet. Everyone is staring atShakib, who has clapped a hand over his own mouth.

The silence stretches out painfully as Mr Hai glares first atShakib, and then at me, and then at the rest of the class for good measure. Ibite my lip and stare at my toes.

Then finally he says "Okay, go take a seat."

A smear of wetness on the painted wood of the seat tells me thecleaning staff has already been called for the needful. I carefully hold outthe back of my kameez and sit down, letting it fall behind me. I straighten myback and keep my eyes glued to the blackboard, glancing neither left nor right.I will not cry.

Bike Lesson

2010-08-21T03:31:00.000-07:00

inspired by e.e cummings' 'May it be," said he"

"Hold tight!" said she
"Take a right" said he
"Like this?" said I
"Yes, miss" said the guy

"Go slow!" said he
"Oh no!" said she
"Help me!" said I
"Mind the tree!" said the passerby

"She's bleeding!" said she
"Is she breathing?" said he

"What a pity, what a waste" said they
"Should have fixed the brakes yesterday"

Tabula Rasa

2010-04-10T12:22:00.000-07:00

It took less than an hour to turn the perfectly neat and orderly room into a disaster scene, clothes scattered over every available surface, while the closet doors yawned, the solitary empty hanger swinging in dismal apology after she unceremoniously yanked the dress off its shoulders. Come to think of it, one could say the same about her relationship. Nine years of comfortable routines and sweet synchronicity, of fighting battles together, all it took was one record launch to convince him he could do better, and suddenly her support was 'suffocating', and their little rituals 'boring'. Faster than she could say para siempre, Ricki found herself escorted to the door and out from Onik's life.

So what do you do, when someone you're devoted to, suddenly just stops loving you?

"You tell me, Mariah," she mumbled at the CD playing in the background.
"You know, you really shouldn't be listening to that"

Laila Longlegs was sitting on her bed, folding clothes. It was a nickname Ricki had given her during the two weeks they spent camping during a college field trip. Ricki's one was "Bazooka" in honour of her ample chest, but stuff like that felt cheesy right now.

"No no no...don't go there again"
"Where, exactly?"
"Back to Mopeyland. Trust me. I know that look."

And she did. Four break-ups, four fairytales gone sour made Laila the perfect post-breakup counsellor. She'd been the first person Ricki had called, and after two months of letting her cry her eyes out, Laila said enough was enough, it was time to clean up. What chucking out half her belongings had to do with anything, she had no idea, but at that point, she was willing to try anything.

So they cleaned out her closet. Her meticulously decorated room was turned upside down. Clothes that she'd worn on special dates were bagged and tagged, as were gifts, big and small, that had accumulated over the year. Laila was there with a hug and a packet of tissues during the really difficult bits, like when she needed to use soap to loosen up her ring, but she remained firm. Other friends called in during intervals to cheer her on, and Saima from next door even brought cookies.

When they were done, she stood at the centre of a room that looked strangely impersonal, the walls stripped of photographs, the closet smiling gap-toothed at her, the large plastic bags containing the past nine years sealed tight and ready for dispatch.

"What now?"
"Whatever you want to make of it."
"I like the sound of it."

She turned in a slow dance to take in the blanks waiting to be filled. The possibilities were endless.

404

2010-03-10T11:52:00.000-08:00

The cacophony from the late-night construction site provided the background music to Nora's restless dreams. As the trucks ground to a halt next to the steel skeleton, tail-gates slamming open to allow the clatter of bricks unloaded by vociferous labourers, she tossed and turned in her fifth floor apartment in the building next door, dreaming of a house with endless corridors, down which she chased an elusive runaway, known only to her by the receding staccato of footprints, and a fleeting shadow forever rounding a corridor ahead of her.

The bright summer sunbeams pushed past the clumsily drawn curtains to crash-land on her eyelids the following morning, dazzling her to wakefulness. Blinking away the cobwebs of sleep, she sat up, feeling unsettled. As part of a habit, her questing fingers sought out her cell-phone, and typed a message to Zeyn, her boyfriend of two months. The message bounced, and, giving it up as a network glitch, she headed to the washroom to get ready to face the day.

By lunchtime, the flow of students flocking to the office to register for courses had slowed down to a trickle, and Nora realised that she hadn't heard from Zeyn at all since morning. Feeling an inexplicably strong urge to hear his voice, she called him.

"The number you dialled is vacant..."

Frowning, she dialled again, only to receive the same response. I can't have got it wrong, she thought, thumbing through her contact list. He wasn't on it. I must have deleted it by mistake. Her muscles knotting from tension, she flipped through her message inbox, hoping to get the number from one of Zeyn's texts. Somehow, she knew to expect that she wouldn't find any. It must be a prank, she tried to tell herself, as she slumped back into her seat. Except it couldn't have been one. Even if someone had managed to appropriate her phone long enough to remove the data, who would know to specifically aim for Zeyn? Nora slumped into her seat, realising that her clever subterfuge had yielded a situation she couldn't possibly have anticipated.

Six months ago, her fiancé Ihsan had broken off the engagement and flown off to Australia, where he soon moved in with his new girlfriend. Rather than endure the sympathy or the I-told-you-so's from her well-meaning friends and relatives, she shunned them all, and threw herself into her work, not even allowing herself to grieve for someone so obviously not worth it. I'm done with relationships, she told herself. The resolution lasted about a month before Zeyn popped into the picture.

It started with a random comment on her blog, which elicited a response from her. This seemed to raise further questions in Zeyn's mind, and he politely suggested they move their discussion to their inboxes to prevent cluttering up her page. It sounded reasonable enough, and she agreed. The conversation that ensued spilled over to her Facebook inbox, and then transformed into phone calls that gradually increased in frequency and duration until they were up talking all night. All in the space of two weeks. Zeyn was smart, funny, and a great listener, but Nora knew what others would make of this association. So she kept it all a secret, restricting her communication to private channels. Although she never discussed it with Zeyn, he went along with it. Now that she couldn't find him, she realised there was no one to fall back on, no one who could help her search. Because no one knew.

Glancing sideways to check that her colleagues were too busy tallying up course registration figures to pay attention to her, she switched on her browser. Her e-mail account held no records of their correspondence, and he was missing from her address book. Signing in to Facebook, she hunted through her contact list. No luck. She typed in his name and hit Search. The Zeyns that popped up were all the wrong ones; none had that goofy sketch that she'd come to love as his display picture. In desperation, she Googled him. The various results for Zeyn Rahman all yielded perfect strangers.

The faint echo of receding footsteps echoed in her mind as she sagged into her seat. Zeyn Rahman did not exist. He had never existed. It was all in my head...

Across the room, the two women looked up to see Nora slumped in her seat, glassy-eyed, and exchanged glances.

"Uh-oh. She's at it again."

"Never got over him, did she?"

"Nope. You want to call her folks, or should I?"

[Sighs] "I'll do it. Poor girl."

Curse the verse

2010-01-21T00:31:00.000-08:00

I'm not a poet, and I know it

I'm no friend of the fair lady Poesy

The meter and the rhyme

Elude me every time

This thing called scansion is a mystery.

Not for me the art of verse

And so it was with many a curse

That I undertook this challenge they passed my way.

To string these words like beads on a thread

To create this bit of drivel you've read,

As my contribution to Rising Stars' Opposites Day

Midnight Medley

2010-01-10T04:09:00.000-08:00

The stillness of the winter midnight is shattered by the rumble of a truck approaching. It grinds to a stop, and a rusty, grating rattle and a loud bang announce the back being opened. This is followed by the clip-clop of bricks being unloaded, to the lusty shouts of encouragement or frustration from the workers at the construction site. Cocooned in my top-floor room in the apartment block, I can only guess at the emotions they want to convey. What I am feeling is a sense of resignation, the umpteenth tinny repeat of 'Roopbaan e nache komor dulaiya" from the wedding party three doors down having taken in all the irritation I felt some two hours ago. The party is winding down now, and they're down to some mellow, badly rendered Kailash Kher numbers. I burrow further into my blankets, trying to drown it all out and steal some sleep, but the silence of the phone is deafening.

Rewind

2010-01-07T09:24:00.000-08:00

January had sunk her freezing teeth into this sleepy Manikganj village, and everyone else had taken advantage of the kombol weather by bundling into their blankets as soon as it was dark. Pushing my balled fists deeper into the pockets of my sweatshirt, I surveyed the dirt track that led me down my solitary midnight walks whenever I visited the NGO. The moon was a ghostly glow piercing the fog of the night, dyeing everything with a silvery sheen without really illuminating anything, but I knew memory would guide my feet better than my eyesight could.

We had met on this very road three years ago.

"All I want is someone who will listen to me" you had told me, on the third night that you joined me on my walk.

I grew quiet, letting you speak. The cold air, the wet, earthy smell of the cauliflower patch, and your stories accompanied me back to Dhaka.

I found you again on this road the next year. Our fingers locked on the third trip around the circuit, and I held my breath when you began to speak.

"I don't think this is going to work out."

The breeze makes waves over the moonlit lake, creating fairy sparkles as I draw to the end of my first lap around the circuit. As I approach the quarters, I find a familiar figure standing there. This cannot be real.

You look away, biting your lips, unable to meet my eyes.

"Mind if I join you?"

Closing Time

2009-09-26T04:09:00.000-07:00

The slam of the door, announcing that his maid had left for home, roused him from his siesta. Glancing at his clock, he judged it was enough to Asr, and shuffled to the washroom to perform his wadu. The swirl of cold water inside his mouth brought him to full wakefulness, rinsing his eyes removed the last bit of the grit of sleep. He mechanically blew out his nose and washed behind his ears, and it wasn't until he had finished washing his face, and was running wet fingers over his thick, matted hair that he had the startling realisation that he hadn't been surprised by the empty space next to him. He almost annulled his ablutions with a surprised laugh, but reigned himself in at the last moment. Clamping down on his thoughts, he hurried through the washing of his hands and feet, disabled the alarm on his clock and scurried towards the prayer mat just as the first call to prayer was sounded outside. Later, he would examine his feelings at length. Later, he would allow himself to look back, and feel.

When his wife finally died, his first reaction had been relief. As much as he loved her, even till the last moment, when she fell into that final sleep still feebly clutching his fingertips, it was a release from the months of tortured waiting for the inevitable. The worst was over; no longer would he have to dread its coming, watching helplessly as she slipped further away from him with every laboured breath, the cancer hollowing out his emotions even as it poisoned her blood and gnawed on her bones.
He spent the next forty days in a strange sort of numbness, unable to feel the grief that friends and relatives offered sympathy for. The funeral, the final payments to the hospital, the correspondence...there were a hundred little things that kept him distracted. The sadness came much, much later, and it struck at odd moments. Taking out the wastebasket from the bathroom, he'd remember those months of chemotherapy, when her hair was coming out in clumps, and he'd carefully pluck the strands from the shower stall and gather the small, wispy bundles, wrapping them in tissue paper before throwing them away, so that she wouldn't be distressed by the sight of them. The small white cabinet over the sink was still stocked with her medication, and prescription papers still cluttered his desk.

"Ameen"

He kissed the rosary beads and rose with a sigh, and folded up the mat. Now that his meditation was over, he would surely be plagued by the old memories, that same aching sense of loss. He forestalled it by shuffling out of his room.
The maid had left his iftar covered with plates to keep warm. The sight of the table set for one depressed him anew, and he walked over to the telephone desk, racking his brains for someone who could make it over on short notice to join him. It wouldn't do to call someone from the family; talk would only turn to topics he wanted to avoid.

His eyes alighted on the calendar, with its picture of Stonehenge over the dates. Stonehenge. Once he had wanted to go there, when he was with...
Suddenly, an image flooded his brain: warm brown eyes full of mirth, a curtain of sleek black hair obscuring half of an elfin face, the proud arch of thick black brows. Other things, long buried, came floating up. The deep throaty chuckle that once sent shivers down his spine, her firm, warm handshake, that annoying habit she had of cracking her knuckles...

***

Beads of perspiration formed a wet moustache on her upper lip as she raised the fistful of cherry-red silk to survey her handiwork. The pleats were uneven again. She would have to start all over again. Muttering a silent curse, watered down so as not to break her fast, she gathered the material in her hands and began to form the pleats anew. Thirty-five, with a successful career under her belt, and she still had to struggle every time she had to drape a sari. Not for the first time did she wonder why she came back.

When her last relationship ended, she had packed her bags and moved to Singapore to start anew. Surrounded by the exciting new sights and sounds, she threw herself into her new life, taking delight in the many little things that would have been impossible for her back in Dhaka. The solitary midnight stroll by Clarke Quay. Setting out for an afternoon of window shopping at Bugis Junction in her flouncy knee-length dress that would have scandalised her aunts back at home, but was considered perfectly respectable here. The wealth of books on the racks in Kinokuniya, titles she would have scoured the stalls of Nilkhet for in vain. It was a good life, a fun life. Until she blew out the thirty-fifth candle on her cake, one that her married friends had brought for her, and she looked at their smiling faces, and those of their spouses, and she realised that it was also an empty life.
She had only begun her spiral of self-doubt, loneliness, and depression when she received the summons from back home, asking after her to join some family reunion or the other. She took the next plane home.

The clock showed an hour to iftar. The friend she had been expecting rang up to regret that she wouldn't be able to make it after all, leaving her stranded in a sari and a meal for two. She cracked her knuckles impatiently, a habit he had always found annoying. That thought stilled her frantic pacing. Why did he keep creeping unbidden into her mind now, after all these years? She shook her head, telling herself it was an effect of the hunger from fasting. She had heard from a mutual friend that he had recently been widowed, and at that time, the news had not made an impact on her. Now, though, other recollections, once faded, began to flare to life. The timbre of his voice. His crooked smile. The look on his face the day she told him she was leaving him.

***

He stared at the caldendar. The floodgates, once opened, were impossible to close, and after a while, he stopped fighting and just lay back, set adrift on the wave of nostalgia.

They had had a rather tumultuous relationship. She had been older by four years, and, for all her beauty and personal charm, prone to insecurities about the difference that would not have mattered so much had their situations been reversed. That was one thing that had always resulted in fights between them, how she complained about society's double standards, but was such a stickler for 'propriety'. There would be fights, tears, heated arguments, and then she would be sweetly contrite, and he couldn't find it in his heart to hold a grudge against her. At her best, she was lively and intelligent, and easy to talk to, and at first, it was worth all the fighting. And then one day, he walked into the classroom, and there was a new girl there, staring out of the window as her fingers idly toyed with the glass bangles on her delicate wrist. He knew right then, where his heart really belonged.

His heart contracted as he pictured his wife. For the first time in months, he began to remember her, not as he'd seen her last, careworn, diminished by her pain, but as the beautiful girl who had stolen his heart the first time he met her. He expected the memories to hurt, but instead, he found himself smiling as he looked back. And just like that, he knew whom to call.

***

She shook her head, smiling ruefully. It had not taken her very long to notice the change in him. Their meetings became rarer. He began to grow edgy and skittish in her presence, and would not meet her eyes unless he had to. At the same time, he became oddly solicitious, as though desperately trying to please her. A name began to crop up with increasing frequency in their stilted conversations. It was only a matter of time before the pieces clicked into place.
She did the only thing she could think of, to salvage her wounded pride. She confronted him with what she knew, and then broke off the relationship, nobly declaring 'All I ever wanted was for you to be happy". During the lonely flight that took her away from everything familiar to her, she cried out all her humiliation and disappointment. By the time the plane touched down at Changi airport, she had accepted her fate. When she heard of his marriage six months later, she had no tears left to shed for him. She had moved on. If she ever met him again, she would tell him just that.

The phone began to ring.

Lucid Dreams

2009-04-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

You first become aware something's amiss when the fan overhead stops whirring, and the A/C grinds to a halt. As you waver irritably between dreams and awakening, a shuddering, thunderous roar goes up as the generator comes to life. Great. Another powercut. It was funny enough when you chuckled over last week's fictional escapade in the search of the ever-elusive Electricity, but now the joke's wearing thin.

Somewhere, just audible over the the drone, is the tinny voice of a broadcast. Someone's television (or is it a radio?) is backed up by the generator, and tuned to some annoying news program.

"The rate of warming is increasing. The 20th century's last two decades were the hottest in 400 years and possibly the warmest for several millennia, according to a number of climate studies...Arctic ice is rapidly disappearing, and the region may have its first completely ice-free summer by 2040 or earlier."

More gloom and doom. Just what you needed after a sleepless night spent writing some stupid assignment that would have been finished hours earlier if your UPS hadn't been shot. You kick off the covers, squirming in the heat as you try to get comfortable and crawl back into peaceful slumber.

The sun shimmers overhead, a ball of white heat. The bare tops of leafless trees claw the stifling, windless air that scorches sunburnt tumorous skin. The boat floats solemnly over what used to be a bustling capital city, now sleeping under what used to be ice-caps. Elsewhere on the planet, another starving polar bear drowns.

Your sleeping hand swats at the annoying whine at your ear, half-waking you, and dispersing the cobwebs of the nightmare. As you roll over to the other side, your shoulder bumps the bedside table, and the magazine you'd been reading falls to the ground. It was the issue with that terribly depressing cover story about the global water crisis.

"884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people...Every 15 seconds, a child dies from a water-related disease"

As you wait for sleep, you can't help but remember those three horrific days just last week when you had no water in the flat. You lie there with your eyes closed, remembering...

The rust stains on the shower head mocked you as you stared at it. You've turned the knobs as far as they would go, but not a drop comes out. The faucet in the sink had belched some mud and air earlier in the morning, but nothing since then. The buckets you had filled two days ago had run dry the previous night, and now stand empty. The kitchen counter is littered with empty PET bottles. You'd exhausted those too. Dirty dishes lie in the sink, unwashed laundry stinking in the clothes basket. You'd called municipality man an hour ago to inquire when the next shipment of water would reach you, but all you got was a busy dial tone. Staring at your fast-depleting wallet, you decided to suffer your thirst just a little longer...

The steady drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet brings you back to the conveniences of the present, as soothing as the feel of your mother's hands patting your back as she crooned a lullaby to you as a child. Comforted by the sound, you try to drift off again, but it's hard. Even several storeys up, you can still smell the acrid black smoke from the giant diesel-guzzling beast of a generator downstairs. It is an ever-present, oppressive malodor that invades your nostrils in this increasingly stuffy room. It reminds you of the cumbersome biology assignment you'd been working on.

"The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 1.5 billion people living in urban areas throughout the world breathe dangerous levels of air pollution"

Like you didn't know that already. Suddenly the muggy humidity and the smell of the smoke are more than you can bear. Pushing aside your pillow, you get up to your feet. You step towards the window, but decide against opening them; why let more of the smoke in? You open the door, hoping to relieve some of the claustrophobia, but the air outside your room is as dank and stale as the air within. You stand there, as though keenly aware of the million invisible cells and particles swarming in the very air you're breathing, crawling in through your nostrils, invading your body, the germs, the dust, the aerosol gases, and you find yourself choking on the thought. Your vision swims and sweat beads form on your face, running down your skin to pool at the waistband of your trousers.

Your lungs are on fire, clamoring for some fresh air...

...and you wake up in the car, stuck in the middle of yet another traffic jam, under the blazing midday sun. Even as you grunt and shift into a more comfortable position, the traffic light turns green and the cool breeze generated by your car moving forward, alleviates that suffocating sensation. You shake your head to clear it of the phantasm, and smile to yourself, feeling a little foolish. And another Earth Day passes, unnoticed.

References: http://news.nationalgeographic.com, http://www.water.org, http://www.cleanairsys.com

Photos: www.deviantart.com

A Shocking Caper

2009-04-16T01:00:00.000-07:00

(with Azfarul Islam)

A cesspool of dreams, mired in corruption, bubbling with desire. Where ideas converge for the future and green paper diverges thoughts, minds and hearts. Where the deepest, darkest bowels are now evermore, silent, metastasising. This is Dhaka City.
An abyssal blackness plunges all, from the delicately-coiffed baby squirming in his mother's lap to the restless student glancing guiltily at the papers on his desk, his pallid face basking in the glow of a forbidden read. The darkness even consumes the weary magnate, his fingers callused from all the zeroes typed in for the day. One can muse how 'zero' is but naught, a non-existent sum that feeds on others to gain stature. Like the shade now eclipsing all these tiny lives, stilling the beating heart of the City, clogged arteries and all.

Somewhere in Gulshan, 6:30pm

It was a sweltering evening, and the descending sun sneered down at the sweaty city, raising fiery fingers in a mocking salute as it gave way to the Darkness. With a great, shuddering roar, the generators fired up as the City prepared for yet another losing battle against the power-cut. Electricity was nowhere to be seen. The UPS beeped pitifully once or twice, and finally gave up. Damn.
Svelte and charming; with typing speeds to rival Hermes and a motherly nature hiding a real wildcat underneath, even the toughest of men have withered under the QWERTY of Sabs. She peered up from her well-thumbed copy of Rising Stars, every private eye's source for all that happens in the dark underbelly of Dhaka's teen populace.
“No sign of Electricity, then?”
“Nope. Been missing for freakin' half-an-hour now!”
“Blast it!”

This from the quick-witted, flamboyant Az, whose words had a keener edge than Darth Vader's trusty light-sabre, and woe betide the poor soul that lit his legendary short fuse and faced the business end of his sarcasm. Electricity better turn up soon, or there would be blood. And none of it would be Az's.

Just then, someone's cell-phone rang, piercing the dust.
“Hello? Is this the Rising Investigators? Oh, thank God!”

Ah. When there's trouble, one can count on word to come crawling to the Rising Investigators. If anyone could get to the bottom of a story, it would be these two. They did chew out the Ghostbusters last year and send them crying, yelling something about the devil's own minions. The details weren't important.

“How can we help you, ma'am?”
“My baby's been wailing non-stop since Electricity left us, and the IPS quit, and the mosquitoes are getting us and...”

At this point, the batteries gave out. Typical. Electricity hadn't been there long enough to let us charge our phones. Still, it was a lead.

Crime Scene One: A house in Dhanmondi

The victim, a baby, had gone purple in the face from crying. Even with the windows opened (thus the mosquitoes), the room felt like soup. The mother was frantically flapping a magazine, trying to generate some wind, while the ceiling fan overhead lay idle, mocking us. Az and Sabs exchanged looks: it was time to search for clues. They scoured the cupboard. They combed through the shelves...and then, they found it. Tucked away into an obscure corner of a mid-safe was a quaint artifact, a throwback from the previous decade...a nakshi hand-fan. With its smooth wooden handle and brightly coloured cloth border, it was just perfect.
“What's that? You found it where? In the mid-safe? Oh no! It probably belonged to my mother-in-law...which means it's cursed!” In the silence that ensued, a pair of incredulous eyebrows inched up a pair of incredulous foreheads. “You what?”
“Don't you guys watch Hindi serials? Oh, I see...” This last as Sabs slapped her own forehead in sheer frustration, and Az mimed puking motions. Giving up this ultra-modern urbanite as utterly hopeless, Sabs swished the hand-fan over the baby.
A gentle breeze issued forth and the baby hiccupped a few times, and was mercifully silent. The woman's flabbergasted exclamations of joy were cut short by the jangle of some annoying Bollywood number, which turned out to be her cell-phone ringer. “Hello? Yes...the Rising Investigators are here...what? Okay, I'll tell them.” The two didn't need an explanation. There was a new scene to visit.

