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Rushdie in a Nightgown
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2021-07-12 11:07:43Related chapters
Cycle of Cliches Insights
InsightsThat night Nisim left me sleepless with a couple of insights. In his Bermuda-shorts and white vest, he lay by my side curled up like a cashew-nut under the quilt, snoring through the night. The first one was this:The greater your intelligence is, the louder you snore.In the other bedroom, there was our father, who snored louder than Nisim. And our father, as you might have guessed it by now, had far greater intelligence than Nisim. In fact, his intelligence soared so high that Ma had to make a makeshift bed in the kitchen every night to spare herself of his torturous, unconscious existence. Biswa also snored and I have experienced his torturous unconscious self, whenever he stayed over at our place in Tezpur. Although he always denied it, until recently when his childhood-sweetheart-turned-wife, Nitumoni busted it.Now see, I have three of the most intelligent people I have ever met in my life proving the universality of the first insight.But then, that night i
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Republic Day
Republic DayThe Republic Day, I believe you are aware, is that auspicious day of the year in which the world’s largest democratic bunch of people come together to commemorate and celebrate their geo-political existence. That year, the occasion altered my geo-political, emotional and relational existences for the rest of my life quite unexpectedly.For the first time in six years, I wouldn’t have to go to school with Deuta for the Republic Day ceremonies early in the morning and could sleep till eight. Thanks to the Bandh that The Organization had called! From all the bandhs that I have experienced, I have developed a definition which the Social Studies teachers may teach their students. This is, by the way, from the perspective of people who are to comply with it. It goes like this:Bandh is an involuntary act of complying with threats/demands/proposals of complete shutdown of businesses, offices, schools, colleges, transport and everything that are, kind of, important for
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Feeling ‘At Home’
Feeling ‘At Home’I discovered this story in Deuta’s black leather-bound diary.Well, we discovered it: Nisim and I. To be frank, my friend, Biswa, may claim to be a co-discoverer as well, because of his timely presence during the discovery. This story is my personal contribution to the folklore I take pride in – the folklore of Kamarsuburi.Like any other folk-tale, in any part of the world, this has evolved through and enriched by the tradition of oral-storytelling over a number of years. My paternal and maternal grandmothers had their own versions of it, my mother her own, which at times, was quite in conflict with the versions of my grandmothers; there were bits and pieces of it that Nisim had passed over to me, just as people in our vicinity, during casual conversations, had passed on certain controversial parts of it. Those controversial parts, for the ease of your understanding, my dear reader, I will call rumours. This story, by virtue of being in the tradition of a
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Language is Power
Language is PowerI write from the crematorium, but this definitely doesn’t make my story more readable than the others. It does make me an attention seeker though. That I’m in a flow, which, by the way, is also my desperation, only means that I fear of losing sight of a juicy plotline for my friend’s screenplay, and perhaps a few of your pats on my back. And finally, when I reveal this ebb and flow of thoughts to you, it doesn’t necessarily mean I have fooled you through the hooks and cliff-hangers of a narrative, which apparently doesn’t seem to go anywhere. All I want to assert through these revelations here, is that, language is power. Well, only when it is understood.These revelations are with a purpose: to make you understand a language which you might otherwise care less for, and thereby remain bereft of its unfathomable power. As for my mother, she is still maturing with the smoke wafting to the blue sky overhead as a shroud of air-pollutants. That is how string of m
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Breath-taking!
Breath-taking!“It’s like a bowl,” said Nisim as we looked around the parts of the city visible from the terrace. He formed a bowl with his fingers and the palm of his right hand to describe Guwahati, our new home, “Plains surrounded by small hills and the mighty river, Brahmaputra, flowing by it. Quite like our town,” he added.“We should go to the hills, someday,” I suggested. Back in my mind, a blurred image of a hilltop cottage, with a full-view of a blue river came alive. Deeper down, there was a prompt: it’s there, in one of those hills. The hills weren’t too far, as they seemed.While entering the city, we passed by a road which I felt, would hit one of the hills head on. But, the road glided by the hill, took a turn and met another road – a busier one – which passed alongside the river for a while before meeting with another one. The river was almost dry, following the rainless months of winter. The white patch of sandy beach stretched almost to the middle of the riv
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Roots
