December entwined her semi-arid soul. Another futile year was staggering towards its end. Unwary of the countless seconds it has exhausted without bearing any fruit. The fireplace - exhilarated by transgressions. Opium induced some bliss. She was cold. She was at the focus of the Big city but her core was wandering through Sahara. She glanced at her watch. It was time to serve food. The Master would otherwise greet her with a bitter chide.
She glided through the stairs. Her grace flirted with her locks. She was impeccably clothed. Her essence was precarious. The Master has made this Golden cage for her with tads of solace, beads of tranquility. The cage consumed her quintessence. Inebriation persuaded her hands to tremble. Nevertheless, the dinner table was perfect. The Master doesn’t have ample time to indulge in a conversation. A stream of discreet emotions and sharpened idiosyncrasies were akin to honeydew. She was content. She was obliged. She followed the orders meticulously.
Dinner over. It was bound to get over at some point or the other. She knew she was content. She groped this feeling with all mirth. She was opinionated, they said. However, that didn’t mater to her. She was obstinate, they said. Reproach was all they got. They tried to de-façade. They were similar to some anathema that befell her. She maintained her composure in spite of the opium-overdose and their voices. The Master’s benevolence aggravated her belief. That was acknowledgement to her.
She went through the page Master has left behind. The next day’s task-list.
She slipped it into her pocket. Cleaned up the mess and went to her room. Was her cleaning adequate for the mess?
The bed was warm. The only extravagance, she could afford. Opium guaranteed her exquisite dreams. She waited eagerly. Slumber claimed her. She saw the pineapple garden. The pineapples were ripe and mellow. Her naïve attempt to touch them changed the scenario. She found herself in the middle of Sahara, squashing a prickly pear. She retreats with pain. She screams till her throat breaks and she scampers into the sand. She keeps on running, a red trail behind her. She keeps on running, an abrupt null in her eyes. She runs through Nero’s domain, flames endorse her gown. She reaches the cinnamon island, only to find the Master. The master wouldn’t yell, the passivity and indifference has faded out. The master would console.
The clouds camouflage the illumination. Pretty suffocating. The coldness influences a distinct numbness. She gets ready for the chores. The opium-tainted walls are drab. They have been neglected. The passion-vine on her rusted sill now spreads through her windows. A few dispersed pages, loiter on the floor. One casual glimpse on one such page.
“ How are you? While passing by your golden house, I anticipated a glance. However, you were nowhere to be found. The magnificence of the architecture did be spectacle me. Still, I have a grievance. Why have you stopped playing with us? “
The words fleeted like the moments, waiting for the master. He wouldn’t see her in daylight, however dim it may be. She was accepted in the realms of nocturne. She was spellbound by the master’s spirit. She knew her master’s mettle. Steam has accumulated in the kettle. She opened the lid and let it go. Opium was a charmer, she knew. She fell in its trap without much ado. Her conviction was strong; the letter was bleak.
Days of fallacy
Nights of lunacy
She wanted blue
But she craved for green
Monday, December 20, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Dream
Last time I slept, I had a dream.
A vivid flower was stung.
Headless man encumbered the tree.
Fervor in her eyes was bleached
Last Time I slept, I had a dream
She was at the scullery
Then at the jade brothel
Shakti’s uninterrupted novel
Last time I slept, I had a dream
She was some sort of Gypsy Venus
She had that half-eaten aura
Eaten by the bugs of nepotism
I don’t sleep these days
Maybe I fear her
Maybe I lust for her
Maybe I love her
A vivid flower was stung.
Headless man encumbered the tree.
Fervor in her eyes was bleached
Last Time I slept, I had a dream
She was at the scullery
Then at the jade brothel
Shakti’s uninterrupted novel
Last time I slept, I had a dream
She was some sort of Gypsy Venus
She had that half-eaten aura
Eaten by the bugs of nepotism
I don’t sleep these days
Maybe I fear her
Maybe I lust for her
Maybe I love her
Friday, July 23, 2010
One Rainy Day
It was raining incredulously. The omnipresent gray instilled an unwanted melancholy in his ageing heart. He stood on his toes and tried to figure out what the outside world was like. The shade of green, the scent of damp earth. A single window was the only link between him and the globe. This was precisely the feeling shared amongst all prisoners. He was not in the mood to reminisce. The past was dead and wrenching out bygone-emotions would not make a difference.