Crime Scene Two: A god-forsaken room with the vilest possible stench, i.e., the room of your average student

For someone who sounded like a pansy girl on the phone, they were shocked to find their student a tall gangly mass of black clothes, hairy and studded with piercings. He was head-banging to a knock-off iPod grasped in his quivering, sweat-encrusted claw. Az knocked politely on the door. The student turned to them, eyes blurred with relief... and fear. He spoke in that voice, causing Sabs to roll her eyes and Az wishing that she hadn't convinced him to leave his wooden sword at the office. He wondered if someone squeaking in a nauseating tone counted as “wielding a weapon with deadly intent”. From what they filtered out of the screeching cacophony that greeted them, he had coursework to submit, due - as these things are - the following day. With an IPS that had died with nary a cough, there wasn't much hope for this lad without his PC. They shook their heads and started interrogating him, trying to rack his brain, so good at organising a massive MP3 collection in alphabetic order, yet failing at more practical things in life. Like personal hygiene.
Whilst Az attempted to communicate, Sabs' bright eyes pierced the darkness, taking in a lot of detail that, well, once seen couldn't be unseen. She spied a dirty sheaf of printer paper and then whispered to Az in an excited voice, “Remember the time we got a cheque?” Az locked his gaze with hers, his mouth agape. Of course, he slapped himself metaphysically. Rummaging a pocket best left unrummaged, he gripped something ancient yet still working. He spoke softly to the lad, “What I'm about to pass onto you has been with me through many a case. So, I'll kill you if you don't get an A+.” He handed a chipped ballpoint pen, still half-full of ink. Understanding dawned on the student's face and his once meek outlook turned into dogged determination. He nodded once.On the way out, Sabs, without looking back asked him, “So, what were you listening to?”He proudly exclaimed, “Havy matal. Back ishtrit boyej.”

Soon-to-be Crime Scene Three: A restaurant, good food, decent service. The Maître d' usually gives us a discount.

She smiled at him from across the table, dimples forming fetchingly across her cheeks. He felt a flutter in his stomach...no wait, that was probably the kofta curry. His wallet would probably hate him, but right now, Dhaka Romeo was definitely blissed out at having managed a date with the Babe Next Door. Their fingers inched forward, crawling across the expanse of tablecloth for a rendezvous at the centrepiece. Chugchugchug... broooomm.
With a dying groan, the generator gave out, plunging the room into darkness. A medley of exclamations, complaints and apologies arose. It turned out that the frequency with which Electricity went AWOL, even the uber-romantic candles were running out. Suddenly, a beam of light appeared from the doorway, as two familiar figures walked in, armed with their trusty, cheap, mug-proof cell-phones. “Just happened to be passing by!” Sabs chimed, while Az grinned rakishly.
“The Rising Investigators! We're saved!”

The pair walked in, bearing a pair of dusty artefacts not seen in years. “We found these at a kutcha bazaar. They're called hurricane lamps, and they run on kerosene.”The little crowd watched, rapt, as Sabs poured the oil in. Flicking his thumbnail over the tip, Az lit a match, and then lit the tapers. A pattering of applause went around as the small flames flickered to life, illuminating tired, sweaty faces, the interlinked fingers of Dhaka Romeo and Babe Next Door. The emergency had been thwarted and romance restored, but it was clear that there was still a job to be done. Electricity had to be found. The Rising Investigators stepped out into the Darkness. Our two heroes were hot on the trail of the elusive Electricity, chasing the sightings, interrogating eyewitnesses, who gave different accounts.

“We had 'im an hour back.”
“Comes and goes...”
“Aijka soy baar gese!”
“Afa, bhaiya... ey torss-ta kinben?”, grinned a toothless 'Amare-maaf-koira-den' Dilip, ever the opportunist.

All over, men roared in anguish, women screamed and children ran amok, happy, excited, frightened - an outpouring of emotion not felt since the day before. One by one, the generators gave out. The lines at the CNG filling stations grew longer. Tempers frayed. Nails were bitten. Locks of hair were torn out in utter frustration. The suspense crescendoed......and then the lights came back on. Az hit 'Save', and Sabs clicked on 'Send', and the article on power-cuts was on its way to the Rising Stars, and the two writers, shared a moment of self-congratulation. Once again, Rising Stars has a cover story. The day is saved!

Face-off

2009-01-22T06:21:00.000-08:00

I stand facing the room. Thirty pairs of eyes stare back at me, weighing me like tomatoes at a kitchen market. I smile, knowing their collective fate is in my hands, and letting them know it. The silence stretches uncomfortably, and the nervous bodies begin to shift uneasily. I speak, breaking the tension. "Hello class, I am your new teacher."

Bizarre Love Triangle

2009-01-15T06:16:00.000-08:00

The flickering flames created a sensuous dance of light and shadows that glided over his stern profile; cold and forbidding as a statue. She turned eagerly towards him as a flower seeks the light, knowing she would be spurned. Warm teardrops splashed down her cheeks as she finally turned away, each a stab at my heart, which she owned, unaware

Rude Awakening

2009-01-08T06:12:00.000-08:00

First it was the persistent tinkle of bells. She reached out towards the source of the noise, but it evaded her blindly groping hands. Then a louder beat joined the tinkle as she crawled, bleary-eyed, towards it. As a wailing flute entered the melody, she dived...and went sliding down the bed, the alarm on her cell-phone singing in triumph.

A tap at the window

2008-12-25T06:06:00.000-08:00

It was the faintest sounds, and I thought I had imagined it. Outside my window lay a winter wonderland, a familiar landscape obscured by mist and bathed in silvery moonlight. There it was again, like the whispered echo of a heartbeat. And then I saw it; a fly trapped between the wire screen and the windowpane, struggling to get free.

Ride with me

2008-10-01T22:59:00.000-07:00

Large suitcases splattered with tags nest cosily next to flashily coloured travelling bags on the back of the crowded bus. Up in the front, heads are bobbing to private rhythms fed to the ears through the wires of sleek mp3 players. She turns to the window to watch the roads run away from home.

The bus shuddered, rumbled, and rattled to a start. Judging by the condition of the roads and the traffic that clogged the highway junctions like cholesterol in a human artery, it would be a long ride. Ruby sighed and shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. It was hard to get legroom inside this cramped space. Kicking off her scuffed, much-abused sneakers, she slumped against the window, and stretched her legs out on the empty seat next to her.

With a single shouted warning from the bus conductor, the vehicle rolled and screeched to a halt. This was the last pick-up point, which meant that someone would shortly come to reclaim the extra seat. Grumbling inaudibly, she shifted to a sitting position.

The smell of the cologne hit her before he reached her. Even before she registered what this meant, she instinctively knew to expect the long limbs, the narrow frame, the slightly hunched posture, the light stubble over the strong jaw, and the spiked hair.

"Riko?"

Tarik paused in the act of stashing his bag in the overhead compartment and looked at his co-passenger. And there she was, staring up at him, lips parted, eyes wide open, and eyebrows hitting the ceiling in an expression of astonishment that he always found so disarming.

"Well I'll be damned."

The bus lurched forward, throwing him off, and he dropped into his seat. She shied away, and he craned his neck for a quick glance around to see if there were any other seats available. No such luck.

"Of all the seats, in all the buses, in all the city services, I get one next to yours."
"Ah, so you finally watched Casablanca."

She shrugged in a way that was typically Ruby. He sighed and settled into his seat, remembering...

The fresh plates are stacked by the hotpots, gleaming in anticipation, right next to the hotpots steaming with the mixed aromas of pulao rice, chicken curry and mixed vegetables. Knives and forks clash in a merry cacophony as piles of food are decimated. Outside, in the freezing cold, the starving dog waits for scraps.

Tarik pushed his plate away, the contents untouched. He was in no mood to eat after the events of the morning. What was supposed to have been a simple donation delivery mission at the children's hospital had quickly turned into a tragedy when one of the premature babies in the non-paying ward stopped breathing. He had watched, with a kind of horrified detachment, as a team of medics rushed in with pumps and attempted to resuscitate the little thing, hardly bigger than his hand. Using a miniature suction pump, they attempted to clean the tiny nostrils, while a small hand-held pump was pressed to force air into those newly formed lungs. Suddenly, there was a click and flash, and he looked up in disbelief to see a camera lens pointed at the tableau.

Ruby.

Suddenly, the doctor in charge raised a hand, and the team backed off. Tarik tensed, as the young mother, barely in her teens, hopefully approached the bed.

"I'm sorry...."

The rest of the consolatory words were drowned out, as, with a keening wail, the girl flung herself at the corpse of her baby. Tarik felt his insides turn cold, as he belatedly realised that the baby had died.

Ruby brushed past him and made for the bed. Stopping for a few words with the doctor, she made for the mother. She whispered a few words to the girl's mother, and handed her a small bundle of money. Resting her hand on the sobbing girl's head for a second, she hoisted the bag of gift packs onto her shoulder and made for the next bed. Already, she was smiling at the patient, handing her a packet.

Stepping outside now, he found her sitting on the steps, feeding scraps to a flea-bitten mutt. The dog had attached itself to her since the first time she fed it, on their first night here, and had been following her around since. He watched, disgusted, as she scratched it behind the ears, laughing as it leaned into the caress. Suddenly, all the anger and resentment he'd been feeling since morning exploded inside him. Striding forward, he kicked the dog as hard as he could, sending the creature flying with a yelp. She was on her feet in a flash.

"Riko! What's your problem?"
"My problem? I'll tell you what my problem is. How could you stand there and shoot pictures and laugh with the other patients? My God! The girl had just lost her baby!"

She straightened her back and her eyes grew flinty.

"Those other patients had problems enough of their own, and didn't need to deal with a wet-eyed volunteer who can't hold it together. What the hell was I supposed to do? Bawl my eyes out? Would it bring the baby...."

The words remained unspoken as a hand came crashing against her face. The force of the blow made her head snap back, and she stumbled backwards, but caught herself just in time. He stood there, shocked his own loss of control as she raised a hand to her cheek, where a large palm print was already beginning to form.

"Ruby, I'm sorry..."

But she was already walking away.

Rich purples and dark blues bleed into one another in the sky. The sun is a fiery disc, speeding towards slumber. Inside the bus, the lights come on, illuminating the passengers.

"I never got to tell you how sorry I was for hitting you that day, or even thinking you didn't care."

She dismissed it with yet another shrug.

"Ancient history."
"You did care, though, didn't you. I saw your article."
"Why didn't you call?"
"I was scared. I didn't know what to tell you"

She smiled. Gingerly, he reached out, and took her hand. She curled her fingers around his. Up in the front, the bleary-eyed driver failed to notice the roads were slick from a recent downpour. As the wheels began to skid, he suddenly snapped to attention, panicked, and hit the brakes. Losing traction, the bus skidded off and spun around thrice, before wrapping itself around an ancient banyan tree.

As the vehicle began to spin, and Ruby and Riko clung to each other for support, flashes of their shared experiences exploded into their memories.

The first time they met, on another bus ride, a year ago.

The first walk through the countryside, over the moonlit path, unhindered by electric lighting.

The first time their fingers touched and tangled, under the table during a briefing session.

When the rescue team pulled the bodies out of the bus, they were still holding hands.

Curry me across the shoreline

2008-09-22T05:27:00.000-07:00

The email had come out of the blue. It was a simple, rather random note, but the aching familiarity of it left her feeling pole-axed.

"Hey Sweetheart

18 days gone, maybe another week or so, and then life goes back to its normal routine. Your mother finally left enough rice for me for once, and the spinach and bitter gourd were awesome too, so I finished it all up. The best part was the egg. I hope you're having your porridge with bananas. Make sure you drink lots of water. I'm going to set the alarm for your mom now, so that the old woman remembers to take her meds. Offer your prayers, and have a good night's ZZZ.

Luvya,

Dad"

It was so typically him, she could almost feel the crackle of the pages from the tiny memo pads he used to write these midnight sehri notes on. She was torn between tears and laughter as she tried to picture the perplexed expression on her mother's face as she asked the pointless question, "How much rice does that man need?"
As she switched off the computer, Shanila reacted to the suddenness of the communication in a way that was uniquely hers; she was struck with a sudden, and inexplicable hankering for food that wasn't immediately available. Right now, her starving body screamed for some good old fish curry. None of the fancy, anglicized versions of curry either; those brightly coloured concoctions might conform with the Bollywood cross-over ideal of what Sub-continental looked like, but were pale imitations of the actual thing when it came to taste. No...what Shanila craved was some authentic shorisha ilish, the way her mother used to make it back home.
Derek found her in the kitchen, pounding away with her pestle at a clove of garlic. Pulling a beer out of his fridge, he offered her a sip.

"Derek! I'm fasting!"

This was something he was well aware of; for an entire month every year, the otherwise up-for-anything, "Nila" would suddenly go all straight-edge on him, eschewing sex, smokes, and alcohol, praying like there was no tomorrow. He got his kicks from getting a rise out of her when she got like this. Edging closer to the counter, he spotted the neat array of fish and spices. Having completed her preparation of the garlic paste, she was de-seeding green chilli peppers.

"What's all this? We having Indian tonight?"
"Bangladeshi! Shorisha Ilish is a Bangladeshi dish! Now move. You're getting in the way."
"Well excuse me for breathing. Sheesh!"

He moved away, stung by her overreaction to a genuine question. Normally, she would collect herself at this stage and apologise, but this time she didn't. Curiosity won over resentment, and he turned back to observe her at work, careful to stay well out of her way. He might as well have not existed for all the attention she paid him. He watched, fascinated, as she grabbed the fish fillets, marinated in a concoction of turmeric, salt and lime juice, and popped them into the pan, shallow frying with gusto. Nila wasn't the most enthusiastic of cooks, tending to prefer store-brought or take-ins, reluctantly tossing the odd salad or stir-frying noodles. This was the first time she was actually making what seemed to be a complicated, obviously exotic dish, and she went at it with a total absorption that Derek found a little unsettling.

"Need help?"

She whipped around to snap at him, but caught the bashful smile on his face, and realised he was in earnest, and her attitude softened.

"Okay. You shallow-fry the fish. Make sure they're golden brown on both sides. I'll deal with the curry."

Trying not to burn the fillets, he watched her askance as she stir fried the spices. Ginger, garlic, mustard seed, chilli powder, turmeric, coriander and bayleaf went dancing into the oil, swirling to form a golden brown concoction that smelt powerful, but looked nothing like the stuff he saw in restaurants. Where were the warm yellows, the bright reds?

"You've done this before, Nila?"

"Nope."

"Ah. Maybe you want to add some more of that stuff?" He indicated the turmeric jar.

"No. This is fine."

"But you said ______"

"Hey! You trying to teach a Bengali how to cook fish?"

"Okay! Okay! Keep your hair on! I'm sorry!"

After that, they worked in silence as she added water and salt, brought the curry to boil before popping in the fish and garnishing with green chillies. She scooped a bit of the gravy and tasted some, the furrows at her brow relaxing as she finally smiled.

"Perfect."

"Uh...Nila. Weren't you fasting?"

"Oh. Damnit!"

"Well...you lasted ten hours, didn't you. That's got to count?"

"You don't understand..."

"Stop saying that, okay? I get this whole fasting and absolution business that you guys do, alright..."

He broke off in alarm as her eyes overflowed and two fat teardrops spilled down her cheeks. She backed away until her back was against the counter, and then sank down to the floor, her frame wracked by silent sobbing. He was by her side in a flash. Unsure of how she might want to be comforted, he awkwardly patted her knee as she cried. At length, the floods subsided, and she clumsily wiped her nose on her sleeve.

"The fish. The fasting. This wasn't just one of your random whims, was it? What's on your mind?"

"I had an email from Dad. It was one of his sehri notes."

"Sehri notes?"

"It's a long story."

***

Renu turned down the heat on the stove, and stirred the gravy one last time. As she ladled the contents of the pan into the bowl, a satisfying aroma of ghee and spices arose from the kofta curry. After years of practice, she'd finally perfected her rendition of the old family favourite taught to her by her mother. It was a pity that her own daughter Shanila never took an interest in Bengali cooking, or any cooking for that matter. Her little girl had always been too busy with her nose in books to bother stepping into the kitchen, and now that she was all grown up, she'd flown off to the land of fish and chips, and probably lived off that stuff now.
As she carefully stored the food in plastic containers to freeze until the Eid feast next week, her husband Shafi came shuffling into the kitchen, his face split into an ear-to-ear grin.

"What, looking for rice are you?"
"You crack me up, dearest. Got a mail from the Firstborn."
"Another animated Eid card?"
"Better than that. She wrote us a sehri note."

Dear Dad,
Cooked my first shorisha ilish today. I dug the recipe out from that Siddika Kabir book Mom had packed with me. It was spicier than mum's one, but tasted great with the rice. Sorry, I didn't do porridge this time. I hope Mum's taking a glass of milk along with her meds? Don't forget to have some extra pulao on my behalf this Eid.

Love you and miss you both,

Nila.

I cannot tell you

2008-09-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

Amongst the things I cannot tell you is the fact that I've always known the effect those diary entries would have on you, even as I wrote them. Don't get me wrong; I was shattered when you left me. Those tears you happened upon when later you dropped in to check on me were very real indeed. You see, I didn't want to be the one to break your heart.
Let's face it. We both knew this was one journey we couldn't finish together. I just thought you should be the one to call it off. Dealing with the end of the most perfect experience I've ever had was difficult enough without having the additional burden of guilt on my shoulders. No, it was far easier to play the victim and let you take the blame.
I cannot also tell you that although I felt sorry for you while you struggled with the guilt you suffered, a perverse part of me actually enjoyed your discomfort. I bit back the hurt and the bitterness and the utter desolation of losing you, choosing to be sympathetic and understanding of your situation, knowing it would make you feel worse.

How smug I was beneath that veneer of martyrdom, when I saw you floundering hopelessly, hating yourself for thinking of her when I was so obviously not over you! I detested the sight of her pretty little face, and that enchanting giggle of hers that reeled you in, pulling you away from me. I loved how it made you feel so low and dishonest. In those long, lean months, deprived of the warmth of your arms, I fed off your self-loathing.

It's been a long while since we went our separate ways. You've found and lost someone else, locking the memory of us into some dim recess of your mind, like a box in the attic. I know that you return to it sometimes, sifting through half-forgotten moments. That walk in the park. That kiss in the rain. The silly song we sang together that left us both breathless with laughter. I know, because I do the same.
But these are all things I cannot tell you. So tonight, sitting in the very place we had once promised to visit together, I shall send off this postcard, stamped and franked, but unwritten.

Morning in Manikganj

2008-06-26T05:37:00.000-07:00

By eight, the household has yielded its occupants to the fields. On the freshly swept floor is a delicate filigree of shadows and light, created by sunlight streaming through the vegetable vines. Moisture beads clinging to the gourds glisten like pearls. Tethered just out of reach of their leaves, the cow lows irritably, flicking flies off its bony back.

Summer

2008-05-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

The queue of traffic snaked around four alleyways, ending in a confused knot around a gas station. The drone of the generators had become all too commonplace, numbing the senses. The sunlight glinted off the quartz on the dusty ground, where a dog lay panting in its death throes, its nostrils full of the heavy scent of mango blossoms.

Rise and Fall

2008-04-24T05:22:00.000-07:00

"All I want is someone who will listen to me."

She fell silent, letting him speak.

The breeze made waves over the moonlit park, creating fairy sparkles. Their fingers locked by the third trip round the walkway. She held her breath. Could this be it?

His smile faded and he looked away.

"I don't think it's going to work out."

Jazz Cafe

2008-04-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

Muted jazz plays discreetly in the background. The smooth notes of Kenny G pour over the waves of conversation that ebb and flow around the tables. Reclining in a cushy sofa, she surveys the familiar environs of her favourite cafe. He watches silently as the glow of the lantern illuminates her face. The saxophone muffles the roar of his heartbeat.

Midnight Whispers

2008-03-06T06:53:00.000-08:00

The wayward moonbeams, slipping in between the hastily-drawn curtains illuminated the prone body in a silvery sheen. The quiet chuckles and soft sighs were all but drowned out by the whirring ceiling fan, the crickets, and the thousand other sounds of the night. Blowing a kiss over the phone, she ended the conversation with a sigh and a smile.

First Date

2008-02-28T05:06:00.000-08:00

At peak hour, the bustling restaurant was crammed to the teeth, the air heavy with conversations, and the aromas of tomato, mozzarella and garlic. On the narrow table, set for two, the pizza, long grown cold, had taken on a rubbery consistency. Oblivious to the world around him, he watched her blush and coyly look away, and suppressed a smile.

With or without you

2008-02-04T10:30:00.000-08:00

Five pieces of metal, uniquely shaped and serrated; each a story of its own, yet all joined together by a circlet of steel. They were given to my parents by the construction company that tore down the cozy home of my childhood and replaced it with a block of shiny flats. Finally deeming me responsible enough to have my own schedule, my mother handed them to me.
I have a bittersweet relationship with that woman. I absolutely hate the way she tries to run my life, telling me how much to eat, when to wake up, what to wear. Yet I cling to her, terrified, needing the security of her closeness, a compass to direct me. No matter how tall I get or how far I run, she dominates my thoughts.
I know that tonight, I'll wait up for her until she returns, and meekly return them to her, and she would ask me if it wasn't a good idea I'd taken them. I'll nod in agreement and tell her 'Thanks Mom. I'd be stranded otherwise." And she will smile, knowing it wasn't the keys I was referring to.

For Leo

2008-01-28T06:37:00.000-08:00

Evening progresses, and you lay in wait
With growing anticipation, as the hour grows late
Is tonight the night
You'll finally get some action?
Or will you take it slow
With rest and relaxation?
He comes towards you with a tenderness in his eyes
And you sigh with contentment as he lies
Down and stretches comfortably
But then your pleasure turns to dread
As he sinks into a sleep of the dead
You poor deluded thing, can't you get it in your head,
That he's a human being, and you're only his bed?

Presentation

2008-01-19T07:44:00.001-08:00

Silence is deafening in the conference room; every cough and shuffle amplified to thrice their usual volume. Hands clasped before them, the judges sit in front, poker-faced and expectant. I take a deep breath and begin to speak the lines I'm already forgetting.

Homework

2008-01-19T07:43:00.001-08:00

Bright oil-pastel pie charts sit smugly next to bold charts proclaiming facts, figures, and estimates. Markers and crayons lie in heaps of pencil shavings. Red-eyed and stubble-cheeked from working round the clock, the boy steps out of the common room for his seventh smoke since lunch.

Tania

2008-01-19T07:42:00.002-08:00

Despite the patina of dust covering her dusky skin, and her matted, lifeless curls, she is pretty in a quiet, unassuming way. The thin purple frock clings to her slender frame, accentuating a young body just blossoming into womanhood. She smiles coyly at us and breaks into haunting song.

Arsenic

2008-01-19T07:42:00.001-08:00

The lone tubewell is a plain mud-grey, unmarked by the paint of government inspectors. The owner stands before me, feet swollen and cracked, teeth stained brown by the water that is supposedly safer than that from the creek. With a shake of his head, he tells us the health facilities in the main hospital have improved.

Walking through the village market

2008-01-19T07:41:00.000-08:00

Voices loud and low, smooth and raspy, mellifluous and toneless vie with one another in a bid to bag customers. Smells of spices, rices, meat and radishes assail the nostril. Under the shade of the mango tree, a toothless medicine man mumbles out the price of a herbal aphrodisiac.

Village belle

2008-01-19T07:40:00.000-08:00

She had the face and figure of a supermodel, and her beauty was unencumbered by false trappings in her demure cotton sari. Her eyes were a startling shade of silver, like the fresh fish she was cutting up for lunch. Looking up from work, the village woman spied the pesky field researchers, scrunched up her features into a scowl, and reached for the sharp scythe to drive them away.

Snapshot

2008-01-19T07:38:00.000-08:00

The sky above is a bright, hard-boiled shade of blue. Down below, the mustard flowers ripple in the breeze, creating a shimmering carpet of gold. Shihab presses a button, and time is frozen in a digital image.

The Ride

2008-01-16T22:26:00.002-08:00

Large suitcases, splattered with tags nest cosily next to flashily coloured travelling bags on the back of the crowded bus. Up in the front, heads are bobbing to private rhythms fed to the ears through the wires of sleek mp3 players. She turns to the window to watch the roads run away from home.

Arrival

2008-01-16T22:26:00.001-08:00

The driveway swarms with noisy students disembarking from the bus. The halls echo with the grating sound of wheeled suitcases being dragged across the floor. We race towards the dorms to book a room.

Lunch

2008-01-16T22:25:00.001-08:00

The queue extends right out of the large, bright cafeteria. Mountains of fragrant rice, fresh green vegetables and ruhi fish wait, ready to be conquered. A collective sigh breaks out as the service staff dips a spoon into the lentils.