RootsWithin a week of moving to New Guwahati Railway Colony, Nisim had found a place where he could go for badminton practice – hall of an unused Railway warehouse which could house two badminton courts, enrolled himself as a member of Vivekananda Yuva Kendra, one of the social welfare organizations next to our quarter and discovered many other exciting places on his way back from college. He told me he would take me to all those places someday.I wished I could make friends as easily as Nisim could. It was through Nisim that I got introduced to Birinchi, Rajib and quite a few others who played cricket at the Bihu Field. Birinchi was the same age as Nisim and as I got to know they came across each other every day at the bus stop while going to their respective colleges – Nisim, to Cotton College, and Birinchi, to B. Barooah College. I had seen Birinchi bowling and he seemed to be the quickest among the fast bowlers playing in the field. It was only when I faced his bowling,
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Sunset Dating
Sunset DatingThat every sunset brings a promise of a new dawn sounds like an overstatement, or perhaps Emerson forgot to add to a chosen few at the end of his famous saying. In the evening when Deuta was killed, somewhere in some jungle in Burma or in some small town in Bangladesh, the bosses of Mikhail Phukan, Samiran Kalita and Matlif Ahmed would have hailed them as the new heroes, as the true sons of the soil, because they had freed their Paradise of one apostate of their revolutionary decree. Five years down the line, per the growth model of The Organization, these three sons of the soil would have either returned to the mainstream or got encountered by the Joint Forces. If they had succeeded in cracking a deal with the Joint Forces for their return, they would have led respectable lives of businessmen or political touts with a gun for self-protection and the coveted prefix – Surrendered – in front of their heroic names. On the other hand, if they had been encountered,
Last Updated : 2021-07-12Cycle of Cliches Milestone
MilestoneEvery sunset brings a promise of a new dawn, but the promise doesn’t entail a guarantee that the new dawn will be the one you always want to wake up to. After sunset, when darkness engulfs everything, you may try to light up your surroundings with fluorescent bulbs, tube-lights, candles and other means of artificial light, and yet suffer from a terrible sense of shrinking to nothingness and feel like a lonesome string of monologue, a disjointed design of the alphabet, a feeble anecdote of clichés. The way I had felt when Junali had disappeared from the colony.The next evening, I stood by the railway crossing for a while, at the entrance of the colony, watching express trains pass by in speed, goods train shuttle to change tracks and make their way to the yard, people and vehicles moving from one side of the crossing to the other when no trains passed by and the railway gates were opened. Every passing moment shrivelled me to the point that I didn’t want to see any
Last Updated : 2021-07-12
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Cycle of Cliches Touchdown
TouchdownWe will have our respective touchdowns today – Jahnobi at 6:30 PM British Standard Time at Gatwick, and I at 6:30PM IST in Pune. Nineteen days have elapsed since I am away from my workplace (you may read Karmabhumi). I have no clue how my team members are performing their daily rituals of chanting “Thank you for calling…”, “I understand your concern, however…”, “the options that I can give you are…”, “I apologize for the inconvenience…” to appease a bunch of unknown, unseen, fatally wronged, over-promised and under-delivered voices and names on the other hemisphere of the world, trying their guts out to get the best possible solutions to their issues. It’s not easy, going through these iterative bouts of supervising all these computer-screen-facing, headsets-clad, wretched souls engaged in those precarious rituals. It sucks the blood out of the brains and when I return to my flat in the morning, all I desire is a sound, undisturbed, dreamless sleep. When I wake up in
Cycle of Cliches Missed Turns
Missed TurnsNineteen days ago, I was greeted here, in the same airport, with the concerned and impatient voice of Jahnobi over the phone, “Have you reached?” Junali’s full and wide smile and the whiskey-dipped lines written for her transformed into a maze of eerily quiet corridors in in the main building of Gauhati Medical College Hospital. Every minute counted during my hunt for the single occupancy cabin where my mother was admitted. Even after a running-around for about ten minutes, following the directions of the old man sitting at the May I Help You counter, I was, kind of, lost in the maze of alleys, corridors, staircases and closed rooms in that mammoth building. “Yeah, reached, but kind of lost. Where’s the cabin?” I asked her. I wasn’t sure whether Jahnobi expected an assurance of my presence, or if she was just reminding me of the urgency – every moment can be the last moment“Just ask someone which is Ruplekha Baideu’s room. People know that she’s here.” I could
Cycle of Cliches Like a Free Bird
Like a Free BirdAt the door, there’s this tall, lanky fellow, with a week-old stubble on a pitifully undernourished jawline and a face with unusually white patches of skin standing with a tilt to his right. He has an aluminium forearm clutch in his right hand and he is emitting a strong stench of inflammable oil, a stench which is common among city bus drivers and conductors, diesel engine technicians working with the Railways or in the car-repair workshops. For me, it has really been hard to recognize people in the neighbourhood, because in this colony, people keep moving in and out. In the last eight years, every time I came for my vacations, I met at least one new family in the immediate neighbourhood, or came to know about at least one, who had moved to some other part of the city or to some other part of the country. The biggest bluff that our movies show is that the characters don’t recognize other characters when they wear a disguise. We usually recognize people’s eyes
Cycle of Cliches Beyond Binaries