Seminar

2008-01-16T22:24:00.002-08:00

The stiff-backed blue plastic chairs can barely contain the restless, fidgeting students. Overhead, the rusty blades of the ceiling fan grate slowly as they rotate, adding to the drone of the droopy-eyed speaker. Amy gives up the battle against sleep and begins to snore.

Dinnertime

2008-01-16T22:24:00.001-08:00

The fresh plates are stacked by the hotpots, gleaming in anticipation, right next to the hotpots steaming with the mixed aromas of pulao rice, chicken curry and mixed vegetables. Knives and forks clash in a merry cacophony as piles of food are decimated. Outside, in the freezing cold, the starving dog waits for scraps.

Survey

2008-01-16T22:21:00.000-08:00

Tin roof, bamboo walls, earthen floors make up this humble home. This becomes data jotted down in yet another set of questionnaires, ready to be processed into a field report worth a university grade. The home-owner, the weary farmer, turns his eyes towards his barren fields.

Self Esteem

2008-01-01T05:00:00.000-08:00

"When do your braces come off? I can't wait to show you off."
I stopped smiling. He left me on my birthday.

***

"You'd be quite good-looking, if you weren't so fat."
I stopped eating. He found someone else.

***

"I hope you get really fat. That would be so hot."

Someday, they'll like me just the way I am.

Sacrifice

2007-12-17T10:14:00.000-08:00

..."therefore, to thy Lord turn in prayer and in Sacrifice. " (Nahr)-Al Quran, 108.2

In the family room, the voices on the television discussed religion.

"Qurbani is an Islamic prescription for the affluent to share their good fortune with the needy in the community."

The door opened, and the man of the house came in, wearing a perplexed frown. The wife looked up expectantly from the entertainment magazine she was reading.

"Done buying the livestock?"
"Yes. I got three bulls."
'Just three!"
"Stock's limited this year, what with so many cattle dying in the storm last month. Prices are outrageous too"
"But...what will our neighbours say?"
"I don't think we need to worry. Given the recent events, keeping a low profile would be prudent, don't you think?"

She pouted prettily, twisting her be-ringed fingers in her sari, but knew his logic was irrefutable. Friends and former acquaintances had met with an overnight transformation in their fortunes when something as simple as a flashy car in their garage got the wrong kind of people asking too many questions.

"I suppose we can afford to make a few sacrifices this year" she sighed.

***

The young couple browsed the stores, checking out the clothing on display. Shelves and racks glittered with dazzling Bollywood chic outfits, with even more dazzling price tags.

"Afa, eita dekhen! Latesht Himesh Reshammiya design"

The store attendant held up a particularly gaudy sari, oddly named after a male artist. It spilled from his arm onto the low bench he was standing on. The bench was covered with a sheet of newspaper, and glancing towards it, trying to spot the price tag, their eyes alighted on a tiny photo peeking up at them. It showed the stricken face of a cyclone victim waiting for aid.

"You know what? I'm not really in the mood for something jazzy this year"
"Me neither."
"Let's get something locally made. I hear some of the craft stores employ local weavers."
'I was thinking the same."
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of those chiffons instead?"
"I think we can make a sacrifice for this year."

***

The man trudged tiredly back home. His shopping bag was slack from his meagre purchases, and this he handed to his wife with a helpless shrug and a rueful look. Their son sitting in his room, colouring flags. With Victory day just a few days behind him, he'd been entranced by the sight of the green and red flags fluttering from rooftops, on cars and occasionally wrapped around someone's head, and had found a new interest. Seeing his parents come in, he followed them into the kitchen.

The mother saw him and smiled wanly.

"Baba...would you mind if we had a simple lunch tomorrow?"
"But it's Eid, Maa! You promised pulao!"

The father winced at the plaintive note in his son’s voice. He was normally a very understanding child, but he still was a child, and considered Eid to be a special occasion. His wife squatted down to face the child.

“Baba, could you please make a little sacrifice this year?”
“You mean, like all the muktijoddhas in the war, who sacrificed their lives?”
“A little like that. You don’t need to sacrifice your life, thank goodness, but do you think you could be a good boy and have plain rice for lunch tomorrow?”

The boy looked at his father’s tired, pinched face, and the worry on his mother’s. Ever since his newfound interest in the Liberation War, he had been pestering his teacher for stories about how people starved when they lost their farmlands, and how mothers and wives pinched pennies to keep their families fed on the meagre offerings in the market during the war.

“I suppose I could make a sacrifice” he said in a small, brave voice.

***

The two friends sat in silence on the roof, occasionally swatting at mosquitoes.

“Some year.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Flood, cyclone, inflation, curfew, building collapse…”
“I didn’t mean literally.”
“I can’t wait for it to end.”
“Coming to the party tomorrow?”
“Can’t. Family dinner.”
“What do you mean! All our friends are going to be there!”
“I know, mate. But this is family. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. Speaking of family, I should run…I promised to help clean house.”
“Eid Mubarak!”

He watched her go, a selfish part of him wanting to call her back, to make her stay. But he knew how important her family was to her, even if they did cramp his style a lot. Eid, was all about family, in the end.

“I suppose I could make a little sacrifice…”

Collector

2007-09-20T03:56:00.000-07:00

The housing agent waxes eloquent on the virtues of the house, and you make polite noises as you look around you. Suddenly you become aware of a door standing slightly ajar, just ahead of you. The agent approaches it, and you expect him to show you the room, or at least mention what it holds, but he passes it by as though he doesn't even see it.
All at once you're seized by an inexplicable, and almost insatiable wave of curiosity. Ignoring the agent's voice, which grows fainter as he moves on, you enter the room.
It is quiet and dimly lit, and somehow...expectant, in a way you can't explain, except to imagine that someone (the room?) is eagerly waiting (for you?). It takes you a moment to realise that you yourself have been holding your breath in anticipation (of what?).
As your eyes become accustomed to the dimness, you become aware of shapes within the room, tables and objects scattered around, too neat to be clutter, and yet not quite arranged as stored objects ought to be. There are no covering sheets, no lavender sachets or tarpaulins. Yet, you note with mild surprise, even though the air smells musty, unused, there is no dust anywhere. Not even a cobweb. But for the dimness and this silence… you would not know that the room has not been used for ages.
Intrigued now, you move towards the closest article of furniture, which turns out to be a padded armchair. On it, lies a journal book. The cover is made from handmade paper, and at the centre is a bird's skull. The smile that had started to break out over your face wavers a little when you realise that what you thought was a neat bit of wood carving is actually the real thing, but you open the diary anyway. Two words are inscribed neatly on the inner cover:
“Memento Mori”
"Remember you must die", you whisper to yourself, remembering the old days when you thought Latin would be a cool language to learn. Smiling at the memory, you flip through the pages, which have odd, finished sketches of skulls and dead trees and pupil-less eyes.
You're about to put the diary back, when you reach the last few pages and find an ink sketch of a girl standing by a window, hugging herself. The simple strokes and lines are so masterfully done that they seem to be alive. The girl's hair seems to be flowing as she watches the bare branch of a tree knocking against the rain-washed windowpane.
tap. tap.
Suddenly, you can hear the branch tapping on the glass, feel the chill of the overcast afternoon, and smell the fragrance of the rain.

It was so cold that day. The dark clouds and the screeching wind transformed June to January in one melancholy sweep. It was the perfect day for the death of a romance. Except, who was I kidding really? The relationship had long been over, drying out and rotting like a tree stump. All those glitzy gifts and fancy dates could only take us so far before the lack of chemistry and emotional compatibility killed the spark. I closed my eyes and tried to call up some remorse at having the one to sever the ties, just as one would amputate a gangrenous limb. I pictured his face, shocked, and a little indignant at my stony lack of emotion. I felt nothing. Another sigh, one of several, escaped my lips.

"Do you mind? I come here for some peace and quiet."
The voice was quiet, but deep. I turned around and found the boy sitting in a corner behind me. I'd seen him before; he was always sitting in a corner, in his dark clothes, brooding and keeping to himself. A loner. A loser, I wanted to add, but somehow, the thought refused to form, and after an uneasy moment, I didn't even feel offended anymore. Not knowing what to say, I stood staring at him. Rather than being unnerved by my gaze, he went back to scribbling something in his notebook. It was a very odd notebook, with a bird's skull on it. From time to time, a small, secret smile would touch his lips, and I became aware, for the first time, of his dark magnetism.

"What are you writing?"

The words blurted out before I could stop them. I blushed, mortified, but he glanced up, and gave me a searching look before he smiled handed me the notebook. I took it, and couldn't suppress a gasp when I saw his handiwork. It was a pen-sketch of me standing by the window. He smiled another odd smile at my flattered expostulations.

"Keep it. Keep the notebook. I can make another one."
"You made this?"
"Just a hobby of mine."

The reverie dissolves and you put the notebook back with a dazed shake of your head. Moving forward, you find a little side table, upon which you find a large, dry leaf carefully torn into the shape of a heart, with a pressed rose stabbed through the centre. The leaf feels papery and stiff in your hands and when, on an odd impulse, you press the weird valentine close to your face, you can still smell the rose. It brings to mind the vision of a quiet sunset in a sun-dappled park you don't recall having ever visited, but the image is flaring to life surely as any precious memory.

We stood under the tree, under a brilliant aerial display of lights and colours that the dying day was putting up before it faded to evening. My hand felt so small and white, nestled in his large brown one. He turned it over, so that my palm was facing upwards, and then dropped something on it. It was a valentine made from a dead leaf and a dried rose. I looked up at him and met with the same searching, measuring gaze he'd worn the first time I met him.

"I think I may have found a new hobby" I laughed nervously. He just smiled.

The leaf drops from your hand as you realise that the objects are connected to the strange visions you are having. There must be some kind of story there. Rushing forward, you find a number of odd objects lined up on a table. An amber pendant with a beetle preserved in it. A bracelet made from a lock of hair. A brooch made from a dead firefly. A necklace made from some animal's teeth. Excited at your find, you let your fingers skim over each, to be rewarded by a brief flash. You see how the "hobby" turned to an obsession as the collection grew, and the girl seemed to be in the thrall of the talented craftsman, losing her vivacity as she pined for him during the absences between their meetings and her gifts.
Your walking journey takes you to the far end of the room where you find a large, life-sized, waxen doll made in the image of the girl. You step closer for a better look, fascinated by the realistic handiwork, and are horrified when the 'doll' blinks.
"Don't be surprised. You see, he's a collector too.”
By Sabrina F Ahmad

Borrowed Heaven

2007-09-08T23:48:00.000-07:00

"I'm in your neighbourhood. Just a hint."

"I'm just leaving work. How long are you there?"

"Oh, half an hour or more."

The request remained unspoken.

"I'll be there."

The clock raced. The heart raced. The tyres thundered over the asphalt.

He smiled and got up as she breezed in.

Suddenly, deadlines, assignments, stress and fatigue seemed very far away.

A little dose of Vitamin 'F'

2007-08-14T05:39:00.000-07:00

“We sat and drank it and felt the sun on our shoulders, and not even the expression of half-amusement, half-contempt on Hadley's face - as if he were watching apes drink beer and not men - could spoil it. It lasted twenty minutes, that beer-break, and for those twenty minutes, we felt like free men.”

~ "Red" in Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption (Stephen King)

If really pressed to remember, everyone's got a story about a moment, event, or even phase in their lives when they were having a blast. For Bryan Adams, it was the Summer of 69; for Shimul Mustafa, it was Coffeehouse er shei adda. Different strokes for different folks.

Think about the last time you really had fun. Was it at a friend's party, or that really awesome concert you attended? Or even a quiet walk in the park? Were you alone, or with friends? What was the ambience like? Even as you answer these questions, you'll realise that, whatever the replies are, you know how to have fun.

Over the past few weeks, we've been looking at ways to bring change into our lives, to think outside the box and learn more about what makes us tick. Fun is a big part of that equation. It's when a person gets into that 'play' mode in which s/he is most productive. Imagine being stuck in a job that you don't enjoy. Would you really want to put in your best there?

The motivational organisation, Playfair stresses on the importance of fun at work:

"Employers can better keep their most talented people by creating an exciting atmosphere where employees want to come to work. You can't expect your employees to give service with a smile unless they have something to smile about. And the intentional use of fun and play on the job is the best way to create an enthusiastic and committed workforce.

Happy and healthy employees are more creative, more productive, get along better with co-workers and have greater corporate loyalty and a healthier work/life balance.

An atmosphere of fun at work in any organisation facilitates flexibility, change and better communication. “

It's the same for relationships, or even just the way you look at life. That dose of the Fun vitamin is what makes everything worthwhile. Here's how you can bump up the fun factor in your life:

The sunshine squad
Self-esteem is closely linked to better performance. When you're feeling good about yourself, you're more likely to be willing to put yourself out there, and have fun. Who you associate with can have an impact on your self-esteem. There are friends who will encourage you and support you in everything you do, and be your cheerleaders. Those are the friends you want to hang out with more; their own high self-esteem will be a boost, or at the very least, an inspiration for you. Avoid people who are constantly criticising you or trying to bring your down.

Get moving
"Exercise releases endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don't shoot their husbands!" exclaimed the adorably perky Elle Woods in Legally Blonde. And as she proved, towards the end of the movie, underneath the ditziness lay a sharp mind to be reckoned with. To borrow a leaf from Ms Woods' book, staying physically active is a good way of having fun. So get off that couch and give those floppy muscles a good workout. Join your local gym, or take up dance classes. When you're feeling good deep in your bones, it's hard to stay down.

Laugh
William Fry Jr. MD, the laughter researchist, calls laughter an 'internal massage' that involves the whole body system, from muscles to nerves to the digestive system. It relaxes the entire body. Laughter is supposed to be good aerobic exercise, aerating lungs, relaxing muscles, nerves and heart, expanding breathing and circulation and enhancing oxygen intake and expenditure. So when you can't make it to the gym, just tune in to F.R.I.E.N.D.S or flip open that joke book and start guffawing away to your heart's content.

Start feeling good about yourself by adding a generous dose of Vitamin F into your life!

Creativity Unleashed

2007-08-07T05:36:00.000-07:00

JK Rowling Apparated into the literary scene in 1997, and the world was never the same again. For the ten years that followed, millions of readers across the world allowed themselves to be swept away by the magic of Harry Potter, and as the incredible saga ended with the seventh book, a generation of readers has a decade of enchantment to cherish forever.

So what is it that made the Potter books so irresistible? Everyone has a theory; and one of them is that it's so full of possibility. It defies the confines of the mundane real world and brings to life amazing adventures only possible in dreams. While the map-reading cats and the flying broomsticks tickled the imaginations of children, the appeal of the books for the adult reader lay in its ability to revive a lost childhood, one that was, as one author puts it, 'bursting with creativity and ideas, alive with what's possible'.

As we grow up and shrug off the mantle of childhood, we leave behind that ability to spring new ideas. Blame it on busy schedules, fast-paced lifestyles and lack of practice in exercising the imagination. Why is it important, you ask? In the previous part of this series, we talked about getting unstuck, and one way to do so is to be able to explore other possibilities than the one before you, and unless you can flex those creative muscles, you won't be able to jump over your obstacles. So if you want to get moving, revv up your think-tank and get cracking on coming up with new ideas. There are three phases to this brainstorming session:

Phase 1: The Setting
Take a moment, even if it's just five minutes, and shift away from your workplace, even if it means just getting up from in front of your PC and taking a walk. The idea is to snap out of 'work' mode and get ready for 'playtime', so creating an environment that allows your mind to run free is important. This is different for different people, so choose a setting that works for you. Some people think best when they're working out; others require absolute silence, and still others are inspired by music. It helps to keep the cell-phone turned off, though, and minimise distraction.

Phase 2: Generating genius
Once your setting is ready, grab a pen and paper and just jot down whatever comes to mind. Set a minimum target of ideas that you're going to come up with; and don't settle for any less. While you're at it, slam the brakes on logic and reason, and ignore that little voice in your head that tells you you're not creative enough to come up with so many ideas. As Henry Ford puts it, "Whether you think you can, or think you can't - you're right."

Your ideas could be related to anything, from planning a party, to coming up with an ad campaign, to choosing a career. Suspend the possibility of failure and try to envision what you would be doing. Indulge in your most outrageous impulses, and jot them down. Don't be afraid to think outside the box.

Phase 3: Polish and plan
When you've got yourself a list, it's time to screen the ideas. Pick out the best ones and then work out how you can go about achieving them. Don't get too critical; sometimes crazy ideas end up as big winners. Going back to JK Rowling, when she initially submitted her manuscript for the first Harry Potter book, the publishers' response was lukewarm; after all, who would want to bank on an unknown author? And yet, seven best-selling novels, and film rights later, here she is, a multi-billionaire, read and loved across the world.

So break those barriers, and connect with your inner child, and you may be on your way to writing your own success story!

Get Unstuck

2007-07-24T05:32:00.000-07:00

Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy's palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.
~ Sylvia Plath,

Life in the city can be brain numbing and frustrating. Bound by deadlines and appointments, commitments and traffic jams, it's not surprising to find oneself feeling claustrophobic, and trapped.

Left to itself, this feeling grows, and one finds oneself increasingly listless, bored and discontent. Say hello to ennui.

There comes a time in everyone's life when one feels spiritually suffocated. It happens to different people for different reasons. For a writer, it could simply be writer's block. For a student, it could be the post exam blahs. It could come from being stuck in a job that goes nowhere, or even from having too many responsibilities and not enough time for oneself. So you get trapped, and stay trapped, usually because you only have one way to see the situation and you don't like what you see.

Now, every prescription needs to be preceded by a diagnosis, and before one goes about beating one's ennui, one needs to find the cause for it. The easiest way to start is to ask yourself some basic questions.

Which part of your life feels like it's on a broken record?
"School, coaching, studies, maybe a little television...that just about sums up my life" says Shormee (name changed), an O level candidate. With the intense competition in academics, students are the most common victims of deadly routines, and contrary to what many parents seem to think, having one's nose inside the textbooks is, after a certain extent detrimental to performance, rather than beneficial. It's the same with work, and even relationships. Without the occasional change in the routine, boredom and frustration easily set in and this is actually counterproductive.

Do you find yourself saying or doing things because you 'should' as opposed to because you 'want to'?
Responsibilities and obligations are inevitable, but when you find yourself shouldering too much, it's time to stop and take stock of your priorities. Decide which of the obligations are simply unavoidable, and try easing up on the rest. Even if you're not a selfish person, you need to make time and space for yourself too.

What makes you grit your teeth in frustration?
Neighbours playing loud music again...kids always forget to clean their rooms...the boss is on your case again...your girlfriend is still whining about how you don't have time for her. Sometimes the most trivial annoyances have a way of piling up towards a major meltdown, so it's better to find out what ticks you off, and then deal with it.

When do you feel like you have no choice?
Ennuiherself, a blogger from Cleveland writes:
"Right now I'm in sort of a graduation limbo. I'm trying to time my defense date with my getting a job. I don't want to finish everything up and have no where to go. On the other hand, I desperately want to move on with another chapter of my life.

The aforementioned graduation limbo is intensely frustrating. For the last several months, I have been preoccupied with hurling myself through the remaining hoops for grad school, while I try to prepare for the next step in my life. This has forced me to prioritise my activities based on time commitment and expense (got to pay for that upcoming move somehow). This bottom line is that for the most part I no longer have hobbies or activities."

This can be extremely frustrating, especially for someone who likes to try out different things. The important thing is to recognise where you're going with your major decisions before you work yourself into a corner.

Do you 'tolerate' or 'enjoy'?
You tell yourself that you love him, and yet your conversations drag, and when you're with him, you wish you were anywhere but here. The job pays you the big bucks, and that's why you're still in it. If either scenario strikes a chord with you, maybe it's time to rethink whether you want to continue being in a situation you merely tolerate, instead of truly enjoying.

Funny enough, just articulating and acknowledging the source of your ennui is often enough to get the wheels turning for a happy change. When you finally get what's got you bogged down it often doesn't feel quite so insurmountable, so big and intimidating.

So look at the problem head on, instead of beating about the bush. Don't be afraid to go into the nitty-gritty and details. Write it down, and make a list. Instead of seeing your circumstances as an obstacle, turn them into a challenge you're willing to take on, and you're already on your way to beating the blues.

By Sabrina F Ahmad

Almost there

2007-07-17T12:13:00.001-07:00

The room looked the same as it always had. The bed that was getting too small for you, so that your feet stuck out over the edge. The mat with the grape-juice stain that we could never really wash out. The posters of your favourite rockstars and wrestling idols. Mystery novels clashed with Physics and Chemistry textbooks on your bookshelves, and I think I spied a raunchy magazine tucked into a corner. Your clothes hung in your closet; some of them still smelt of you. Sitting here, I could almost pretend you'd never agreed to drive home after those drinks.

Listen to your heart

2007-07-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

There's an old story of a king who felt that his kingdom lacked sufficient doctors. One witty courtier dared to disagree, and then set out to prove himself right. The following day, he turned up at the court, red nose, watery eyes, coughing as though his insides would tumble up.

"You should have dressed more warmly," one other courtier declared.

"Gargle with salt water" the king's counsellor suggested.

"Drink hot tea," someone else added.

Very soon, advice, remedies and remonstrations began to pour in from all directions. At this, the witty courtier straightened up, addressed the king and said, 'Your highness, thus have I proved that your kingdom has doctors aplenty; what we really lack are enough patients".

Few other parables describe the nature of the Bengali so aptly; we are, after all, a people of limited choices, but many voices.

No sooner are you able to walk, talk and understand conversation, people here are trying to tell you what to do. Parents, partners, spouses, children, friends, bosses, colleagues, customers and clients... they've all got opinions about what's best for you, or rather what they want you to do.

"Eat this. It's good for you."

"Wear that shirt. It suits you"

"Take those subjects. They'll help you get a job."

"Finish this assignment, and you'll get a raise."

And on and on and on, till you drown under a deluge of advice, suggestions, requests, and downright orders, and pretty soon, you forget what you really want...if you ever actually knew, that is. Michael Bungay Stanier, Principal of the Toronto-based Box of Crayons, talks about the importance of connecting with our inner desires and wants. Here is a six-step exercise inspired by his teachings, to help you get clear on what you want.

My Bubble
Find yourself some time and space for yourself. It doesn't need to be much - five minutes in a room, ten minutes in a coffee shop, a 15 minute walk around the neighbourhood. Switch off your cellphone, and clear your mind of all the pending responsibilities and to-do's.

The heart of the matter
Connect with your core values, those ways of being that are at the heart of you being at your best. If you're not quite sure what they are - and you wouldn't be alone in this instance - then try visualising what they might be now. If you think back to "peak moments" in your life, times you felt you were on top of the world, then you'll see some clues as to what they might be.

Framing it
Once you've guessed what your core values are, the next step is to put it all in context for clarity. What makes you feel at your best? Is it about work? A relationship? Your own self-care? Something else? What's the challenge or situation or struggle you might be facing?

Reach for the stars...
If there were no obstacles, what would you really be doing right now? If you could not fail, what would total and fabulous success look like? Don't get caught up in the "How would I get there". Just let your imagination go on what outrageous success looks like.

The lowest rung on the ladder
Having decided what the top of the stairs would feel like, think about the basement. Clarify your minimum level of success. This is the bottom line, the "If nothing else, then this at least." Don't sell yourself short. And equally, make sure the "bottom line" really is just that. This is where you draw the line in the sand.

Meet at the middle
Now that you know what to look up to, and what lies beneath, search inside of yourself, and see if you can find that sweet spot of what you want between those two end points. Sit with it for just a moment and get as clear as possible as to what it is you want, what it looks like, feels like, tastes like. The clearer you can make it, the easier it will be to start planning on how to get there.

In the end, it's really all about shutting out the noise and listening to yourself. Who knows? Maybe the life you want is just one self-talk away!

Kingdom of Dreams

2007-07-04T10:27:00.000-07:00

Plink. Plink

The pebbles skip over the murky surface of the lake, creating languid ripples. Then they sink down, even as the dead fish come floating up. You remember the tales your parents told you about the shady green parks, the sparkling lakes, the individual houses with their front lawns and dogs. Fairytales! You raise your eyes from the glassy green (not of the good kind) lake, and all you can see are tall buildings clawing their way up the sky, obscuring the sun.
As your little break ends, you get up to head back to coaching classes.

Sigh.

School, coaching classes, homework. The pattern of your life seems to be stuck on permanent replay these days. You have to wonder at the hypocrisy of a system that keeps your nose to the grindstone, and then complains when you don't seem to have time for anything else. Speaking of which, if you ever manage to track down your parents' colleague's friend's daughter (her of the straight A's and endless ECA's and lovely looks and perfect personality), the one they keep comparing you to, she's got it coming to her for making your life miserable.
Endless classes and a quick rendezvous with friends at your favourite fast-food joint before you head back. The questions and exclamations greet you as soon as you enter.

"Is this any decent hour to come home?"
"What in the world is that horrid outfit you're wearing?"
"Have you been smoking?"

You bite down your retorts. It's no use. They will never understand your need for self-expression, just as the generation that preceded them never understood the need for bell-bottoms or big hair, or shoulder-pads, or whatever was in vogue at that time. They've probably forgotten the times when they themselves broke curfews. You've long given up trying to defend your image.
On and on until you manage to crawl back to your room, the only place where you feel sheltered, safe. Tuned to the music channel, the television blares, churning out your favourite tunes. Punk rock, hip hop, fusion, metal, trance; the rhythms, the lyrics, the melodies channel your emotions, your inner turbulence… And then one of the grown-ups hollers 'TURN THAT NOISE DOWN!"
Sighing, you lower the volume and flop down on your messy bed. Your gaze travels over your room, skimming over the posters splayed over your walls, the little bookshelf studded with ratty paperbacks bought from the second-hand shops (the only thing you can afford on your meagre allowance), and DVD's of your favourite movies and television series, and finally, your PC, your portal to the world around you. There is comfort in the clutter, even though it drives your mother nuts. In this mess, in this disarray, you reign supreme.
You close your eyes, reliving your favourite memories. The concert you played at, where people clapped and cheered as you sang about a better tomorrow. The funds you and your friends had raised from that went to fund the treatment of a young child. The road trip you made with your buddies to the beach; an entire weekend of fun and frolic. You came back burnt black, but utterly sated. Those addas at the tea-stall, passionately arguing politics and theology with complete strangers. They dismissed your views as mere idealism, but they could never shake your belief. That one kicking football match in the rain where you twisted your ankle while scoring that last goal. It had hurt like anything, but the victory you brought your team was worth all the pain. The long nights spent whispering sweet nothings over the phone.
Elsewhere in the house, the grown-ups are seated at the dinner table, having given up calling you for dinner, knowing you'd come only when you felt like it. Feeling slightly rebellious, you linger awhile, lost in your thoughts in your room. In your kingdom of dreams.

Art

2007-06-24T02:35:00.000-07:00

He traced the shape he desired, with a long finger. It had to be just right. He picked up the instrument, and began. He flinched and a tiny curl of smoke rose from the surface. Finished, he smiled, satisfied, as he popped the remainder of the cigarette between his lips, and surveyed his handiwork. Her name, bleeding, on his palm.

Epiphany

2007-06-24T02:32:00.000-07:00

You awaken to an empty house. The girls are out again, as you knew they would be. The flat is yours at this hour…or is it? Feminine smells assail your nostrils: perfume, scented soap, talcum powder. As you wander from room to tastefully decorated room, you seek yourself in them in vain. Furniture that your wife scrimped and saved to buy, photographs of your daughters vying for wall space with their framed diplomas; testament to their busy, demanding lives. Do you, jobless old man, play any part here beyond that of the silent spectator? Only one way to find out…

Stiletto Heals

2007-06-24T02:28:00.000-07:00

Last evening was the last straw. She came home after a week of recuperating at a friend’s place, gathering courage. He heard her footsteps and came roaring, reeking of booze, five o’clock shadow and dirty wife-beater testament to chronic failure. He lunged. A high heel to the groin ended the six months of abuse that their sham marriage had been.

A familiar face

2007-06-24T02:17:00.000-07:00

White. Everywhere I turned, that colour stared back at me, clinical, mocking. The whitewashed walls of the once-familiar rooms stood empty; the furniture having been moved away to accommodate the morose throng of white-clad people. The air was heavy with incense smoke, and the mingled smells of attar, perfume, starch, and sweat. I moved from room to room, gliding past the swirling human traffic, utterly confused. Finally, I arrived at the hall, were a body lay on the floor, half-covered by a sheet. Curious at last, I stepped closer for a better look. The sleeping face I saw was mine.

The Write Angle

2007-06-14T02:42:00.000-07:00

The teacher surveyed her little kingdom. With her 'subjects' immersed in work, she had time to engage in her favourite pastime: trying to imagine what each kid would grow up to be. That earnest frontbencher with an affinity for math? Most likely an engineer of some sort, or an award-winning physicist. The argumentative twins in the centre? Lawyers, or activists or maybe even talk show hosts. Then her gaze alighted on the girl by the window. With her assignment already completed, she sat, lost in the book she was reading. That one was definitely going to be a writer.

Like my teacher, I also had no doubts about what I wanted to be. Devouring any book that came my way, I would dream about one day joining the leagues of the wise and wonderful wordsmiths who filled my hours with so much colour and magic. That dream eventually became a quest to find out the secrets of writing successfully, and on the way, I encountered many interesting personalities.

Date with Darwin (or how I learnt the art of taking notes)
This dude took the world by storm with his theory of Natural Selection, kick-starting a whole flurry of evolutionism, or Darwinism if you like. His work was the keystone that shaped the thoughts and attitudes of many a theoretician, scientist, poet and politician in the Victorian Era. What does all this have to do with writing, you ask? In his autobiography, Darwin reflects on the influence of observation on his mental development. Whatever Darwin observed, he noted down, and these notes ultimately led to his Journal of Researches (1989), which are written in a lucid, flowing style that generations of readers marvelled at.

Nothing makes a better springboard for ideas the way keeping a diary does. Those who feel like honing their writing skills, could try out this thing I learned from old Charles: at the end of each day, write down ten things that happened that day. It could be something you saw, or something you did, or even snatches of memorable conversations. After you've been doing this for a week or so, start expanding your list by adding some more detail. This helps in two ways; it gives you ideas for stuff to write on, and it really sharpens up your memory, something your teachers will be happy about.

Other famous writers whose keen sense of observation makes for enjoyable writing include Richard Feynman, Sue Townsend and our very own Chintito.

The Field Formula (all about the structure)
I came across Syd Field while taking a script-writing course. For those unfamiliar with this Hollywood heavyweight, he is an American writer who has become one of the most popular screenwriting gurus in the movie industry. Field has written several books on the subject of screenwriting, and occasionally holds workshops that help aspiring screenwriters to produce the kinds of screenplays that will sell in Hollywood. He's pretty big on structure. "There is a definite relationship between story, character and structure. They are part and parcel of the same thing. There is no way to really separate them" he tells us.

In other words, the events one writes about ought to have relevance to the characters in the story, and there should be a sort of logical sequence that leads the reader from page to page. There's an exercise we used to make the students do while I was teaching English at a school. We'd break the story into three parts. The intro, where we built up a setting, introduced the main characters and created the premises of the plot. The body, where we'd talk about three things that happen to move the story along, building into a climax, and finally, the conclusion, where we wrapped up the loose ends and completed the story. It's a good model to follow initially, and you can make the 'body' more elaborate as you become more confident about your skills, by adding twists and flashbacks et al. Consider the fast-paced plots of Dan Brown novels, with their intricate little shockers.

Keats to my heart (of sense and sensuousness)
“Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers”

I was never much into poetry, but John Keats is always a delight to read, because his work appeals to all the senses. Amongst all the literary heavyweights of the Romantic period, Keats owns a special place all his own. Attention to sensory detail really livens up a narrative, and reels the reader in. Saw a really hot girl at your coaching centre? Give us a visual, so we can appreciate how beautiful she is. Grandma made you her special brownies? Make us drool by describing how sinfully chocolatey it was. Authors like Rebecca Wells, Diana Abu Jaber and Bharti Kirchner enjoy exotic appeal for their sensuous descriptions.

Staring at the world through my reviews (read to write!)
Okay, Osama's definitely going to kill me for twisting the name of a song he likes, but I'll take my chances. If there's anything I learned from my literary quest so far, it's that if you want to be a better writer, you have to read a lot. There's simply no getting away from it. Reading extensively, and from a variety of different genres opens you up to a variety of styles, forms, and ideas, and opens up your mind like no other activity can not even travelling. You can use the works of others as yardsticks against which you measure your own. Only by reading a lot can you develop that natural feel for the language, be it English or Bangla or any other lingo, that enables you to find the right expression to convey your message.

At the end of the day, there's no magical formula that suddenly makes a best-selling novelist out of a nobody, no matter what they say. Writing well is a skill developed through practice and trial and error, and as someone who's barely completed the first leg of her journey, all I can say is that it's a lifelong process. That feeling you get, though, when you see your work in print and people actually read it…it's an incomparable high.

Wired

2007-06-07T02:43:00.000-07:00

I hurried towards my car, late for class, and on the way, spotted the newspaper boy and the receptionist at our apartment comparing their latest toys; the former showing off a small fake iPod, and the latter his cell-phone radio.

“Boys will be boys and play with their toys” I muttered, shaking my head.

The classroom was jam-packed when I entered, and I slid into the nearest available seat at the back.

“What did I miss?” I asked the person next to me. No response. I tapped her on her shoulder. She started up, took a few guilty glances around her, removed her earphones (carefully masked by her long hair and dupatta), and asked me what I wanted. The tiny, mp4 player twinkled conspiratorially at me from her lap.

“Sir’s lectures are so boring” she sheepishly offered, by way of explanation.

When I hit the road, it seemed like everyone was wired to some portable music device or the other. From the uber-cool trend-setting crowds with their sleek mp3 players, to the ‘hiff-hoff’ (that’s how they pronounce it!) public and their fake ipods or loud radio phones…everyone had one of those gadgets. Then there was the solitary rickshawallah with his feet propped up on his rickshaw handles as he reclined in solitude on his ‘tea-break’, the wires from his ears disappearing into a mysterious bulge in his breast pocket. Had I just woken up in some Twilight Zone like place where I was the only one not attached to some apparently brain-numbing musical gadget?

“How did it get like this?”
“You really want to know?”

I wheeled around at the unexpected reply to my unspoken question, but there was no one there.

“Check your pocket, sweets”

I slipped my hand in, and pulled out a flat, box-like instrument with a tiny LCD monitor, a circular dial, and a pair of earphones attached to it. The display read ‘2006’.

“What the…how did that get in there?”
“Will you just put it on?” The voice in my head sounded exasperated.

Feeling ever so gauche, I slipped on the earphones. My fingers, of their own accord, turned the dial, so that the numbers on the display began to change. There was a sudden ear-splitting shriek, and suddenly, my world went white.

1180 AD – The Mobile musician

“King Louis VII has died earlier this year, to be succeeded by the ambitious Philippe II. In the neighbouring country of England, a young and restless Richard, son of the Young King Henry II, is planning to ally with the French monarch against his own father.”

The monologue ended, and I opened my eyes to find myself standing on a cobbled street near a pair of massive city gates. A young man bearing a lute approached the gate, and was met by the guard there.

“Ho there, good traveller. Who might ye be, and where might ye be headed?”
“I am a troubadour, sire. I travel the land, exchanging song for board and bed”
“Alright then…walk, man. Wind to thy wings”
“…and that’s how the idea of portable music began” added the voice in my head.
“Funny…”
“Just turn the dial, will you? There’s more where that came from.”

Bracing myself for another shriek, I complied.

1877 – Mary had a little lamb

This time, when my ears stopped ringing, I found myself in a dusty old workshop, dimly lit by oil lamps. There were two men examining something on a worktable, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I realised with a start that the balding one was Thomas Edison. We were finally getting somewhere.

The great inventor had made some serious breakthroughs with his telegraph, and his success led him to speculate that a telephone message could also be recorded in a similar fashion. He experimented with a diaphragm, which had an embossing point and was held against rapidly moving paraffin paper. The speaking vibrations made indentations in the paper. Edison later changed the paper to a metal cylinder with tin foil wrapped around it. The machine had two diaphragm-and-needle units, one for recording, and one for playback. When one would speak into a mouthpiece, the sound vibrations would be indented onto the cylinder by the recording needle in a vertical (or hill and dale) groove pattern.

He gave his drawings his mechanic, John Kreusi, whom I guessed was the other guy in the room. Kreusi completed the machine in 30 hours.

“This is what you wanted, sir?”
“Looks like it. Let’s try it out.”

Edison bent close to the mouthpiece, and I waited with bated breath as history unfolded in front of me.

“Mary had a little lamb…”
“Mary had a little lamb…”

The two men whooped with joy, and hugged each other. They had invented the phonograph. As I turned the dial on my magic mp3 player, I couldn’t help but wonder why he had to choose a nursery rhyme for such a moment…

1970’s – The boom box craze

This time, my fingers slipped on the dial as I tried to turn it, and I zipped past the introduction of the LP by Columbia Records in 1948, and the invention of the first audio cassette in 1963 by Philips.
I floated through most of the 70’s and spotted a whole bunch of young people running around with large transistor sets, which they referred to as boom boxes.

In the mid-70s, when the idea of a "personal" stereo experience was a bit of a novelty. Panasonic, Sony, Marantz and GE were quick to debut this hybrid stereo--not quite a home stereo console, but more than a portable combination radio-cassette. The models were small, heavy and black--sound quality and AM/FM tuning was quite good. The pinnacle in functionality was an array of input and output jacks, so the stereo could be integrated with other audio equipment, like microphones and turntables.

Impatient to move on, I turned the dial

1979 – Walkman…no, for real!

Suddenly, I found myself back in my old house; an invisible spectator sitting on a ratty rattan armchair as my parents, a younger version of them at any rate, sauntered in. From Mom’s short, Abba-inspired hair, and Dad’s Sholay-inspired get up, I guessed this was the early 80’s. She was squealing over his latest present to her, a bulky, rectangular object the size of a lunchbox, attached to a pair of mammoth headphones that could have passed for Siberian ear-muffs.

“It’s called a Walkman” he was explaining to her.

Organisational changes were taking place at Sony in 1979 and the tape recorder division was pressed to market something soon, or risk consolidation. They came up with a small cassette player capable of stereo playback. The invention was born from a tweaked Pressman (Sony's monaural portable cassette recorder) and a pair of headphones.
The final design of the TPS-L2, the personal stereo cassette player was completed on March 24, 1979. Sony then formulated a unique marketing campaign to sell the contraption, and the new product, being a descendant of the Pressman, came to be known as the Walkman.

The 90’s – Age of the spinning saucers

As I slowly turned the dial, I knew I didn’t really need the weird gadget to tell me what came next. I’d witnessed the next developments myself. The Walkman gradually shrank, and became more compact, sleeker.
The Compact Disc (CD) reached the market in late 1982 in Asia and early the following year in other markets; for example, it was released in the United States in March, with the first CDs available being 16 Japanese-made titles from CBS/Sony. Audio CD’s in English, Hindi, and other languages more familiar to us came much later.
It was towards the mid 90’s that we started seeing the Discman, which was the nickname given to Sony's first portable CD player, the D-50, which was the first on the market in 1984, and adopted for Sony's entire portable CD player line. Not quite as handy as the Walkman, you wouldn’t find too many teens carrying these around everywhere they went.
Knowing where the story ended, I turned the dial back to 2006, because now I’d be able to fill in the gaps myself.

Enter the iPod

Researchers had always been tinkering with the process of increasing the portability of music, and the first non-mechanical digital audio player in the world, the MPMan F10 was created by SaeHan Information Systems in 1997. It was a 32MB portable that appeared in the US markets in the summer of 1998. It was a very basic unit and wasn't user expandable.
The second DAP (but widely considered the first mass-market player) was the Rio PMP300 from Diamond Multimedia, introduced in September 1998. Other developments included the Sensory Science's Rave MP2300, the I-Jam IJ-100, and the Creative Labs Nomad. These portables were small and light, but only held enough memory to hold around 7 to 20 songs at normal 128 kbit/s compression rates.
The arrival of Apple Computer's iPod in 2001, combined with the iTunes software that all but created the legal-music-download business, caused an unprecedented market demand for portable music. Before you could say ‘mp3’, a dozen other companies brought out their own versions of the DAP. Music had never been so popular. The rest, as my mysterious friend (who disappeared as soon as I arrived back to the present) would say, is history.

Love at first sight

2007-05-28T10:58:00.002-07:00

His eyes were limpid pools of chocolate, and he looked up at her with more adoration than she’d ever received. Gingerly, she reached out and cupped his face in her hands, stroking him along the jaw-line. Eyes shut, he leaned into her, savouring her tentative caresses. She knew right then, that this was the pet dog she had always wanted.

The Chase

2007-05-28T10:58:00.001-07:00

She was right behind me, right at my heels. I picked up my pace, so did she. I turned a corner and looked back, but she was still there.

I ducked into a dingy alley, and although it was harder to keep track of her movements, I knew I hadn’t lost her. Damn! There is just no escaping my shadow.

The long journey

2007-05-28T10:16:00.000-07:00

He stood under the street lamp, bright against the darkening evening. A cigarette hung limply from his lips, unlit. My best friend…a complete stranger.
I remembered the first day we met. He’d been standing with his back to the window, a dark silhouette against the glare of the noontime sun, rolling a cigarette. A rebel.
One year between then and now. Twelve months of mutual discovery, deepening into friendship, before withering as his restless spirit grated against my need to be grounded.
Now he stood, poised for flight as we said our goodbyes. As if our journey together never happened.

Magic-K

2007-05-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

He sits in a corner and doesn’t speak to anyone. In a room full of self-proclaimed comedians, hip hop freaks and footballers, he stands out, in his tattoos and painted nails and affinity for the dark, the deviant, and the different, because it resonates with how different he is. To them, he’s an oddity. In my book, he’s sheer magic.

Stood Up

2007-05-28T05:57:00.000-07:00

The coffeehouse was crowded when I entered and wrangled for myself a corner table. There were faces all around me; smiles, tears, and frowns. Where were you?
Three cold cups of coffee later, I knew you weren’t coming. Paying the bill, I left, fighting my tears, cursing myself for ever having read your text message asking me to meet you…tomorrow?

Time to re-light the candles

2007-03-26T13:05:00.000-07:00

(With due apologies to Mr. Eliot)

Evening descends on the city
With a bustle on road and alleyway.
Seven o'clock.
The shopping malls decide to call it a day.
Business ends with a clang of the shutters
"Before the Boys in Black arrive," someone mutters.
Nearby, a gaping hole is a stark
Reminder of what a bulldozer can wreak
Once a bookstore, now the windows are dark
And the shelves are gone, but I've heard them speak
Of how nice it is to have a place to park.
The streets are no more cluttered with flashy cars
Now that the owners are behind the bars.

I confess...I'm no more politically savvy than I am a poet, which, as you can tell from the little piece of drivel above, isn't saying much. Mention the dreaded 'P' word in front of me, and I break into a cold sweat. What do I do? Do I stay silent during the heated debates and endure the tired old accusations of being a 'typically unpatriotic English-medium student'? Do I try to participate in the endless speculation with my limited knowledge, and suffer being labelled as another example of the 'typically ignorant youth of this generation'? Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

I grew up in the 90's, when, right after the autocratic regime got overthrown, the country settled down into 'democracy' and more than a decade of corruption, incompetence, mud slinging and violence. Power changed hands as political parties came and went, but life went on pretty much unchanged. Traffic laws went unheeded. Lakes and parks were swallowed up by big buildings. The mugging, the begging, the mosquitoes, and the power-cuts - all apparently a part of city life - continued. Somewhere along the lines, that little candle of hope about the future of the country, and faith in its political leaders, slowly guttered away to darkness.

Did I, or any of my generation cease to love our country? I should think not. From the music we made/listened to, to the clothes we wore, from the red and green we painted on our faces to show support for our national cricket team, to the flag-coloured wristbands we sported, we found ways to tell our motherland we loved her, even when it seemed like those we'd entrusted to take care of her didn't. 'Politics' became just another dirty word that inspired a snort of disgust at worst, and an apathetic shrug at best. Then, a lot of things happened during the space of a few months towards the end of last year, things that hadn't transpired in well over a decade. Within days of winning two Peace prizes (Nobel for Dr Yunus and Grameen Bank, and Sydney Peace Prize for Irene Khan), war broke out on the streets of the capital, as the newly retired ruling coalition went into loggerheads with the opposition parties. The so-called 'apathetic' youth of the nation, at home and abroad, cringed in embarrassment as these political leaders and their loyal lackeys made royal fools of themselves in front of the rest of the world, just as everyone was beginning to sit up and take notice of our country. The President entertained us with his antics for a while. Election advisors came and went. The tension grew unbearable.

As the confusion reached a boiling crescendo, the President was compelled to declare an emergency, abolish the existing caretaker government, reconstitute the Election Commission and the Anti Corruption Commission, and separate the Judiciary from the Executive (termed to be the biggest achievements of the era). How the tables started to turn! All that had been deemed 'not possible in the current context' for the past thirty years suddenly became possible. It's amazing what a bulldozer and a tow-truck, accompanied by a dozen or so black-garbed officers can achieve. Suddenly, all the eateries and commercial complexes are in a hurry to build parking lots. The shopping malls are closing down by 7pm. Under the state of emergency, in the absence of student politics, there are no strikes, and no campus violence, and thus, no fear of session jams. Former big-shots are toppling like nine-pins, coughing up their secret bank accounts as they watch their exotic private zoos being snatched from them.
Just when you thought nothing would surprise you anymore, one of our national heroes, someone who catapulted to iconic status by winning a prestigious award (no points for guessing), announces his intentions of jumping onto the political bandwagon. And suddenly, everyone's talking politics.

It's inescapable. The headlines scream out at you every morning. TV sets are faithfully tuned to the news every evening. The latest developments, rumours, and gossip are whispered, debated and argued over and over again, wherever you go. From toothless old beggars bemoaning their eviction from slum areas, to school kids hooking their fingers over imaginary guns, pretending to be RAB officials on a raid, the fever's caught everyone, and no, I'm not referring to the mysterious flu outbreak in the city.

I was chatting with this young schoolboy recently 'They caught the Prince!” he crowed, referring to the arrest of certain politician's infamous son. I asked him why he was so excited about an event that had almost nothing to do with him. “Because…because…he was corrupt. And now he's getting what he deserves. It's justice!”

I have always pitied children for their black-and-white views vis-a-vis right/wrong, good/bad etc. So often they end up hurt and confused at the realisation that life is unfair. I've long become a hardened cynic, and even in the face of so much change, I cannot help being slightly pessimistic about the ultimate outcome of the drama in the political arena. Yet for that one moment, I couldn't suppress a small glow. In his own, simple way, the kid was right. A 'bad guy' out there was getting his just desserts. All those years we spent learning about crime and retribution finally accounted for something.

It was at that moment, that I, having stubbornly resisted getting caught up in the political fever by shunning the newspapers and avoiding television, realised that I'd been bitten by the bug after all. Maybe it is time to light the candle again.

UK Trip - Day 1

2007-03-01T07:22:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, February 7, 2007

A late start...

If you like people-watching, there's hardly a better place to be in than an airport. Old or new, clean or dirty, the airport is a confluence of cultures, a swirling smorgasbord of faces and names, colour and creed. Amidst the throng of hellos and goodbyes, there's an infinite number of stories you can read off the people bustling around you.

Two months ago, if someone told me I'd be going to UK alone to attend a conference, I'd have laughed at the notion. The one phone call from the British Council changed all that. The frantic shopping for winter clothes, the paperwork for the visa and my passport (which had expired and needed to be renewed), the urgent e-mails to and from the Ditchley Foundation (the conference hosts), the milad thrown by my family to ensure a safe journey...I had sailed through it all in a daze. And now I sat in the waiting lounge of the Zia Airport, waiting for my flight, delayed by the flight, a silent spectator to the thousand little dramas being enacted before me.