Beyond BinariesThe ninth and the tenth days have been the busiest in terms of visitors. These were mostly repeat-visitors, who were doing a little more than paying just courtesy visits. Relatives, friends, and Ma’s close aides in her office. So, whatever means I tried to keep myself aloof, I had to come out more often than the previous three days. Thankfully, the what-happened-to-her questions had gone down significantly by then. These visitors wanted to help us in whatever way possible. My friend Rajib wanted to take an entire week off from work, but I said it would be fine if he made himself available on the eleventh and the twelfth days. I think he didn’t quite like the idea. What was he up to? Be by my side, like Ranjita was by Jahnobi’s. It would be rude to tell him or for that matter, anybody of those visitor, that they could be of greatest help to me, only if they let me be on my own.I missed Biswa though. He is in a remote village in the bordering areas of Rajasthan
Cycle of Cliches Distant Realities
Distant RealitiesThere’s nothing uncomfortable about the navy blue suit. It’s tailor-made unlike the other ones purchased earlier from online stores or from ready-made showrooms. The white two-ply twill cotton shirt with a double fused semi cutaway collar, the French cufflinks, the black Oxford shoes, belt, wallet and the wrist-watch strap can’t have complemented the suit better. I like the distinct tapping of my shoe-soles on the spotlessly clean chequerboard floor with every step I take through the corridor.Level 5 Function Room at the Southbank Centre. London. Dream destination!The black bow-tie is a bit of an annoyance though. Never wore a bow-tie before. Never needed to. Never attended an English dinner before either. Never needed to. I can bear the bow-tie though. The company of people will make good for any trivial annoyance.Right on time. Half five it is. It’s a Carrera Calibre 5 Automatic by Tag Heur. The most expensive one from my collection. I was pleasantly
Cycle of Cliches Worldly Wise
Worldly WiseOne morning, when Nishant was barely three months old, Papa and Mummy came to see him. Jaanvi opened the door to them, but was in a fix whether to let them in. Ma called them in. She not only called them in, but offered them to sit and also brought Nishant to them. Papa held Nishant in his hands for a while and then gave him to Mummy. The next moment, both of them were in tears, crying like children.Jaanvi was sulking within. Those tears didn’t mean anything to her. She was living in a strange, robotic world. A world which looked perfectly normal from outside, but whose insides burnt like hell every moment. She waited for Papa and Mummy’s collective weeping to come to an end and their tears to dry up, while Ma excused herself to the kitchen to make tea for them.When Papa and Mummy’s sobs mellowed down they kept looking at Jaanvi. Perhaps in anticipation that she would say something. She didn’t. Rather, she didn’t want to. Mummy’s curse had muted her.Ma enter
Cycle of Cliches Ode to Scientific Socialism!
Ode to Scientific Socialism!Bomb blasts make corpses of people. That’s what they exactly make, nothing more, nothing less. Bomb blasts make corpses of the people who live after them. Nothing less, nothing more. Bomb blasts are not committed by any other animals, because other animals suffer, toil and struggle for survival. They don’t care much about who the victor is and who the victim. That’s why they grow without complaint, live full until they die.Bomb blasts are by the dead, of the dead, for the dead. Basically, bomb blasts are democratic – they ensure the right to bring lives to surprising ends suddenly without caring for caste, creed, religion, language, complaints, desires, wishes, dreams, vision and mission. Bomb blasts are the season of Boxonto – they usher in new buds of hope for those who live by them. Bomb blasts are the best odes to Scientific Socialism.The bomb blasts in Guwahati and elsewhere in the state on the bright, sunny day of 30th October 2008 made a
Cycle of Cliches Cursed
CursedThe doctor’s appointment was at 2:00 PM. Nisim told Jaanvi that he would be home by noon. It was five past one, and he was still not back. Nisim was great, the way he was, except for being late for household needs. Jaanvi had been vocal about it, right from the time she had moved in to the Bhattacharya household. She never wanted Nisim to change because of her. She would never want to. But she definitely wanted him to be a bit more responsible towards their household needs. He managed to be on time on some occasions, but then he would mostly be in a hurry. The doctor’s personal assistant categorically asked them to be on time while confirming the appointment. They were late by ten minutes the previous month, and the doctor had refused to see her outright. It was only after a lot of requests that he had agreed, that too, reminding every two minutes during the check-up that he was getting late for a C-section surgery at City Heart Nursing Home.Now, every passing minute
Cycle of Cliches Being Mother
Being MotherThe QWERTY keys on the pallid black computer keyboard became a nightmare for Jaanvi ever since Nisim started going out of town for work. She felt that the letters are so nauseatingly jumbled up – the first row had Q in the extreme left and P on the extreme right, X came before Z in the third line, so did M before N. They could have placed at least B and C beside each other, as they were in the same row, but no, C came first and then there is V between C and B – it took long for her to find each of the keys while typing with the right and left index fingers. And then there was this irritating stuff – every time she needed to type something in upper case, she had to first turn the Caps Lock on, type the letter and then turn the Caps Lock off , so that all letters didn’t get typed in upper case. Nisim had shown her an easier way to do this – press the Shift key and letter to be typed in capital letter simultaneously – but she found it more frustrating. Many a time wh