My introspection was shattered by a sudden uproar around me as an agitated mob jostled its way through the lounge towards the boarding area, shouting, muttering, and chanting slogans in a raucous cacophony. I was standing at the charge-station recharging my cell-phone when it happened, and catching the fear and confusion in my eyes, a gentleman also in queue for a quick charge explained to me that these were the migrant workers who were headed back to the Middle East for their jobs. They'd been waiting at the airport for 36 hours to catch the plane, and some of them were worried about getting fired if they didn't report back to work on time, while others panicked about their visas expiring. Suddenly, the fact that my own flight had been delayed by almost four hours seemed to pale into insignificance. 36 hours! Was that any way to treat people whose hard labour kept the country going?

The universal airport language?

It was something like 7pm in Dubai when our plane had finally landed. A fairly uneventful flight, spoiled only by the incessant wailing of the half-dozen young children on board, and we found ourselves queued up at the transit counter trying to book a flight to Heathrow, because we'd missed our connecting flight.

My companion Nazmun, also picked by the British Council to attend the conference, had taken over, speaking to the cute Indian guy at the counter, inquiring about accommodation for the other Bangalis also headed to Heathrow. They flocked to her like sheep towards a trusted shepherd, as she explained formalities to them, and comforted the squalling babies (one of which had developed a certain fascination for my messy hair, and kept tugging at it). The reason for such concord? They all spoke Sylheti. "Babes," Nazmun said, as she smoothly negotiated a hotel suite for us, "Sylheti is THE universal airport language. If you can speak it, you'll never find yourself alone at the airport, no matter where in the world you are!"

With half an hour before the bus arrived to take us to the Millennium Airport Hotel, we explored Dubai airport. It was incredible! Bright, shiny, clean, and oh so colourful. It felt like I was walking through some high-resolution music video, peopled with beautiful and fashionable characters that looked like they had stepped out of a glossy magazine for Benetton. United colours of the world indeed.

The ride to the airport afforded me glimpses of the glittering city. Maybe I was still on Bangladesh mode, but the little I saw reminded me of a sanitised, larger than life version of the airport road that leads to Uttara. The hotel itself reminded me a bit of a teched-up Sonargaon, at least the reception lounge. While climbing the stairs to our room, Nazmun and I noticed that each floor was identical to the ones above and below it, including the paintings on the wall, which were placed in the exact same sequence, so that the east wall would show a plane taking off, the west wall a touchdown and so on.

Dinner was sweet sin-dulgence in a variety of salads, cheeses and desserts. They were not the only things on offer, but they were enough to keep me happy. "Eat up, babes" Nazmun advised, tucking into her steak. "You'll thank yourself for doing so when you reach the UK."

After that, it was watch and wait until it was time to fly again, and the last thing I remember before sleep overcame me was the glittering skyline that reminded me so much of Uttara back home, and then everything was dark.

UK Trip - Day 2

2007-03-01T07:14:00.000-08:00

Thursday, February 8, 2007

A frosty welcome

It was snowing in London when our plane began its descent over Heathrow. Across the aisle, Nazmun was blissfully asleep, cocooned in her blanket. I had just finished watching My Super Ex-Girlfriend when the landing announcement came. I armed myself for the cold with extra thick socks, muffler, mittens, and a flaming red beanie cap. The gentleman next to me smiled.

"First time in UK, eh?"

Heathrow Airport has to be by far the ugliest airport I've seen - not that I've seen many - with all these extensions and wings and terminals sprawling in all direction without any symmetry or design. Lightly coated with a thin layer of snow, from the aerial view, it looked like a frosted metal octopus.

Customs clearance completed, we suddenly realised that since we were late by around twelve hours, there was no way the British Council would know we'd be coming in now. Nazmun and I exchanged glances.

"What now, Fearless Leader?"

"We catch the bus, Trusty Follower"

So we tromped through the long underground passage that led us straight to the bus terminal, dragging our luggage with us. I'd never been so grateful for having wheels on my suitcase. By the time we got on the bus, though, the muscles in my arms were screaming.

If I had to find a soundtrack for the sights I saw from the bus window, I'd pick Emilie Simon's "All is white". Because that's the best way to describe the rushing scenery, robed in glittery white, like cake icing on the gorgeous gabled roofs, or shaving foam hanging on the naked branches. Children and adolescents frolicked in the snow in some places, and someone actually tossed a snowball at me, so that it splattered all over the bus window.

Then we were in Gloucester Green, Oxford. Beautiful buildings whichever way I turned. Snow crunching underfoot as I dragged my luggage through it. Cold air clawing past my face, turning my nose red. Hoping against hope that we'd find the Randolph before I died from sheer exhaustion.

My prayers were answered soon enough, because we ran right into the hotel on Beaumont street.

The Randolph Hotel was built in 1864, the architect being William Wilkinson, who was responsible for the plans of many larger homes in North Oxford. Contrary to popular belief, the hotel was not named after Randolph Churchill (who had connections with nearby Blenheim Palace). It received its name because of its close proximity to the Randolph Gallery, part of the new Ashmolean Museum. This gallery was built as a result of a £1000 benefaction left by Dr Francis Randolph, Principal of St Albans Hall (part of Merton College since 1882).

The receptionists were more than a little relieved to see us, having been plagued with calls and inquiries the night before. Apparently, rooms had been booked for 'Mr Choudhury and Mrs Ahmad'. Nazmun and I had a good laugh about that, and henceforth, she's been Mr Choudhury to me. We were shown into our rooms, and what rooms they were! From the plush beds to the delicate furniture, to the bathroom of my dreams...if I had any energy left, I'd have broken into song and dance.

Footloose and fancy-free

Mr Choudhury and I lunched on Sainsbury's sandwiches as we took a walk around the hotel, exploring High Street, and nearby shopping places. We stopped to check out a market, dropped in at the Islamic Institute, where I think it was the director who gave Nazmun a couple of books, seeing how she was affiliated with an Islamic institute back home.

After this, it was a quick tour of the Ashmolean Museum right opposite our hotel. Reputed to be Britain's oldest museum, it was established in 1683, when the word 'museum' itself was still a novelty. When we visited, there were two special exhibitions underway - one of British watercolour paintings, and the other of over two hundred of the most significant objects in the Ashmolean's world-renowned collections of Archaeology, Eastern Art , Coins and Casts. We had promised to meet someone from the British Council, at 3pm, so we had to rush back without getting the thorough run-through of the place that we would have liked.

The British Council at Oxford was a small, cosy building. Here we met the rest of the team that would be going with us to Ditchley. It was a nice mixture of young people and grown-ups, from varying educational and professional backgrounds. We had a nice, energising mini-conference about the issues that might come up at Ditchley, before we broke for dinner.

Our taxis were supposed to pick us up at 7pm sharp, but thanks to my temperamental room key, Nazmun and I were late in reporting, and it left without us. In a repeat of the morning's events, we decided to wing it and walk to the place. The kindly concierge told us it'd be a ten-minute walk to Gee's restaurant. We reached there in twenty, by which time my nose was frozen and my toes were numb.

Formerly a florist and Greengrocer, Gee's was taken over by present owner Jeremy Mogford in 1983. Inspired by its existing natural features, he enhanced the building to create a Restaurant and Bar with a collection of contemporary artwork. So essentially, we were dining inside a Victorian conservatory! Dinner was a sad affair for the Muslim members of the party, us being forced into vegetarianism by the dearth of halal meat. I wasn't complaining though; as long as there was salad and cheese, I was happy. The creme brulee at the end of the meal didn't hurt either!

The journey back to Randolph was far more comfortable, as we managed to get a taxi this time, but the exertion and exhaustion had taken their toll on me. By the time I finished socialising for the day and turned in, I was completely burnt out, and shaking with fever. Nibbling on the chocolate bar left on my pillow by the room service staff, I slowly let slumber claim me.

UK Trip Day 3

2007-03-01T06:50:00.000-08:00

UK Trip - Day 3

Friday, February 9, 2007

Chillin' in Oxford

Breakfast was hot toast, eggs, cheese, and fruit at the hotel. The salt and pepper shakers were fast becoming close friends by now. Altaf (a fellow Ditchley-bound member), Mr Choudhury and I sat and chatted in the Morse bar, named after the Inspector Morse series, scenes of which were filmed at Randolph.

We checked out at noon and headed straight for the British Council, from where we began a walking tour of the sights and scenes of Oxford. It was snowing, windy, and bitterly cold, and the layers I wore seemed to be poor defence against the weather.

The first stop was Christ Church. Founded in 1524, it is a unique institution, one of the largest colleges in the University of Oxford and, at the same time, the Cathedral Church for the Diocese of Oxford. The list of luminaries that attended the college is mind-boggling: John Taverner, Philip Sidney, John Locke, Robert Hooke, John Wesley, Robert Peel, William Gladstone, Frederick Lindemann, William Walton, W.H. Auden, Hugh Trevor Roper, Jan Morris, David Dimbleby, Rowan Williams, Richard Curtis and Howard Goodall, to name a few. We walked through the compound open-mouthed, as our tour guide outlined its fascinating history. As we passed through the dining hall, where the Dining Hall scenes of the Harry Potter movies were filmed, I couldn't help exclaiming "I'm in Hogwarts!" The cathedral, with its stained glass windows, was simply mind-blowing!

A walk past some other architectural curiosities, like the 'camera', which was actually a building, and the Bridge of Sighs, which connected two buildings, and a small monument to three bishops burnt at the stake for heresy for refusing to change their faith, and we arrived at our next stop, the Divinity School. This is a beautiful medieval building in the Perpendicular style in Oxford, England, part of the University of Oxford. Built 1427–83, it is the oldest surviving purpose-built building for university use, specifically for lectures and discussions on theology. Our guide waxed eloquent on the designs of the architect Christopher Wren, who added some lovely features to the building, although I forget which.

The building is physically attached to the Bodleian Library and is also next to the Sheldonian Theatre where students gain their degrees. At the far end from the Bodleian Library entrance, a door leads to Convocation House (built 1634–7). We sat in the hall, where Yvonne (one of our group) had received her Caines award, and listened to more interesting history notes, when we learned that this very hall was the infirmary in Harry Potter. I was still in Hogwarts!

Our tour ended in High Street, where we looked in at some stores. Everything was so expensive! A t-shirt that you could get for Tk 75-100 at the Doza market back home, cost £5 here. This being February, the Valentine theme was prevalent everywhere, and we found some cute books with interesting titles like 'How to woo' and 'Love is merely madness'. Needless to say, I didn't buy anything.

Narnia

It was snowing heavily by the time our bus arrived at Ditchley Park. There were six inches of snow on the ground, and we passed a few cars that were stuck in the drift. The first view of the mansion was breathtaking. It stood tall and proud, like something out of a fairytale, and the stone lions at the entrance were coated with snow, so that I was reminded of my readings of Narnia.

We were ushered past the immense doors ("They make you feel like an insect", Dr Vron Ware had warned us at the British Council) into the Great Hall, which came with a Sistine Chapel-like painted ceiling, plaster statues galore, and larger than life paintings. I was afraid my jaw would take up permanent residence on the floor.

My room was on the fourth floor, a darling suite with twin beds, an attached bathroom (a real luxury, considering everyone else had to run down the hall to do their thing). There was barely time for a shower and change before the conference began, and so there wasn't much time for exploring.

Dinner was an intimidating experience. We had seats assigned to us, and a maze of cutlery to work through. I was lucky to get nice neighbours who weren't quizzing me on my limited knowledge about politics. By the time the creme brulee made an appearance, I was feeling full, and relaxed.

It was way past midnight when I finally found my way back to my room. A glance out the window showed me a dreamscape of white, the hedge mazes completely covered with snow. I hopped lightly into bed, hugging the memories to myself, lest I awake the following morning and find it all a dream.

UK Trip Day 4

2007-03-01T06:44:00.000-08:00

UK Trip - Day 4

Saturday, February 10, 2007

Frustration and compensation

The English have a weird custom of disappearing behind their morning paper before breakfast, and heaven help you if you feel like some conversation before they are done! I was never so relieved when breakfast was announced, and it was okay to speak again. Fortified with eggs, halal sausages, and buttered toast and cheese, I dared to be optimistic about the day ahead.

By lunchtime, I knew it was useless to expect any agreement from the group I was assigned to. I liberally sprinkled the weird veggie concoction with pepper, and stabbed at it with my fork, trying to regain some of my lost composure. As always, there's nothing like cheese and desserts to set everything alright in the world again.

Reprieve came in the afternoon in the form of a sightseeing trip. The desi faction of the conference had all decided on Broughton Castle, so we found ourselves in one bus together. We treated our non-desi companions to a brief overview of popular music. The Indians sang a song from 'Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge' to illustrate their film music. The Pakistanis crooned 'Woh Lamhe' (the original Jal version) to highlight their pop, while I belted out "Tomar ghore bash kore" to show them our folk music rocks.

The historian Sir Charles Oman in 1898, described Broughton Castle as "About the most beautiful castle in all England ... for sheer loveliness of the combination of water, woods and picturesque buildings." We crossed the bridge over the moat, and entered through the ancient gates, passing the snowed-up garden, and pulling up before the entrance, where we were greeted by Lord and Lady Saye and Seles (the owners) themselves.

We were given a thorough tour of the building, with Lord Seles providing commentary on the history surrounding the place, from the design of the rooms to his ancestors, to the events that took place here, and also the films that were shot here, which included 'Shakespeare in Love' (Ralph Fiennes is related to the owners), and 'The Madness of King George'. We were shown Queen Anne's Room, and climbed up on the roof to find a wall with 200-year-old graffiti scratched on to it, and clambered down a narrow spiral staircase that had my acrophobia rearing its frightening head. I was both impressed and saddened by how carefully this piece of living history had been preserved, because it reminded me of the neglect of our own buildings and monuments back home. We left the castle a lot wiser than we had entered it.

That night, we had a formal black-tie dinner. I wore a Rajshahi silk sari mom had packed into my suitcase. Mr Choudhury was her usual helpful self, helping me drape and pin the damned thing. With no sister to do my hair, I think the look I presented to the crowd downstairs was 'Sopura mannequin meets Krusty the Clown'. I was cross at the results of the day's conference and spoke little, preferring to stick to the desis where I could just paste a smile on my face and let them do the talking while I unravelled my thoughts.

The moment dinner was done and I had done enough mingling to pass for polite, I raced up the stairs, changed into jeans and a sweater, pulled on my hat and gloves, and sneaked out for a walk. The snow was melting, and it was slushy underfoot. The wind whistled past the stone figurines, which glistened in the moonlight and took on an almost lifelike appearance. Any other night, I would have been frightened out of my wits, but tonight, I just wanted to lose myself in the haunting beauty of the place.

Packing my suitcase, for tomorrow I would say goodbye to this beautiful place, I said a quiet prayer of thanks, for the opportunity of having spent a few nights at Ditchley. All that was left after that was to crawl under the generous blanket and close my eyes.

UK Trip Day 5 & conclusion

2007-03-01T06:28:00.000-08:00

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Bye-bye Oxford

I was up and exploring the rooms of the mansion long before the round of wake-up calls began. The building was built by the second Earl of Litchfield, a member of the Lee family, in 1722 to a design by James Gibbs. In 1937 Churchill and Anthony Eden visited Ditchley for a house party and clearly enjoyed the hospitality. When the Battle of Britain started in 1940 Churchill was advised not to go to Chequers, the Prime Minister’s official country residence in Buckinghamshire, "when the moon was high" (the title of Ronald Tree’s autobiography), as German bombers were expected to attack it. He invited himself (and members of his war cabinet) to Ditchley for the weekend of 9-11 November 1940, and subsequently came for a further twelve weekends up to September 1942.

Instead of enduring the silent treatment during 'Paper Hour', I took to the grounds, exploring the gardens in daylight. The snow had melted, and although it was still bitingly cold, everything around me was green and beautiful. I walked down to the lake and sat some moments there, reflecting on all I'd seen and learnt over the past few days. Then it was time for breakfast.

The conference ended on a note of forced optimism, and my stomach was grumbling by the time we exited the grand library. I found Uncle Jim and Aunty Barbara waiting for me in the Great Hall, and suddenly the cloud over my head cleared. After hugging them, I had to go to lunch, which was a marvellous cheese and mushroom lasagne, but after that, I barely managed to kiss Mr Choudhury goodbye and shake hands with the small bunch of friends I had made, before the bus arrived, and we all had to leave.

Hello Cambridge

The ride to Cambridge took a good two hours and I counted over 25 roundabouts in Milton Keynes. All talked-out from my conference, I sank back into the comforting upholstery of the car, and let Uncle Jim's commentary about the scenery wash over me. Outside my window, I saw grassy banks, softly rolling fields, stone houses gradually giving way to brick ones with thatched roofs. Here an ancient church. There a modern factory. The classic melding harmoniously with the contemporary. Why couldn't we do this with Dhaka? My wild, ugly, unplanned city, without a structure or character to her name. My home. How I ached for her.

A quick stop at a supermarket, half an hour before closing time to take advantage of the Valentine's sales to buy chocolate for friends and family. As always, to see a student working the cash counter, providing service with a smile, was a pleasant surprise. Dignity of labour is a wonderful thing indeed.

The Dents lived in a quaint little house in Cambridge. The gabled roof, the pink walls, the dainty little garden bordering the driveway, the cosy clutter of souvenirs and craft projects, and the enormous cat sitting on the kitchen table - it finally felt like a home. Uncle Jim helped me drag my stuff into the tiny guest room, one with a view of the next-door neighbour’s home; he was apparently a scriptwriter. It was perfect.

Dinner at a small pub/restaurant, whose name I chose not to remember. It was lovely going somewhere homely, being anonymous for a while. Fluffy gnocchi with chopped vegetables and mushroom, which needed just the one fork for me to eat it. What more could I ask for?

Epilogue:

James Dent saw me off at Heathrow Airport the following morning. After saying an emotional farewell to him, I spent a few hours browsing the duty-free stores, after which I caught the plane to Dubai, arriving there at around midnight with barely minutes to catch the connecting flight. The journey from Dubai to Dhaka was everything a nightmare could be, but I managed to reach my beloved Dhaka in one piece, the following morning. As I sat in the car, waiting for the jam to clear so I could get home, my principal emotion was that of gratitude. Thank you, Ditchley, for arranging this. Thank you, British Council, for choosing me to go. And thank you, dear reader, for sharing this most memorable journey with me.

Another day in paradise

2007-01-19T09:52:00.000-08:00

The following story is based on true events

Evening descended swiftly, and the city gasped with the shock of the sudden chill that settled over the open streets.

In the relative warmth of her car, Fatima folded her arms and tucked her cold palms into her armpits to warm them up. Phil Collins crooned softly into her ear, his voice flowing through her earphones to her heart.

She calls out to the man on the street
'Sir, can you help me?
It's cold, and I've nowhere to sleep.
Is there somewhere, you can tell me?'

As she listened, she became aware of a tableau being enacted right before her eyes. A thin, scrawny girl was standing at the window of the car in front of her one, begging for alms in that whiny voice that at once inspires pathos and irritation. The recipient of those entreaties, a balding palate and the pale grey collar of a suit the only things visible from Fatima's position, was a study in indifference, as he sat immobile, unmoved by the thin girl's pleas.

Fatima shifted uneasily in her seat. Normally, she too, would have simply ignored the girl, but with the song in her head, her conscience would not let her. Carefully scanning the road for signs of other street urchins who would surely swarm her car if they scented an alms-giver, she reached for her purse, while trying to catch the beggar girl's eye at the same time. Their gazes locked, and at that moment, the lights turned green, and the cars surged forward, leaving the intersection.

**

Meena stepped back as the cars rushed past her, sending a draught that made her thin skirt billow about her legs. As if she wasn't already cold enough. She shook her head, frowning at the memory of the girl in the car who caught her eye just as the lights changed, and the look of remorse on her face.
Her curiosity didn't last long as a fresh bout of shivering overcame her. She glanced around her and realised it was already dark, and the rush-hour traffic had begun to peter out. Not having flowers or candies to sell, she doubted she would have any more luck at this spot tonight. Better to find something to eat and a place where she could get warm.

**

She calls out to the man on the street
He can see she's been crying
She's got blisters on the soles of her feet
She can't walk, but she's trying.

Hasan interrupted his crooning and took a long, deep drag of the cheap bidi he held between his fingers. A week since he left home to 'rough it out in the city', and he was already beginning to resemble the subjects of his study. Already his beard had begun to obscure his face, and his clothes and skin were equally caked with dust and grime. It would take a keen observer to notice that under the dirt, the clothes he wore were less ragged, that the bundle slung over his shoulder was actually an old schoolbag in a reasonably decent shape, and that he actually had shoes on. It would probably shock the accidental listener to hear this 'Komlapur beggar' singing in English.

As he dropped the dwindling stub and ground it under his heel, he spotted the girl limping along the station, whimpering with each painful step. Her skin and the tattered clothes she wore were that indeterminate shade of greyish brown that he had come to associate with a life on the streets. Her limp was real for once; his experience over the past few days had taught him to discern the fakes from the genuine ones. It had also taught him not to get involved…in this city of millions, there were only so many people he could help. A wry smile twisted his lips as he recalled the numerous debates he'd had with his best friend on the subject of charity and Samaritanism. It was amusing to think that he was finally seeing things her way, now that he was so far away from her. Lost in thought, he went back to his singing as he watched the girl find a spot to settle down in.

***

It was so cold now, that Meena could no longer feel the pain from her cracked and bleeding heels. She'd walked the length of the station, hoping to find a beatnik or one of the usual groups warming themselves around a makeshift fire, but tonight, there seemed to be none.
Tired now, she found a corner that provided shelter from two sides, and proceeded to make herself a nest of papers and rags to crawl into. Pulling her skirt as far down her legs as she could, she curled up to preserve heat. The cruel wind tossed ice daggers at her, and she was seized with a violent fit of trembling.
Across from her, the shawl-clad young man continued to watch her with what seemed to be a mixture of sympathy and regret, while he continued to sing a song in a language she didn't understand…

***

Fatima shivered as another neo-arctic blast of cold air gusted in through the window. Outside, the fog hung as thick as porridge, obliterating everything from view. She wrapped her woollen shawl tighter about her, revelling in its comforting warmth. Reluctantly extending her hands beyond its cosy shelter, she began to type up her assignment.
Suddenly a blue window box jumped up at the corner of her screen, announcing her friend Salim had just come online. He knocked on her messenger window as soon as he spotted her, and proceeded to update her on a fundraising project he started.

Salim: I feel like kicking out all these members...
Salim: They're sitting there sucking their thumbs, not doing anything worthwhile
Salim: They don't even post messages…the least one could say was “I'm donating a used, torn muffler
Fatima: I feel the same way about most of the people on the editorial board.
Salim: This is urgent
Fatima: It may be...but you can't change human nature.
Salim: yeah...sighs
Fatima smiled at the screen. Some people were so idealistic… She crossed her fingers in the hope that Salim's efforts would pay off, and then went back to her own assignment.

***

The girl had curled into a foetal position by now, and, even through the thick mist, Hasan could see that she was trembling very violently. Her eyes were shut, and her lips had turned blue. Muttering a silent curse, he got up, whipped off his shawl, and placed it over her. She was too far gone to notice. Sighing in frustration, Hasan sat down next to her, drawing his jacket tighter about himself. Dawn was still a few hours away. He wondered if she would last that long.

***

The sound of the azaan woke Fatima from a restless sleep. She shrugged off the seductive warmth off the thick blanket and sat up. The cold hit her like a physical blow, and she gasped out. Levering herself out of bed, she winced as her feet touched the floor. It was freezing.
Hobbling her way to the washroom, she turned on the faucet and began her ablutions. The ice-cold water sent darts of pain shooting through her fingers. By the time she finished, her hands and feet were numb with the cold.
As she stood on the prayer mat, the wintry air gusting around her, causing her to shudder violently, she remembered the beggar girl at the traffic intersection. Here she was standing in her flannel pyjamas, feeling like a human popsicle, and that girl had nothing more than a thin cotton frock on.
“Please let Salim's efforts work out” she prayed in earnest this time. “Please let Hasan be right; please let us be able to make a difference…”

***

Meena had long stopped shivering, but not because she was warmer. In fact, she couldn't distinguish between hot and cold anymore. She was vaguely aware of someone hovering around her, and thought she heard music somewhere, but she couldn't find the strength to move. She felt drowsy and breathless at the same time. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, though. Anything was better than the cold.

***

The sounds of the waking city roused Hasan from his stupor. He glanced at the girl beside him, and the sight drove all sleep from his eyes. She lay unmoving beneath the thin shawl, her eyes half-open, a half-smile frozen on her face. Oblivious to the tragedy of yet another urchin, the station came to live with the sound of bustling porters, busy tea-vendors, the real victims and the fakes, swirling around him in a riot of colours and smells and sounds. The sun shone golden through a thin veil of mist.

Oh, think twice.
It's just another day for you and me in paradise.

Growing up sucks!

2006-12-30T10:49:00.000-08:00

The sidewalks ran away
From the streets we once knew,
From badminton in the by-lanes
With neighbours and friends.
Now the boy next door
Is just an apartment number
Or a face in the elevator, asking 'Which floor?'

The playground where we used to play
The creaky swing set that flew
Us to the moon and back again
Abandoned us to the mercy of the shiny mall
Banks and boutiques reaching for the sky
And a food court snuggling with a DVD store.

Another calendar gets thrown away
"out with the old, in with the new!"
More resolutions formed to be broken,
Numbers to store on the flashy PDA
For conversations that never take place.
And we close another door

Christmas Reveries

2006-12-19T11:41:00.000-08:00

The sound of the Christmas band roused her from her dreams. For a few moments, she laid back and listened to the sounds as the last tendrils of sleep wafted away, and then sat bolt upright, grimacing with distaste as she recognized the tune. It was some dhoom-dharakka number from the latest Hindi movie.

Once upon a time, they actually knew a few carols.

Her mother spotted her annoyed expression as she emerged from her room.

“These people also have to earn, Shyama, and besides, how many of their clientele are Christians anyway? As for the foreigners living here, if they’re listening to the music at all, they don’t know that these bands are actually supposed to be carolers. And in any case, why are you so upset about it? It’s not like it concerns you”

But it does…

Shyama remembered her days in kindergarten, where her school had a very large international community, and they celebrated all the different religious festivals with equal fervor. Towards the end of the year, they had a Christmas play, where all the students would be performing. There’d be a skit with one group of children in the choir, another group choreographing the carols and songs, and one of the teachers narrating the events.

On her last day at the kindergarten school, which was also the day of the Christmas play, Shyama was one of the ‘sugar plum fairies’ who had some minor but popular role, flouncing around the stage in their belted on can-can skirts and gilt-paper tiaras. She pirouetted prettily as she had been taught to, curtseyed to the audience, peering at the faces in the crowd to see if she could spot her parents, and sure enough, they were there, Dad clicking away on his camera, and Mom beaming and waving at her.

Then, with a chorus of ‘Santa Claus is coming to town’ came the grand finale as the school gates swung open, and a rickshaw came rolling in. Sitting on the passenger’s seat was a familiar roly-poly figure in a red and white suit. As part of the program, four young boys wearing wire-and-paper antlers on their heads took their places in front of the rickshaw, and the ‘sleigh’ made its way to the stage area, accompanied by thunderous applause.

‘Santa’ slowly disembarked, called for his sack, and then sat down on the steps to the stage. The children crowded around him, crawling up on his lap, tugging at his cap and his ‘beard’, so that it slipped downwards to show a glimpse of a skinny black moustache. Someone handed him a list, and he began to call out the names of the ‘lucky’ students who would get some little gift. Shyama was instantly gripped by a terrible pang of self-doubt.

Maybe I won’t get one this time…

When her name was called, she could hardly contain her excitement, and her hand trembled as she accepted it, a tiny plastic snowman. Stuttering her thank-yous, she skipped off the stage, fighting the urge to shout with laughter: “I got one!” The fact that everyone else had gotten one too, did little to dampen that feeling of joy.

She smiled at the memory now, as she folded back her bedcovers and plumped up the pillows. Many Christmases had come and gone since then, and her almost unbearable excitement on the day had faded over the years, as she finally figured out why her family didn’t have a decorated tree in their living room like the families she read about in story books. Harder to digest had been the discovery that Santa was ‘just make-believe’.
For a long while she still clung to the tradition she’d created of hanging up socks on the window, in lieu of stockings on the mantelpiece, and her parents humored her by leaving a 100 taka note, or a candy or a funny message in it. Gradually, even that tradition died a slow death; the carols of the brass band were replaced by Hindi songs. Like Eid, which had dwindled to a symphony of meaningless rituals, Christmas had also become just another day off, with a few pages on cakes and shopping on magazines, and a few cliched songs on MTV being her only reminders of the holiday she’d once breathlessly awaited as a child.

The band had moved on by the time she’d showered and changed, and she was glad of it. Himesh Reshammiya was hard to digest on a normal day; distorted by the clanging cymbals and honking trumpets, the absurdity of his music was only amplified. Inexplicably morose, she sat down on her bed, trying to croon the half-forgotten words of ‘Silent Night’ when something caught her eye. Hanging on her window was a shabby, red-and-green sock with a reindeer motif. Curiously, she approached it, knowing she hadn’t bothered to put up her stocking this year. Stashed inside the sock was a tiny folded note. She opened it, and began to laugh.

Scribbled on the note, in her mother’s flowing script were the words:

Merry Christmas!

With love,

Santa

Snapshots

2006-10-19T10:29:00.000-07:00

It was that time of the year. Eid stretched, yawned, and fastened its crescent shaped monocle, peering down on the clutter that is Dhaka.

“Time for my annual patrol”
It slowly descended into the city. The streets were eerily empty; the bulk of the traffic-makers having sought out greener pastures for their celebrations. Eid stretched its legs with a happy sigh.
“Plenty of space tonight…let's see about that entry theme…”

Romjaner oi rojar sheshe elo khushir…..poof!
Without the slightest warning, the microphone went silent, and the lights went out. A bewildered Eid stood blinking in the middle of the darkened road. For a few seconds, there was an unearthly silence…and then the ground shuddered with the collective roars of generators being started up, and someone muttered “Blasted power cuts!”

“Right…okay…time to start making the rounds.”
Eid entered the first building and floated up the stairs and wafted through the doors of a random apartment…only to be blinded by something dazzling.

The Happy Shopper
“That's odd. I'm sure I heard a gasp somewhere. Ah well, I must be hearing things. Lord knows I've heard that reaction enough times this week. Every time I mention my Eid outfit this year, in fact. I mean, it's just a Tk 5 lakh sari, for heaven's sake. What was I to do? Let someone else buy it, and be the center of attention? Hmm…I wonder if this necklace goes with this…it's so difficult to keep track of all the advice these fashion-and-style supplements dish out! Not that I'd be able to do without them; where else would I know where the sales were?

Oh dear, I better go check to see if the living room is ready yet. It certainly cost a bundle to give it a totally new look!”
*
Having adjusted to the glare of the woman's festival finery, Eid decided to move on to the next room. The door was slightly ajar, and the faint notes of music poured out through it, which promised to be a better experience than the shopaholic's prattle about her buys.

Jaded
“I hate Eid. In fact, whenever I think that my life simply couldn't get any worse, all I have to do is remember this one occasion to prove myself wrong. And if it wasn't already one of the silliest and most boring social occasions (actually all of these social occasions more or less have these qualities), it seems to have become even worse in the last few years. On top of it all, this year it had to ruin what little fun I had left in my life by coinciding with birthday! So now instead of going out with my friends to either Boomers or Sports Zone, I have to stay home and spent one whole God forsaken day with my relatives who have nothing better to do than to come for a 'visit' to our house (which basically involves the elders sitting together and embarrassing themselves by cracking the lamest possible jokes, trying to 'fit in with the younger generation' and in every other way they can and leaving the little ones to irritate me to death). Things could have been just a bit better if it wasn't for the stupid TV programs they have for Eid. I mean, don't they get tired of singing the same old song every year? Not to mention the pathetic attempts they make to make people laugh. It was not all that bad when I was younger; at least I was on the receiving end of the salamis. Now I have to give away all of what I get from my elders to the younger ones in the family. With the best part (or rather, the relatively better part) of Eid gone from my life, I just look forward to another boring and miserable day of my pathetic life.”

*
Shaking its head, Eid let its gaze wander around the room, till it noticed an open window on the boy's computer screen.

On e-mail
Hey man!
My Eid predictably sucked. I actually forgot this was Eid! There are a very few Muslims in my campus and you see them only rarely. I had to get up early in the morning and run to the dining-hall to start my work-study, which to complete my already sufficiently de-glorified life was washing dishes to pay for my college tuition. I wasn't feeling bad though. I didn't even know today was Eid! Then I met Marwan, a Moroccan friend of mine who was unfortunate enough to be stuck as a dish washer too and he was the first one to enlighten me on that 'surprising' news. My Eid thus started wearing aprons and exchanging greetings with a Moroccan I didn't even know. Well, that's life and it was my decision coming here anyway.

Luckily I did have some casual Muslim friends and some good friends who knew that Muslims weren't all into silent contemplation and did have fun. But we all had a problem -we were stuck in a random place with nothing 'Eidsy' going on. There was supposed to be a small ceremony near by at the local Muslim community and we strolled over there and had some 'Muslim' food and said exchanged “Eid Mubarak”. It was nostalgic as well as relieving to know that you are spending Eid among complete strangers but who atleast knew what Eid meant. Afterwards with a complete lack of predefined plan on what to do, we simply went to Boston and had our favorite food- sushi to mark of the end of the glorious Eid! I missed the traditional food, the salamis (perhaps I missed that the most), the new dress and simply being there with my family in the holy day of Eid.

*
The bell rang at that moment, dragging Eid's attention away from the boy. It followed the sounds of laughter and greeting and shrieks of joy, and ventured out of the room, only to be bowled over a pint-sized hurricane.

The Salami Brat
“Where is Uncle? Ah, there he is. And what is that I see?? Is that a five hundred note, or is it a hundred taka note? Wait…oh no, I better hurry, otherwise I will get only fifty taka note, just because I am young. I hope Aunty gives me salami too, and his Grandfather, grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins, their relatives and anyone related to my friend but older than me. But anyways, once I get all the money, this time I will buy the big Kit Kat bar that I saw yesterday, and eat it all by myself. I won't give it to anyone else, well, except for my friend's big brother. Otherwise he won't give me any salami. There…there he is!”

*
Disgusted with the lack of true festive spirit, Eid stormed out of the building to go home. And promptly tripped over a small, shivering bundle crouched on the pavement.

The street urchin
“If Eid is about wearing new clothes and eating good food, then the first one in my life is yet to come. For me, every day is basically like the one before, and Eid is no exception. There was even one particularly unlucky Eid when I didn't have anything to eat the whole day; just like a roja.

The maulana shahib at the Friday prayers said it is forbidden to stay roja on an Eid day. But this year's Eid might be a bit different. I had plenty of things to pick off the streets during Ramadan, which I sold, and I have saved 17 taka for the Eid day! I will buy a toast biscuit for the dog in the stadium and a bottle of coke for myself. I have never tasted coke and now I am going to have one bottle all by myself, just like Shahrukh Khan on TV. Eid this year will not be so bad after all.”

*
So there it was…Eid through the eyes of the Dhakaites. Some remembered the spirit of the season, some had forgotten, and others never had a chance to experience it. Here's hoping our readers have a wonderful festive season. Eid Mubarak from the RS Team!

With Zeeshan B Rahman, Tausif Salim, Golam Rezwan Khan and Asifur Rahman Khan

Jane Doe

2006-09-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

It was one hell of a way to go. I stepped out from the air-conditioned bowels of the supermarket, only to be flattened by the midday heat. Squinting even behind my sunglasses, I hobbled on to the pavement, arms occupied with shopping bags, and cell-phone tucked firmly between chin and shoulder. Finding a CNG shouldn’t be too hard.

With my attention occupied upstairs, there was no way I could have spotted the crack on the curb, and barely noticed it when the pencil heels of my shoe went in. I did notice, though, when the next step sent me lurching forward. And I also noticed, if only very briefly, that the shiny red car pulling into the curb to park, against whose bumper I cracked my skull, had headlights shaped like feline eyes. It took no time at all for a huge crowd to accumulate on the spot where I fell, but by then, I was too busy being dead to notice. The driver of the car was too busy reacting in shock to notice that the cell phone had flown out from my grip and got crunched under his tyre.

There were screams, shouts and exclamations all around. Advice was shouted, and someone went to call the doctors. Someone else called the police. The driver of the offending car was collared, and he protested vociferously that he wasn’t to blame, because he couldn’t help it if I had decided to head-butt his car. Someone bent down to check my pulse, and, in as dramatic a tone as he could muster, pronounced me dead. A rumble of murmurs went through the crowd.

“No wedding ring. The poor thing wasn’t even married.”
“It’s a shame, really; she was quite pretty”
“I just don’t understand why women have to wear these stupid heels. They are so dangerous!”
“That’s a nice dress she’s wearing. Must be from ____ Boutique”
“Oh? But isn’t that place really expensive?”
“She must be loaded”
“Well, she’s not wearing much jewellery…”
“What kind of car did she come in?”
“If she came in a car, her driver would have spotted her by now.”
“Oi! Anyone over here driving for this lady?”
“Who is she?”

This was the cue to start rummaging through my purse. The search turned up a little spare change, which was pocketed so fast it looked like sleight of hand, a couple of lozenges, a bundle of receipts and invoices, a used paper napkin, a pair of nail-clippers, and a ball-point pen sans the cap. There were no visiting cards, no driver’s licences, no phone numbers. My cell-phone, when discovered, had been shattered beyond repair.

By now, the boys in blue (or teal and navy at any rate) had appeared, and there were the usual questions about what happened, whether I had any cash or jewellery, how much bribe money the offending driver was willing to pay to prevent a manslaughter case, etcetera. Finally, the inevitable: who was she?

By this time the heat was drying up the blood and my body began to smell. I was hauled off to the hospital and then stored in a freezer at the morgue. A bunch of volunteers gathered up the shopping bags I’d dropped, making inferences about me as they sorted through my shopping; some of these were spot on, and the others miles out of the ballpark.

My body lay in the freezer for a while. The coroner who was finally called on to perform the autopsy learned a lot about my lifestyle from the state of my organs. Unfortunately, organs don’t have registration numbers, so while he learnt that I had at some point had an appendix operation, and had three fillings in my teeth, he never discovered my name.

Days flew by. I got some room-mates inside the freezer. It was nice at first, then gradually got too crowded. No one came to file any ‘missing persons’ complaints. The press published a tiny news item in the back-page of one of the newspapers. (This was too small a matter for much press coverage, what with the celebrations over the capture of a ‘terrorist kingpin’).

Finally, one rainy afternoon, I was buried in a mass graveyard as a lawaris. Like the dandelion seed that flies through the rain and lands randomly, I just disappeared.

(Special thanks to Reggie for inspiring the final draft)

Dhaka

2006-06-21T10:22:00.000-07:00

My City, My Home

2006-06-21T09:54:00.000-07:00

The bus crawled through the jam at the Jatrabari intersection, and all the shop signs finally began to read ‘Dhaka’. I sighed as the first pang of disappointment surfaced. I was back in Dhaka. Suddenly, it hit me. A flashback from a not-so-distant past.

The microbus sped down Airport Road, and the Dhaka Gate came into view. At the back, the four children cheered madly. “Ain’t no city like my Dhaka city!” one screamed and soon they were chanting it in unison. After only four days in Calcutta (back then, it was still spelt like that), they were glad to be home.

“Things were different then, weren’t they?” the quiet voice jolted me out of my unexpected reverie.

I looked around me. It wasn’t one of my co-passengers, certainly not from my group, and yet, the voice had been achingly familiar.

“You know me.”
“Who are you?” I whispered, my eyes darting nervously in all directions.
“Dhaka.”

I looked out the window and saw her, the city, and my home. People milling about everywhere. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes jostling for space. Clouds of dust, the combined stench of smoke, sweat and desperation everywhere. Dilapidated apartment buildings vying with shiny towers, clawing their way up to the sky. I shook my head. “I knew you, once. Not anymore.”

I was mute as I stood in line to collect my travelling back. Mute when I located my car. Mute as I reclined against the pale, worn-out grey upholstery and gazed out. She spoke to me again.

“Have I really changed so much?”
“I’ve been living here all my life, and yet I don’t recognise you anymore.”
“Tell me how it used to be”

By this time, the confusing jumble of roads and buildings had rearranged themselves into a recognisable pattern, and I realised that we were entering Gulshan through Badda. The rows of shops yielded to the open intersection known as Gulshan Point 1.

“See that? There used to be a roundabout right at the centre; a green patch filled with trees, and the railings covered with posters. The shopping mall you see right opposite wasn’t there. I don’t remember what was.”

We turned right, and proceeded down Gulshan Avenue. I pointed out the brightly lit shops and tall, imposing apartment buildings where there had once been independent houses with front lawns or big gardens. We passed the neglected bit of land that had, until recently, been the Sweepers’ Colony, and in the Dhaka I once knew, a park. We sped past Tejgaon, I remarking on the large handicraft store, and the bright and shiny car showrooms, none of which had been around in the 90’s, when I’d been growing up. Some of the old smells still lingered, masked by the exhaust fumes and the odours of industrial effluents; the aroma from the biscuit factory, and the fragrance from the soap factory.
Presently, we passed the Saat-rasta intersection, turned right and headed towards Karwan Bazar. The old five star hotel loomed up ahead. I remarked how this area, housing the headquarters of quite a few private television channels and a few newspapers (including our own) had become something of a news hub over the last decade or so. She beamed at the obvious pride in my voice.
Pushing forward, we passed the enormous blue-glass mall; now a famous landmark by its own right. I talked about the huge cinema complex it housed, and all the other amenities, and then asked Dhaka if she remembered the green patch that existed before the mall, then realised I didn’t remember much about it myself. I guess you get used to these things, the way I’ve grown used to the traffic jams in Dhanmondi caused by the hospitals, schools and universities sprouting up like fungal growths everywhere, replacing the trees, the open spaces, and the single-unit houses with their gardens.
We turned around and shot down Manik Mia Avenue, which was once a boulevard bordered by Radhachura trees, if my memory serves me right. Right now, particularly after the frantic preparations for an international summit, it lies transformed by ornate road dividers fashioned to resemble grassy hills and waterfalls. Pressed for time, I decided to skip Agargaon and head back through Mohakhali, but while we were stuck in the jam, we talked about the classy summit centre and the Trade Fair area, which had led to a new development in our lives.

“Can you imagine you’ve got two flyovers on you now?” I asked Dhaka, as we soared over Mohakhali, looking down at DOHS, which had, after resisting change for so many years finally begun to give in to the apartment culture. She glances at me to try and discern my mood, but by now, we’ve passed through part of Kemal Ataturk Road and its jumble of shops and private universities and are waiting at the intersection at Gulshan 2. “There used to be a roundabout here too. Grass and tall trees. They never needed a lawn mower to keep it neat; a couple of goats let loose once a month would do the trick.” My companion sighs wistfully, and to cheer her up, I decided to pass by one of the two parks in Gulshan 2. “When I was still a chubby school kid, this park was in a terrible state of repair. Look at it now; well-manicured grassy embankments, neat concrete walks, and not a drop of litter anywhere.”

We enter through DOHS Baridhara, that concrete wasteland of congested apartment buildings. ‘I didn’t come here very often as a kid, but I do remember there being more grass here. Bashundhara is still pretty though,” I added quickly, so as not to depress her again. Crossing the rail-lines we found ourselves roaring down the Airport Road. This too, had changed; many of the fields on other sides had been replaced by buildings, and there was even a glittering new hotel. It was good to be out on an open road, nevertheless, and I lean back with a happy grunt, and feel my companion relax too.

The airport flashed past us, and I didn’t bother remarking on the developments around that zone – it was the same as had been done with the islands on Manik Mia Avenue and just about anywhere along the routes taken by the Summit guests. From the noncommitant expression on my face, the city must have realised that I’d long grown used to the changes.

“Uttara used to be a wilderness in the nineties; look at it now,” I commented, looking all about me. Shops, malls and markets greeted the eye, and everywhere there was a bustle of activity. “Oh look!” I pointed excitedly at my old school building with its green glass windows and large auditorium, and the city knew then that I wasn’t entirely unhappy with the way things were now.

We kept driving till the Cng metre dipped towards empty, and while we stopped to refuel, I remarked on the boons of modernisation, like the relatively more eco-friendly fuels, automatic traffic lights, flyovers, underpasses and over-bridges, and things like that, to show my city that I was optimistic about her.

“Where to, now?” she asked me.
“It’s been a long day, city, and I’d like to just go home.”
“Sabrina…”
“Yes?”
“You are home.”

That’s when I realised she was right. Dhaka had changed in innumerable years while I was growing up, but despite that, one thing about her remained the same. She was, is, and always will be my city, my home.

Envy

2006-06-04T08:32:00.000-07:00

The Grass is Greener

2006-06-04T08:01:00.000-07:00

All was a-buzz inside the Salon. Scissors snipped dutifully at locks of hair of all textures and colours, eyebrows were plucked, nails clipped and polished, and faces liberally slathered with all manner of herbal gunk. Conversation was carried out over the sounds of the beautification process.
“Did you just see the sari Mrs Omuk wore at the party last week?”
“Must have cost a fortune.”
“I would never be so ostentatious. Seriously, all that money wasted on someone with such appalling taste.”

Titters all around. The principal complainer arched a freshly plucked eyebrow at her own reflection in the mirror, surveyed her overworked coiffure, and turned to the stylists and said “More spray on the top, I think, so that it holds. See if you can add another flower on the right; it looks too bare.”

The doors swung open, and, preceded by a cloud of perfume, a new customer walks in. All eyes turn to take stock of her slim figure, her smooth skin, and lustrous hair – quite an achievement for a mother of two. The critical stares focus on the clothes, but can find no flaw to pick apart. Immediately, heads bend closer to one another.

“That’s Mrs Tomuk, isn’t it?”
“Yes, our kids go to school together. You should see the amount of time she spends with each teacher nit-picking over her son’s grades. I mean, I’m concerned about my children too, but she just overdoes it.”
Nods of agreement all around. The subject shifts to tutors and how kids these days never study.

Across from the hairdressing section, the stylists and parlour girls are seated on a sofa, waiting to be called to duty. Their seat provides a vantage point from which they can see their rich customers come and go.
“Wasn’t that Madam wearing the loveliest shoes? I’d kill for a pair”
“Yeah, but she takes no care of her feet. I get nightmares while giving her a pedicure.”
“The Aunty with the hair always asks for girl X by name, and gives her generous tips.”
“She would! X is the biggest brown-noser in the whole parlour.”

Voices of assent. The character assassination continues.

Oblivious to the gossip pouring like sewage into Gulshan lake, the Coiffured Customer pays and leaves. Clip-clopping in her high heels down the stairs, she pulls out a shiny new cell-phone to call her chauffeur, who arrives promptly with the brand new car. As they zip off to an unknown destination, the security guards exchange glances.

‘Mia earns the black money so that Bibi can spend it on flashy toys like this…”
“While you and I have to go marching up and down in front of their shops and salons for pay that won’t buy you a bicycle even!”

Seated behind the steering wheel, pausing at a traffic light, the driver tries to maintain a non-commitant expression while the begum sahib at the back yammers on ad nauseum over the cell-phone. His gaze flits over to the sidewalk where a beggar lies asleep, mouth open, oblivious to the world.
“Lucky bugger! Probably doesn’t have kids to pay for.”

Oh, the green pangs of envy!

Silent Screams

2006-05-18T10:34:00.000-07:00

The plight of the Modhupur Forest

Dusk settles down on the little parish village where we are staying. In the absence of electrical lighting, the whole area is bathed in the silvery moonlight. We sit by the lake, soaking in the serenity of the place, watching fireflies dance through the trees. Accustomed as we are to the blare and the cacophony of city life, we welcome the peace and quiet and revel in it. Only later does the significance of this situation sink in, and the silence takes on an eerie quality.

What forest?
The sign outside the compound read “Charaljani Silviculture Research Centre”. The word 'silviculture' hinted at a wealth of trees. Yet when we ventured inside, we saw, hidden behind a façade of a grand total of seven trees, a barren tract of wasteland.

The officer on duty talked about how the Asian Development Bank (ADB) funded a project whereby a large section of the forest area was cut down and replaced by plantations of acacia, eucalyptus and gamar trees, none of which were native species. “Initially, they were grown as fuel-wood, but rapidly gained popularity as timber-wood” the forestry officer told us.

We were also told about the illegal logging activity that had been carried on at an alarming rate in the area, which also may have contributed to the decline of the sal forests. “Stealing wood is both a passion and profession of the local perpetrators,” said the same source. “There were some occasions where the hoodlums came and tied up the forest officials and then cut and carried the trees away.” When the ADB-funded project began to come to a close, in order to bring these activities under some semblance of control, the land was leased in 3-acre plots to locals on a 'participant' basis, which gave them 40% ownership. They could use the land for cultivation as they saw fit, and would also be responsible for protecting it. The result is that what was once a forest rich in natural resources, and teeming with wildlife, has been reduced to fruit plantations that leave no room for anything but the cash crops.

We visited a banana plantation at Pirgacha. As far as the eye could see, there were rows upon rows of bananas, and nothing else, not even grass. The amount of chemical fertilizers and pesticides used in the area would not permit another life form anyway. Saleh Ahmed, a local participant plantation-owner admitted, 'We spray each tree with pesticides twice a week.” Twice a week. Added to the fact that along with the chemical fertilizers and pesticides, the bananas were also fed growth hormones to make them bigger, you could say that the fruit is reduced to nothing but poison in a peel. When asked whether the banana plantations ever face opposition from the government, the farmer confidently shook his head. This was just one plantation block. As we went from Telki to Pirgacha and beyond, we saw the same tragedy repeated everywhere. The sal forest is shrinking rapidly, being reduced to mere mono-culture plantations. Before we know it, the once majestic Modhupur forest may end up as just another paragraph in the pages of history.

Eerie quiet
“Once this area was filled with monkeys, deer, and birds. There were also plenty of wild boars, wild buffalo, and many other animals.” Joynal Abedin, a journalist at the Dainik Ittefaq for the past 26 years, indicated the Telki area with a sweep of his hand. Some 1000 acres of forestland had been given to the Bangladesh Air Force to be converted to a firing range. We followed the movement of the man's hand, and saw nothing but a treeless tract of land, a large termite hill the only testament to the fact that he might have been speaking the truth. Prior to the trip, we'd read up on the rich biodiversity of the forest. Walking through the spookily silent plantations, the loss of the species struck home with force.

While we had been at Pirgacha, we stopped by a rubber plantation. At first sight, it's beautiful; rows and rows of tall green trees. Until you stop to listen, and hear nothing but an eerie quiet, for the rubber plantation does not support any other life forms, not even insects. Then you realize that this visually pleasing stretch of land is nothing more than a 'green desert'. Green, not only because of the clone trees that populate it, but with 70 percent of the domestic demand for rubber being fulfilled from the plantations in this region alone, as one high-ranking rubber official bragged, it's earning greenbacks for all those involved in the project. Who wants to worry about birds and bugs when you can get rich off these plantations?

We also interviewed an official at the Modhupur National Park about the animals in the 'protected' forest area. He told us that the Park houses some 53 Chitra deer, and some 4 Maya deer, as well as a good number of monkeys. There was no mention of the palm civet, the elephants and anteaters, or any of the animals that once lived there.

The survivors also have had to adapt to their changing atmosphere, by changing their lifestyles and feeding habits. The deer were now being fed wheat husk, while the monkeys are being fed bananas. “The monkeys have learnt to trust humans and not see us as their enemies' the officer stated proudly. Whether that was a good idea, is another question altogether. Joynal Abedin recounts an incident where a rhesus monkey found a truck being loaded with bananas from the plantations. Having grown accustomed to this new food (wilder monkeys prefer to eat sal leaves), it jumped aboard, and began sampling the goodies. The truck men spotted the stowaway, caught it, and beat it so hard, they broke both its legs. It was left on the road, where some concerned locals took it to the nearby veterinary clinic, where it died the next day. The story serves to illustrate how the creatures of the forest have no place in the new order of things, where cash is seen more important than protecting the rich gene pool in the natural forests.

A people, muted
According to the Tangail DFO, the Modhupur forest is home to some 20,000 Garo/Mandi and Koch. They've been living in the area since long before the Independence, and were hit hard by the loss of their homes and livelihood under the government's social forestry programme.

As the forest shrinks and gives way to plantations and dwellings for the 'Bangalis', the Adivasis find their homes and livelihoods under threat. When the Modhupur forest was declared a reserve forest and the Forest Department began to build a wall around what was left of it to 'protect' it, the Adivasis stood to being restricted from their own land, and protested. The situation came to a head on January 3, 2004, when the forest guards opened fire on a peaceful protest against the wall, killing a Garo by the name of Piren Snal, and injuring several others. The battle wages on.

“What the authorities do is file false cases against us, says Ajoy Mree, the convenor for the Committee for Indigenous Peoples' Rights and Environmental Protection. “Anyone who is seen trying to resist has a case filed against him/her, and is arrested. Once we're in jail, other cases crop up to make sure we stay in there. If we're not in jail, we're running from lawyer to lawyer trying to stay out of jail, so how do we manage to make a living, let alone keep protesting?” Eugin Nokrek, another prominent Mandi activist adds, 'Sometimes the complaints are filed against old people and children. They don't take chances with any of us.”

Mree and Nokrek are a few of the soldiers fighting a losing struggle against avaricious forces more powerful than themselves. Others prefer to just give in and let the inevitable take place. As a result, we are losing out on the cultural diversity within the forest.

A visit with Jonik Nokrek, one of the last followers of the Shangsharek religion, the original faith of the Mandis, tells us just how much we might be missing out if the Adivasis are forced to adapt to this new reality. At 96, the man is still amazingly spry, and has an unbelievable memory, recounting his exploits of elephant hunting, meeting Mahatma Gandhi, and watching the land of his birth go from the hands of the British to Pakistan, and finally to Bangladesh, where his people are now being persecuted by their own countrymen.

As grim as the situation looks. As we stand atop an observation tower inside the Rusulpur Range, gazing down on some 3000 acres of lush green sal forest, it looks as though there's hope yet. If we can arrest the cancer of encroachment, illegal logging, mono-culture plantation and persecution of the forest people, we might yet be able to preserve a piece of living history, a veritable treasure trove of genetic and natural resources.

My Great Love Affair

2006-05-04T02:47:00.000-07:00

I was about seven or eight when I had my first theatre experience. I was a huge fan of Humayun Ahmed's 'Auyomoy', and when the television series ended, my mother took me to the Shilpakala Academy to watch a special Auyomoy parody that was staged there. Before that, my acquaintance with the stage was limited to the end-of-the-year school programmes where we kids would be outfitted in ridiculous costumes and asked to get up and recite poetry or sing songs so that our parents could clasp their hands and exclaim 'That's my baby!”

A hush fell on the audience as the lights dimmed, and the play began. For the next one and a half hours, I sat entranced as the characters I had come to fall in love with on the small screen tromped on and off the stage. Asaduzzaman Noor as the multifaceted, romantic Mirza Shaheb, Sarah Zaker as his enchanting second wife Elaichi Begum, Bipasha Hayat as her sister Labanga, all my favourite characters, left me star-struck and helpless with laughter as they delivered their witty dialogues, making fun of their own on-screen personalities. When the show ended and it was time to go, I knew something inside of me had changed forever. I was in love.

I grew up and moved to a big school (no points for guessing), and I found plenty of opportunities to get close to this art form that had so fascinated me. I went with friends to watch the Bengali adaptation of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' at the National Museum and came back sighing over Demetrius and his fiery red hair. I smiled and sang along to the 'Oliver' musical staged at our school campus. I enthusiastically played all the theatre games they had in our drama class. Painfully shy when it came to performing though, I clung fiercely to the fringes of the cultural programmes at school, opting to be a voice in the chorus as opposed to the lead role.

All too soon, the carefree years of high school were over, and I found myself bidding the auditorium an emotional goodbye. Other interests and commitments soon followed, and real life crept in.

Swamped by deadlines, presentations and submissions, my love affair with theatre took a back seat. As a Media student, I had many opportunities to hone my acting skills, and even began to take interest in film, but it wasn't the same thing, talking into an inanimate lens. Occasionally, I'd glance at the newspapers and see timings for some play, and told myself, 'Maybe later.” But that 'later' never came.

It was when I joined this writer's forum that I'm currently with, that I was re-acquainted with my old flame. It began with a showcasing of our work onstage. An hour before my first show with the group, I was sitting in the green room, as white as a sheet, trembling like a leaf as I battled with stage fright. When the spotlight turned on, though, I was strangely calm as I went through the motions of the play. I was in the zone, feeding off the energies of a live audience, and loving every minute of it. From that moment, my great love affair with theatre has resumed in full blast.

I've been acting for almost a year now, and I learn something new with every performance. I also catch the odd play whenever I can, be it at my university, or the British Council, or DU's Nat Mondol, or even my old favourite, the Shilpakala Academy, and I've never been happier.

Different people like theatre for different reasons. I'm no expert. I wouldn't be able to tell you anything about the 'existentialism' or 'post-modernism' or whatever tongue-twisting jargon my fellow members in the writers' forum use.

When I'm onstage, I like the spontaneity of interacting with a live crowd, and the freedom of escaping myself and stepping into the shoes of an entirely different character. When I'm sitting in the audience, I enjoy watching the interaction between the players, the chemistry and the tension; I love how lights, music, gestures and dialogues can work together to bring a story to life. It's magic, sheer magic, and when the curtains go up, I'm spellbound.

What love song are you?

2006-03-30T03:03:00.000-08:00

Your Love Song Is

Yellow by Coldplay
"Look at the stars,Look how they shine for you,And everything you do,Yeah they were all yellow"
You're so in love, it's like a drug.

What Love Song Are You?

Pondering over powercuts

2006-03-09T02:55:00.000-08:00

Plato talks about the philosopher who goes out into the sunlight and returns to the cave with newfound respect for shadows. It's funny how this really makes sense when Dhaka kicks the bucket. The thing with days and nights in this city is that it's all relative. Sunshine is a myth when you're sitting inside a cramped flat, looking out the window at a vista composed almost entirely of tall apartment buildings. Then the sun goes down, and the neons and halogens come up, and we get the amorphous not-quite darkness that we call the Dhaka nights.

Then suddenly, the load-shedding began. The concerted cacophony of the television sets, stereo systems and computers was replaced by the roar of the shuddering, oil-guzzling generators. The deafening din went on for hours, numbing the brain, until the oil ran out, and after a few choking splutters, the generators too, died, and there was silence; and darkness - real darkness, unmitigated by the bright spotlights and neon lettering on the billboards outside.

At first, the only sounds to be heard were the whining of mosquitoes and the irritable slapping noises of the victims unsuccessfully swatting at the invisible. An awkward silence reigned, and stretched out unbearably, until…

“Now what?”
It's funny how that question would have been so easy to answer about a decade ago. Before every house (and apartments weren't as commonplace as they are today) came conveniently fitted with IPS' and generators, a power outage meant that you had to stay put wherever you happened to be the moment the lights went out. Then someone would stumble his/her way towards a candle or hurricane. Once the flame sputtered to life, we would all huddle around it like moths. Conversation flowed seamlessly; we were younger, and less self-absorbed. We'd share stories, laugh at corny jokes (back then humor didn't have to be lewd to be funny), and then there would be the inevitable sing-along games.

As if stirred by that old memory, someone started singing.
“Remember when…”
“Yeah…”
There were the familiar sounds of scuffling feet and the “ouch!” of someone banging a knee against an unseen obstacle. A match was struck, and a candle lit.

The flame danced to life and created a soft pool of golden light, and flickering, dancing shadows that had in younger, more uncomplicated days created fodder for many a ghost story. The singing continued, gaining power as one by one, we all picked up the half-forgotten tunes, fed by nostalgia. It was still too sudden, too soon, to really start talking, as opposed to speaking, as we had been doing of late, but the magic of the moment was there, nevertheless. Bomb threats, collapsed buildings and inflation seemed part of another reality.

Then, without warning, the electricity came back on.

Five Point Love test

2006-03-07T10:08:00.000-08:00

Your Five Variable Love Profile

Propensity for Monogamy:

Your propensity for monogamy is medium.
In general, you prefer to have only one love interest.
But it's hard for you to stay devoted for too long!
There's too much eye candy to keep you from wandering.

Experience Level:

Your experience level is high.
You've loved, lost, and loved again.
You have had a wide range of love experiences.
And when the real thing comes along, you know it!

Dominance:

Your dominance is low.
This doesn't mean you're a doormat, just balanced.
You know a relationship is not about getting your way.
And you love to give your sweetie a lot of freedom.

Cynicism:

Your cynicism is low.
You are an eternal optimist when it comes to love and romance.
No matter how many times you've been hurt - you're never bitter.
You believe in one true love, your perfect soulmate.
And if you haven't found true love yet, you know you will soon.

Independence:

Your independence is high.
You don't need to be in love, and sometimes you don't even want love.
Having your own life is very important for you...
Even more important than having a relationship.

The Five Variable Love Test

Pondering on a power-cut

2006-03-05T09:06:00.000-08:00

Plato talks about the philosopher who goes out into the sunlight and returns to the cave with newfound respect for shadows. It’s funny how this really makes sense when Dhaka kicks the bucket. The thing with days and nights in this city is that it’s all relative. Sunshine is a myth when you’re sitting inside a cramped flat, looking out the window at a vista composed almost entirely of tall apartment buildings. Then the sun goes down, and the neons and halogens come up, and we get the amorphous not-quite darkness that we call the Dhaka nights.
Then suddenly, the load-shedding began. The concerted cacophony of the television sets, stereo systems and computers was replaced by the roar of the shuddering, oil-guzzling generators. The deafening din went on for hours, numbing the brain, until the oil ran out, and after a few choking splutters, the generators too, died, and there was silence; and darkness - real darkness, unmitigated by the bright spotlights and neon lettering on the billboards outside.
At first, the only sounds to be heard were the whining of mosquitoes and the irritable slapping noises of the victims unsuccessfully swatting at the invisible. An awkward silence reigned, and stretched out unbearably, until…

“Now what?”

It’s funny how that question would have been so easy to answer about a decade ago. Before every house (and apartments weren’t as commonplace as they are today) came conveniently fitted with IPS’ and generators, a power outage meant that you had to stay put wherever you happened to be the moment the lights went out. Then someone would stumble his/her way towards a candle or hurricane. Once the flame sputtered to life, we would all huddle around it like moths. Conversation flowed seamlessly; we were younger, and less self-absorbed. We’d share stories, laugh at corny jokes (back then humor didn’t have to be lewd to be funny), and then there would be the inevitable sing-along games.

As if stirred by that old memory, someone started singing.

“Remember when…”
“Yeah…”

There were the familiar sounds of scuffling feet and the “ouch!” of someone banging a knee against an unseen obstacle. A match was struck, and a candle lit. The flame danced to life and created a soft pool of golden light, and flickering, dancing shadows that had in younger, more uncomplicated days created fodder for many a ghost story. The singing continued, gaining power as one by one, we all picked up the half-forgotten tunes, fed by nostalgia. It was still too sudden, too soon, to really start talking, as opposed to speaking, as we had been doing of late, but the magic of the moment was there, nevertheless. Bomb threats, collapsed buildings and inflation seemed part of another reality.

Then, without warning, the electricity came back on.

After the party

2006-02-06T05:44:00.000-08:00

Anu [entering with Kaiser]:

We walked into the ballroom, husband and wife
The party was in honour of his success
And that of mine, his partner in life
Arm in arm, we worked the crowds
Telling and re-telling our success story
They thronged around us, hungry for more
Tales of the rise to stardom and glory

Then, right on cue, the crowds did part,
And a familiar figure stilled the beating of my heart

[Enter Zayed…Anu lets go of Kaiser’s hand and takes a step closer to Zayed]

Looking at you now, the years melt away
I’m taken back to the day we first met
Little did I know, we’d end up this way
The pain you gave me, I’ll never forget

But one day, I learnt to smile again
Found laughter through my tears
And then, sunshine did follow the rain
[Gesturing to Kaiser]
He came into my life and chased away my fears

[Anu turns away to leave with Kaiser, but Zayed catches her hand and turns her to face him]

Zayed: I see him holding hands with you
Your fingers intertwined
I can’t help regret that I wasted so much time
But everything I touch turns to poison
And all I ever gave you was pain
So you ran, ran away for me, knowing I was bad for you
And wiped me from your memories like a stain
And I know I made you go away
But now I wish I’d made you stay
Seeing you with him is the death of the hope
That I’ll ever call you mine

[Kaiser looks at the two, his face contorted with fury]

[Later that night, Anu is asleep. Kaiser sits by her on the bed]

Kaiser: Pillows, covered
Cranberry, red.
Lolled to the left
Her insignificant little head.

None of mine others
Mistresses of the nights
Would dare such mistrust
To inflict and wound me.

Sheets, soaked
Cherry, scarlet
Mine own bed
Occupying wife, dead.

What Advanced degree should you get?

2006-01-05T10:22:00.000-08:00

You Should Get a MFA (Masters of Fine Arts)

You're a blooming artistic talent, even if you aren't quite convinced.
You'd make an incredible artist, photographer, or film maker.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

What's your temperament?

2005-12-18T04:46:00.000-08:00

You Have a Choleric Temperament

You are a person of great enthusiasm - easily excited by many things.
Unsatisfied by the ordinary, you are reaching for an epic, extraordinary life.
You want the best. The best life. The best love. The best reputation.

You posses a sharp and keen intellect. Your mind is your primary weapon.
Strong willed, nothing can keep you down. Your energy can break down any wall.
You're an instantly passionate person - and this passion gives you an intoxicating power over others.

At your worst, you are a narcissist. Full of yourself and even proud of your faults.
Stubborn and opinionated, you know what you think is right. End of discussion.
A bit of a misanthrope, you often see others as weak, ignorant, and inferior.

What Temperment Are You?

Just a moment

2005-12-18T04:20:00.000-08:00

The room was empty when I got back. The table had been cleared up; I guess my mother had become tired of waiting for me. Even though she wasn’t physically present, I could feel her disapproval. It was almost tangible. As resigned as I was to the bitterness between us, evidence of it still managed to take the spring out of my step.I quietly sidled into my room, flicked on the light switch, and tossed my purse on the bed. A paper napkin with a number scrawled on it tumbled out, bringing back the events of the evening.
The band had been in full swing when I entered the room, nervous, yet tingly with excitement at being out alone, wearing my favourite outfit. The hall was filled with beautiful people; chic ladies in their sparkling saris, and tall men in their crisp suits. I was floored.
Then I spotted him. Standing in one corner, one leg draped over the other in a very Hollywood pose, he was quietly observing the crowd. I suppose he was no different from any other man present in the hall, but there was something about him; the dimple on his cheek when he smiled, or the twinkle in his warm brown eyes as they alighted on something amusing. I had to look away.
But I was acutely aware of him no matter where I looked. I felt his smile as I laughed at some witty comment by one of the ladies, that I didn’t understand. I saw the twinkle in his eye in the flash of the drink a bearded gentleman raised to the light. There was no escape.

A tap on my shoulder, then, and I turned, and our eyes met.

“Hi”

That one word to me, was like a fanfare of trumpets and cymbals, and I floated away on the sound. We began talking, or rather, he talked, and I drowned in the rich timbre of his voice. Much of what he said went over my head, and although I was still enchanted by his smile, the magic was beginning to wear off.

“Let’s stay in touch,” he said, hastily scribbling down a number on a paper napkin. I accepted it with a smile, so as not to hurt his feelings, but I know I will lose it, for what we shared was a moment, beautiful, but fleeting. Just a moment to look back on with a smile.

Ode to a chair

2005-12-16T06:18:00.000-08:00

Oh Chair
sitting there
empty and bare...

Are you waiting for somebody to sit on you?
Are you missing someone who's not there?

To the travel-weary tourist stuck on a plane
You're a sight he never wants to see again
To the tired journeyman, you're a heaven-sent gift
Just looking at you gives his spirits a lift.

Chair, do you enjoy being sat upon
day by day
by people who don't care?

Chair, you're a mystery
Or maybe a part of history
A symbol of authority
An object of utility...

Or...then again, maybe just a chair

It's a Jungle out there!

2005-11-24T11:04:00.000-08:00

THe car drew up to the school gates. Inside, the girl sat terrified, clutching her bag so tightly her skinny knuckles gleamed white. “Go on. We're here,” her mother urged. Frightened, she ran a hand over her freshly shaved head, and shrank back against the upholstery. “I can't, Ma! N-not like this!” Her mother gave her an impatient shove, and she reluctantly disembarked. Squaring her shoulders, she entered through the gates, steeling herself for the onslaught that would surely follow.

Sure enough, she hadn't gone more than a few paces before a chorus of Takla! Takla! (Baldie) went up, and the girl found herself surrounded by her classmates, and the other kids of the school. In a scene reminiscent of William Golding, they circled around her, playing a cruel game of Ring-a' roses, chanting names like 'baldie' and 'takla' and 'egg-head', while the victim cowered at the centre, fighting tears.

Incidents like those make us look back and laugh, but when we're experiencing them, they're a nightmare. The mildest ones leave us embarrassed, and we can shake them off and move on. In extreme cases, they can leave long-lasting psychological scars. Welcome to the reality of school hazing, those sink-or-swim years of socialization at school.

In its purest sense a school is an educational centre. It is a place where the students gain knowledge that they can use later in their lives to their benefit. In reality a school is so much more. It is the basis of a child's makeup. They say charity begins at home but it surely gets much of its refinery from the days spent at school.

Most importantly however, a school is a place where children are for the first time exposed to a plethora of new partners of sorts, none of whom they know. It is here that one takes his/her first steps towards learning to socialize and hence it is a very crucial part of ones life. Here, a child, for the first time, learns how important it is to make friends- a term, which is until then strangely alien to them. It may sound simple, but as with the age-old cliché, it is definitely not a bed of roses.

Hazing or “ragging” as it is known as, can be a very serious issue. I personally know of this one person who in his school days was treated with such utter disdain or complete ignorance from his peers and his class mates that he has grown up a strange, confused and disoriented young man with little or no social skills and almost no comprehension of when someone is offering his/her friendship. He is prone to frequent bouts of depression and always acts in extremes- either too effusive or completely hushed. It is indeed heart rendering to see and knowing him for what he really is it is even more tragic. When anyone says that ragging can ruin a person's life they are not exaggerating.

As far as boys or males are concerned ragging usually comes in the form of bullying. It usually occurs when someone bigger starts picking on someone he deems to be his lesser. In its most primitive state the branding is usually done in regards to size but sometimes it can also be due to a certain inability that one person has or a certain advantage that the bully has over the person he is about to bully.

Rohan* is a very intelligent boy and his mind works in such intricate ways that even his teachers sometimes have difficulty comprehending just how his mind works. He is not very friendly because according to him he has much more interesting things to keep himself occupied, like reading books. His class mates especially this one person, Marzuk*, finds that for some eerie reason very frustrating. He decides to go and do something about it.

The next day Rohan finds his tiffin missing. Looking around he sees Marzuk devouring it. Seeing him Marzuk smiles deviously and laughs out loud spraying food in disgusting spittle. His 'cronies' around him however seem not to mind and they laugh along with him. Rohan decides not to say anything.

That same day during the games period Marzuk intentionally trips Rohan from the back sending him sprawling on the asphalt. He cuts his chin in two places and scrapes his knees and elbows. Although shocked at the treatment Rohan yet again does nothing and his instructor doesn't notice. Big mistake.

Marzuk smells easy prey and strikes. Over the next few days and weeks Rohan's school days turn into a nightmare of epic proportions and one that shows no signs of ending. Day after day he has to put up with Marzuk's nonsense and fear of even further retaliation staves him off complaining to either his teacher or mother.

He loses all zeal for school and his marks drop alarmingly. His parents confront him one day and Rohan tearfully confides his deepest darkest secrets. His parents immediately contact school authority who arranges a meeting with Marzuk's parents. The situation is tackled in the principal's room that very day and although the results will still take time both sets of parents go home understanding what each had to do.

It would take some time to resolve this and even more for rehabilitation but in the end both parties manage to settle their differences. Marzuk realizes how his deep seated insecurity drove him to desperate acts as such in order to please the whole of the class. Rohan realized how people perceived him as possessing little or no strength of character and worked hard to resolve it.

Seven years down the line Rohan and Marzuk are the best of friends and both admit that their first fumbling steps down the road that ultimately led to friendship was an invaluable part of their character build-up.

Both of them were however lucky.
Most cases end in far worse outcomes and the damage that the person being bullied suffers is sometime irrevocable and can affect his entire life. The bullies themselves do not realize that trying to dominate another individual comes from a deep-seated insecurity in himself. That is, in order to prove himself he tries to belittle another individual so that he will appear greater in comparison.

Ultimately it stems from nothing other than the expectations that you set for yourself, your self-confidence and how you perceive how the world perceives you.

When girls choose to get nasty, they really can. Research has shown that boys who bully are generally insecure about themselves, and thus try to assert themselves through sheer brute force. Not so with the girls. The girls who choose to get mean are usually really confident about themselves; for them, it is more a sport, or a source of amusement, a sort of experiment in exercising their own power. The methods they resort to are shocking, and even sadistic at times.

Sayma* recollects this particular incident in school, when she was in Grade 5. “I was new in school, then, and there was this girl Nafiza, who was the prettiest and most popular girl in class. She was extremely friendly towards me at first, and I was flattered by the attention. More than that, I needed the confidence boost at that time. Then I noticed that my other classmates' behaviour towards me had begun to change. It took me some time to realise that Nafiza had been spreading all kinds of rumours about me. The fool that I was, I tried confronting her. Big mistake. Nafiza publicly declared that henceforth, she was no Of mine. She might as well have declared open season on me. Suddenly, everyone avoided me; I'd find books missing from my bag and thrown into the waste-paper basket, ink marks scrawled on the back of my shirt. Once I found a piece of soap in my water bottle. It was a nightmare! The worst moment was when this other girl I had known from my old school, who had changed schools with me, joined in the ragging. I felt betrayed, and completely alone.”

When girls initiate the hazing, they use isolating tactics like avoiding the victim, or spreading rumours about him/her, and if this goes unchecked, the methods get meaner and meaner.

So why does this happen? Sociologists suggest that this 'survival of the fittest' mentality that prevails during the early school years is a natural tendency of humans for establishing some sort of social hierarchy. It is a socialising process that is repeated in different guises throughout a person's life. As one astute teen puts it, “Most of us don't really mean any harm by it. It's less about the victim himself than the feeling of power one feels when picking on a peer. It's like by branding the victim as a 'lesser' (and thus 'raggable') being, the 'ragger' is superior to the 'raggee' It boils down to human nature, which can sometimes veer to the sadistic. I personally never initiate it…I just join in the laughter and occasionally contribute some sarcastic comment or the other.”

Not all ragging is psychologically debilitating. Some are really just pranks, teasing, and harmless fun, like teasing a classmate about his/her crush. To some extent, this is even necessary, as it teaches us to take things in stride, and toughens us up so we can deal with worse in the future. It is only when someone's self-esteem is being attacked that things turn ugly.

Lets not be high and mighty here. Writing this article and appealing to the students of schools to stop ragging. It is not going to work and we are intelligent enough to understand that. Hazing is a part of life that everyone has to live through. It is also a vitally important stage of your life and one that can determine where you stand. It has its advantages too. It helps build strength of character, helps you improve your social skills and makes you all that more street savvy- essential nuances of character that can come in handy later in life. It prepares you for the world outside and lets you know just how horrific and appalling people can be the worst side of human nature.

We wrote this just to explore the struggle behind the halcyon days that we fondly remember as our school days. That rollicking rambunctious roller-coaster ride also contains a lot of hazing and ragging, and it can either give you a rush, or bring you crashing down, but we'd rather get off laughing than wishing we never got on, right?

Another mouth to feed

2005-11-17T08:07:00.000-08:00

Moni was awakened by the laboured, soul-grating sound of her mother coughing. It wasn’t so much as a cough as a rasping, rumbling, frame wracking paroxysm of pain. Poor food, combined with long hours of brick-breaking under the sun, enveloped by the fine red dust of the crushed bricks which coated her dark brown skin, had weakened her body, laying it bare to the ravages of tuberculosis. Moni watched as her mother tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, and wished she had a pillow to put under that scrawny head. The cold earth that formed the ‘floor’ of the little shack that was their home made for a very uncomfortable bed.
The coughing increased in intensity until the woman sat up, her thin lips stained an ominous red that couldn’t be from betel leaf, for where would they get money for such a luxury? The sunken, bloodshot eyes regarded her with a mixture of hopelessness, pain, and bitterness, and Moni found herself hoping that her empty stomach wouldn’t growl and add to her mother’s suffering.

“Three weeks it’s been since that man came, and there’s no money in the house.”

‘That man’ referred to Moni’s father, Rahim, and the ‘house’, was, of course, this fragile contraption of rusty corrugated iron, castaway bamboo poles and tattered tarpaulin that formed a crude structure barely larger than a telephone booth.

Another bout of coughing followed, and this time a few drops of blood escaped her lips and splashed down the front of her sari. She stared at them, transfixed, for a moment, then brought up her sickly gaze to regard her daughter again.

“There’s no food left, is there?”

Moni cast her eyes down and shook her head.

“I haven’t been able to leave the house for the last week. I doubt they’ll pay me now. I’ll have to wait till I get another commission. In the meantime, you’ll have to do something.”

“You mean break bricks?”
“If that suits you, maharani! Break bricks, if they let you, or go begging again, or whatever it is that you do. Just get out of my sight!”

A coughing fit more violent than the rest rendered her speechless, and Moni made good her escape.

***

Rahim eased the rickshaw to a smooth stop in front of the posh Gulshan house. The young couple got off, laughing, and too proud to haggle in front of his girlfriend, the young man gave the rickshawallah a twenty taka note; a veritable windfall. As Rahim turned his vehicle around, he spotted them link hands again. The sight brought a smile to his lips. Love was such a wonderful thing to behold! He decided he had earned a good half-day’s worth, and could afford to go home to lunch. Whistling a tune he’d heard at a tea-stall, he pedalled away, his dark skin glistening with sweat as he moved.

Rahim eased his rickshaw into the line of similar vehicles in the slum, hawked and spat, and then proceeded to untie and re-knot his lungi, completely oblivious to the little boy staring adoringly up at him. After all, the nut-brown brats and bastards were a too-common sight, not to be taken note of. They were too old to be loaned out to beggar-women, and too young to be of much use in anything else. What did catch his eye was the bevy of sari-clad women hovering near the tin shack that belonged to him and his wife Moyna. He hurried forward.

“Congratulations, Rahim”
“You must be so happy”
“When are you treating us?”

He looked from face to beaming face. Moyna was standing at the door, smiling coyly at him, biting the edge of her sari. He shook his head. “What are you all talking about?”

“Moyna is about to become a mother again.”

Rahim’s face darkened. “Another mouth to feed? What is wrong with you, woman?” He turned on his heel and stomped off, all thoughts of lunch and romance forgotten. A shocked silence followed, and Moyna slowly crumpled into tears. One of her neighbours shook her head. ‘Huh…as if he had nothing to do with it.”

Jalil watched as his father dragged the rickshaw out and pedalled off. The women crowded around his mother, like a flock of fowl, clucking and cooing their empty words of comfort. Rahim’s words rang out in his years. Another mouth to feed…

“Not any more, baba…”

***

The brick-breakers were busy at work, raising clouds of red dust. The sun beat down on them, but, save the sweat that mixed with the dust to form red rivulets that stained their clothes, they seemed oblivious to the heat. Several of them were wheezing; a sure sign that they would soon end up like Moni’s mother.
The supervisor looked the girl up and down, and remarked, “You’re a little too young for this, but I need all the hands I can get, so if you’re sure, I’ll use you for half of what I gave your mother.” Glad that she was getting anything, she quickly accepted.
As she settled down to work, one of the breakers commented, “Aren’t you Morjina’s daughter?” Moni nodded, smiling.
“I thought so. Seen your father around lately? No? I didn’t think so.”
There was a round of laughter that didn’t sound very friendly to the little girl’s ears.

“Rahim Rickshawallah doesn’t stay. He flits from woman to woman like a bee from flower to flower” volunteered a toothless woman. More titters.
“Oh, a regular poet!”
“Hear! Hear!”
“I hear he has a wife in the Sweeper’s Colony”
“And another brat on the way…”

They went on, laughing and swapping anecdotes, never breaking the pace of their work. Their faces blurred as tears welled up in Moni’s eyes. Suddenly the bitterness in her mother’s face began to make sense to her. The thought reminded her of the woman wasting away in the shack by the lake. Blinking back her tears, she continued in her work. Her father might not be concerned about her dying mother, but she was.

Presently, she became aware of someone watching her. She looked up to see a boy staring at her with hatred in his eyes. From the look of the filth on his hands, she guessed he had been trawling through trash for bottles that could be recycled. He was very young; probably not much older than herself.

They silently regarded each other for a long moment; she with curiosity, he in anger. At length, he spoke.

“Is it true?”
“What?”
“Rahim Rickshawallah is your…father?”
“So what if he is?” She raised her chin defiantly.
“He’s my father too!” He spat it out, as if it was her fault. Her shoulders drooped.
“He doesn’t come to see us anymore…does he visit…” she began lamely, trying not to feel guilty, although she wasn’t sure why she should.
“He lives with us!” the boy screeched.”
“You live in the Sweeper’s Colony? In a tin house?”
“Yes” there was unmistakable pride in his voice, in response to the wistfulness in hers. Smugly, he inquired about her home. She told him. There was another pause.
“My mother is having another baby. When Abba heard, he was very angry.”
“My mother tells me he got angry when he heard about me.”
“Another mouth to feed?”
She shrugged “I guess. But my mother feeds me, not him. At least, she used to. She’s very ill now.” Her eyes filled again.
“Oh…” he looked at her, and realised he wasn’t angry any more. She sensed the change in attitude, and somehow it comforted her, though she couldn’t explain it.
“I guess this makes you my brother.”
“It does?”
“Yes. We have the same father, right?”
“You’re right. What’s your name?”
“Moni. Yours?”
“Jalil.”

***

In a smelly, cramped cul-de-sac by the lake, a thin woman lay dying, her sari liberally splattered with blood. In a sturdy tin shack at the Colony, a young woman sobbed into her pillow, one hand curled protectively around her belly. Out in the streets, a rickshawallah pedalled furiously, trying to bury his anger and frustration in sheer physical labour. On a pavement near a construction site, a pair of urchins smiled at each other at what was the beginning of an unlikely friendship.

Untitled

2005-10-19T00:15:00.000-07:00

Fragments of half-forgotten nightmares
Come back to haunt me...
Splinters of my soul,
Old wounds cracked open to bleed anew
Had they ever healed?
Was I ever whole?
Everything I touch turns to poison
And all I can give you is pain
Run, run away, if you know what's good for you
Wipe me from your memories like a stain

Insomnia

2005-08-24T07:10:00.000-07:00

Silent night, all is quiet
The world is fast asleep,
Only I lie awake in my bed
Listening to my lonely heart beat.

The lazy moonbeams come floating in
Through the frosty windowpane;
I toss and turn, and close my eyes
But all my efforts are in vain.

Night after night, sleep eludes me
The carousel spins on
And I turn and I toss, and turn again
From midnight until dawn.

Unforgiven

2005-08-18T10:09:00.000-07:00

I had been absorbed in line sketches when the phone rang. Irritated by the unwelcome interruption, I snatched up the receiver from its cradle and barked into it.

"Hello!"
"Maya, it’s me."

My knees gave in under me. Two years and a heartbreak later, Faraaz could still make me melt.

"H-hi…how are you?"
"I’m good. Just wanted to let you know I’m in town, so we can meet up sometime."
"Great! That would be great."
"Sweet. I’ll catch you later then?"
"Okay…"

I put the phone down gently, and sank to my knees, trembling, hating myself for being so weak. We met seven years ago, back in the school days, when we found ourselves sitting together in the back row. He was tall and well-built, good-looking in an unconventional way, the rough-hewn features of his face projecting strength, kindness, and dependability. And, he was intelligent and had what he called a ‘laser-sharp’ wit. I knew from the first day that I was deeply attracted to him.
As the days passed and our friendship blossomed, this attraction deepened, taking root in my young and vulnerable heart. To me it seemed that there was little he didn’t know, little he couldn’t do. Too shy to tell him, I poured my thoughts and feelings into letters and poetry that I shared with Sheila, my best friend. Sheila was less than impressed with my hero; for some strange reason, he seemed to rub her the wrong way no matter what he said or did. But for my sake, she tried to maintain a civil acquaintance with him, and that was all that mattered to me. Life was perfect and the world was beautiful.
Then we went on to high school, and suddenly hormones kicked in, and couples sprang up everywhere. By then madly in love with Faraaz, and swept away with romantic notions about love, dating and relationships, I was in an agony of desire. I would spend hours gazing at my reflection in the mirror, wishing I was just a little slimmer, just a little taller, pretty enough for Faraaz to really notice me. I dreamt up various scenarios where he would suddenly discover that I was the love of his life, and come charging to sweep me off my feet.
Just when I thought the dream would remain a dream, he asked me out. Just like that. In retrospect, his proposal now seems typical of him; smug, sardonic, sly, and just witty enough to be inoffesive, but hardly romantic. My acceptance was a foregone conclusion, I reflected bitterly.
The first few months passed like a dream. I would wait eagerly for my handsome boyfriend to finish his classes and join me at the cafeteria, or cheer madly like any besotted girlfriend when he played football or basketball or any of the school sports. He took my breath away every time I saw him. There was little I enjoyed more than talking to him, looking at him, feeling my tiny hands enfolded into his huge ones. Warm. Safe.
As the final term approached though, the old doubts and insecurities came back. I had met some of his relatives, and I hung out with many of his friends. I smiled and cooed and gushed, trying to charm them all. They were outwardly very friendly and kind, but there was something about them…a certain look of disapproval in their eyes that I couldn’t fathom. Like I wasn’t the right girl for their precious Faraaz.
As these insecurities deepened, we grew further and further apart. It started with little things, such as Faraaz getting annoyed at some comment I made, which led to small arguments, ones that he quickly mended with a hasty apology. As the quibbling increased in frequency, his attitude began to change. Faraaz began spending more time on the basketball court, or holed away in the library, studying for his SAT’s. i became moody, depressed, and prone to paranoia. I desperately wanted to cling on, to save this dream relationship from ruin. But it takes two hands to clap.
The exams came and went in a frenzy of preparations and agonizing over mock tests. We graduated, and began applying to universities abroad. All these activities kept us preoccupied...distracted from the pressing issue of 'us'. Then one day, I received the dreaded phone call. He wanted to break up. My fairytale romance was over.

I felt my eyes blur with tears as the memories brought on a fresh wave of pain. I blinked them back. I wouldn’t let myself get swept away again. These lows drained me of my self-esteem and left me depressed and miserable. I needed to find a distraction…
My gaze alighted on a framed photograph on my nightstand. It was a picture of Sheila and me when we were still in school, taken probably on some chaand raat. Sheila would come over to my house and we’d decorate our hands with mehendi. In the picture, I was hanging back in the shadows, smiling shyly, afraid that the camera flash would reflect on my braces. Sheila dominated the picture with a cheeky grin, oblivious to her messy hair and oily T-zone, her beady eyes twinkling with good humor as she held up her hands to show off her painted palms. I felt a smile curl my lips as I reached for the phone.

"Hey Shee, it’s me"
"I was expecting you, May."
From her tone, I could tell that she knew that Faraaz was back in Dhaka, and that she knew why I had called. I wasn’t surprised. She had always been able to read me like a book. It was comforting and frustrating at the same time.
"What do you want me to say, May? I’ve told you that the best thing for you to do is to let go of him. Stop hoping that he’ll come back to you."
"I have given up on him" I muttered, but the lie sounded so obvious, and I had no doubt that Sheila knew it.
"Whatever. It’s your life."
Her tone was patient, yet uninviting, the kind of voice teachers use when they're listening to a student's lame excuse for not submitting the assignment. I sighed again. So much had changed between us. As we both listened in on the silence, I knew we were both remembering…

Faraaz and I had been a couple for half a year, and things had just started to go wrong. I had told very few of my own friends about our relationship; it was like a precious secret I wanted to hug close to myself. Sheila knew, of course, and I found it quite amusing when she acted as though Faraaz wasn’t good enough for me instead of the other way around. I loved her loyalty and her spunk, but I was also a little envious of my best friend. I wished I had her long legs and her svelte, lanky figure. I mentioned this to her once and she cheekily drawled in the perfect imitation of a ghetto accent, "Sho, honey I’m a gonna led you my long legs if you lemme borrow yo’ fabulous ass!"
That was Sheila all over again, outrageous, spunky, and utterly unselfconscious. She would laugh and cuss and punch the boys in the arm like it was perfectly natural, and to her it was, and they liked it. Sheila would tell me 'You're a lady. I'm a gurrl. They treat you with respect and admiration. They see me as one of them.' Sometimes I wouldn't mind being a 'gurrl'.

We were all sitting on the floor one afternoon, back in high-school, watching some girls playing handball. Faraaz sat between Sheila and me, facing the game. He was quiet; this was right after a little spat we had about something I can’t recall. We were suddenly joined by another of my friends, Adiba, who came and sat down beside me. We made some small talk, and then I suddenly found myself telling her that Faraaz and I were an item. She smiled and raised an eyebrow.

"So you’re his mysterious girlfriend. I always thought it was Sheila."
I gulped down my laughter and turned towards Sheila to ask her what she thought of that outrageous idea…and froze.
Faraaz and Sheila were bent over the Dickens book, their heads close together. Sheila pointed something out, and they both burst out laughing, shoulders shaking in unison. There was no tension between them. They looked so harmonious, so comfortable in each other's company.

I cornered her in the girls’ washroom.
"What do you think of Faraaz?" I asked.
"Honey, it’s been six months…aren’t you ever going to stop pushing that guy down my throat?"
"No, I mean seriously. What do you feel about him?"
"Well…he’s arrogant, sarcastic…but he’s got his nice moments too."
"Would you go out with him if he asked you out?’
"He’s your boyfriend, May. He’s not going to ask me out."
"What if I wasn’t in the picture?"
"What’s this about?"
"Nothing…just checking."

And so it started. The questions. The more I asked, the more she denied, and the more I was convinced that I was missing something. I began to spy on them, both hoping and dreading that I’d find out my conviction was true. I watched them closely whenever they interacted, which was often enough, considering that we all studied in the same high school. I’d study their body language, trying to gauge whether any of it hinted at anything inappropriate. While Faraaz either didn’t realize what I was doing or didn’t care, to Sheila, I had always been utterly transparent. Her gaze would flit over to me every time she spoke to my boyfriend, and her eyes would become shuttered. Gradually, she began to withdraw…from me, from Faraaz, from our little circle of friends. By the time Faraaz and I celebrated our first anniversary, she had a new set of friends and our conversation had withered to a dry hello every time we passed each other in the halls. Good riddance.
Things didn’t get much better even with Sheila out of the way. Without her to confide in, I was lonely. I tried to turn to Faraaz, but he seemed very distant.
And then, finally…it was all over. In my pain-stricken mind, the first number I dialed was Sheila’s. My friend listened quietly to all I said, offering no solace or criticism, just a willing ear.

"How can I forget such a betrayal? After all we’ve been through, how could he?"
There was an odd smile in her voice, and she said, ‘Exactly.’ By the tone of her voice, I knew it was pretty much over for us as well…

**

"Shee…what do I do?" I swallowed down the depressing memories and dragged us both back to my present problem.
"Well…you could try and taking somebody’s advice and work on trying to see him as just an old friend rather than expecting him to come running back to you again."
"I…"
"Don’t bother protesting, May. Once you’ve set your heart on something, you’re blind and deaf to what anyone may say to the contrary."
"Shee, I…"
"Look, May. I don’t have anything new to say to you. Your relationship with Faraaz is over. Face it. Accept it. Let go of the past and move on. I can tell you these things, but I can’t make you do them. The choice is yours. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of work to finish."

I sighed as I replaced the receiver on the phone. Sheila was right. It was time to move on. A week later, I was still thinking about my conversation with her, when the phone rang.

"Hello?"
"May, It’s me, Faraaz. Listen. I’m going to be in Gulshan today, so if you’re free, I could drop by, and we could hang out?"
I tightened my grip on the receiver. Let go…move on…
"Oh…ahh…I’m sorry Faraaz…I, err…have some other plans today. Maybe some other time?"
"Oh. Okay, then. It would have been nice…"
I hung up and sat down on my bed with a big thump. Faraaz had sounded disappointed by my refusal, and somehow, that made my small step towards moving on feel hollow.

***
I was furiously sketching away to distract myself when the door opened and my sister Tchaya came in.
"Whoa, sis…who got your goat?"
"Get out, Tchai!"
She eyed my blotchy, tearstained face, and snorted.
"Fart-ass is back in town, huh?"
"Shut up!"
"Hey…don’t bust my butt. Tell you what. Let’s go grab an ice cream. Forget your diet for an afternoon, and let’s go splurge on a sinfully fattening sundae, with all your favorite toppings, okay?"
I looked at the half-hearted tangle of crooked lines that was supposed to be a floor plan, and decided, what the hell…

***

A chocolate mousse later, I was decidedly feeling better. Tchai had kept up a battery of jokes, anecdotes and outrageous comments to keep me laughing, and I decided that moving on wouldn’t be too hard after all. Then suddenly, she whispered, "Hey, isn’t that Fart-ass?"
I looked up and sure enough, there was a tall young man stepping out of a car. The breadth of his shoulders, the rough angles of his profile, and his spiky haircut were unmistakable. It was Faraaz. The painful jolt I felt at seeing him again was accompanied by a keening ache as I realized there was another young woman in the car.
He ran over to the passenger side and opened the door for her in an unprecedented show of chivalry. She stepped out, a tall, lithe figure, dressed very modishly in jeans and a short kurti. There was something about the languid, yet confident way she stood that seemed very familiar. Faraaz was bent close towards her, his profile hiding her face from my view. She said something witty, which made him throw his head back in laughter, and that movement exposed her face. I gasped. It was Sheila. She had her cell phone in her hand, and her thumb was furiously brushing across its keypad as she stood there, waiting for him to lock up the car. I watched in a pained trance as he finished up and ran back to her. She turned back then, and our eyes met. She smiled a cold, hard smile that was loaded with, of all emotions, bitterness. The smile she gave him, though, as he caught up with her, was warm, and friendly, her eyes soft. He smiled back, and they linked arms and deftly crossed the road to the kebab house on the other side.
I blinked twice, trying to take in what I had just witnessed, when my cell-phone beeped from inside my purse. With nerveless fingers, I fished it out, and found an sms waiting for me. I clicked it open and felt the ground give way beneath my feet. It read: "Right back at you, best friend."

How you live your life

2005-08-04T11:13:00.000-07:00

How You Life Your Life

You seem to be straight forward, but you keep a lot inside.

You say whatever is on your mind. Other people's reactions don't phase you.

You prefer a variety of friends and tend to change friends quickly.

Some of your past dreams have disappointed you, but you don't let it get you down.

How Do You Live Your Life?