He wanted to digress away from the point where all his thoughts converged. The sound of acrid rain was mirth to him once. He would spend much of his time staring out of his window, looking at the drenched earth. His room --reverberating with the noise of Muddy Waters. Rain played which cord in his inner mind was unknown to him. He would feel a twitch. He would weave another dream. Lost in his own solitude, he would conjure up the most profound human emotions. Bathe in them and ooze out satisfaction. Rain was his savior; it triggered his latent, unattended sentiments.
This caustic cell locked up his essential faculty to weave. He was here lying with all the scum his life has collected. The sound of the downpour was constricting. He knew this is transitory. He wanted to trap some of it for further consumption; but human science comes up with a preservation technique for those units, which are currency-dependent. Conservation of the monsoon sound was never necessary. Some filthy poets may have found it very amusing but poets are one pseudo group. The sound was no more heard. The deafening silence locked up the obscured lanes of innovation. He was one with the crowd.
This prison is specifically designed for this purpose. It makes you claustrophobic. Each day, you are cajoled to take a dive into the sea of animalism. Be one with the beasts. Demarcate passion from practicality. Then char the passion quotient. The null thus created is replenished with the right dose of superficiality.
Thus, he was captured. What captured him is inconsequential. What matters is his progress. His seed of desire to cherish certain impulses was ready to be destroyed. The plant, which the seed bore, is trivial; it may be an annoying weed. However, one can’t foresee his passion’s desperation. This weird seed may grow into something noteworthy in the reign of future. Therefore, its important to slay it. Another important aspect is the intellect. Intelligence is welcomed with arms wide open. Nevertheless, intellect is undesirable. The blithe intellect comes in the way of cliché practices. Normal minds would never want that. The contrast is a great peril. Thereby, they are locked.
The excessive materialism clubbed with a dash of swank is the ideal, which they are taught to follow. Vague sarcasm and vainglorious wit is distilled out of their existence. Winners are forged. The glitterati of socialites. Lust is made to trickle down from the top of their heads. Drenched in its holy flavour, men of the world are created. They know their survival strategies.
The certain fellow we are talking about was still serving his tenure. He was chained to the still numbness. He had a way out. A way that led to illumination. He wanted to challenge the system and knew to challenge the system you need to be in it. Regarding the bug of asymmetry and eccentricity, it is incurable. He was confident about that. He reinstated his lost vigour and ended the war. Apathy was his key. The key, which opened all the locked attics of realization. He was an evolved being, who rediscovered himself and escaped the clutches of lucid delirium.
He wanted to digress away from the point where all his thoughts converged. The sound of acrid rain was mirth to him once. He would spend much of his time staring out of his window, looking at the drenched earth. His room --reverberating with the noise of Muddy Waters. Rain played which cord in his inner mind was unknown to him. He would feel a twitch. He would weave another dream. Lost in his own solitude, he would conjure up the most profound human emotions. Bathe in them and ooze out satisfaction. Rain was his savior; it triggered his latent, unattended sentiments.
This caustic cell locked up his essential faculty to weave. He was here lying with all the scum his life has collected. The sound of the downpour was constricting. He knew this is transitory. He wanted to trap some of it for further consumption; but human science comes up with a preservation technique for those units, which are currency-dependent. Conservation of the monsoon sound was never necessary. Some filthy poets may have found it very amusing but poets are one pseudo group. The sound was no more heard. The deafening silence locked up the obscured lanes of innovation. He was one with the crowd.
This prison is specifically designed for this purpose. It makes you claustrophobic. Each day, you are cajoled to take a dive into the sea of animalism. Be one with the beasts. Demarcate passion from practicality. Then char the passion quotient. The null thus created is replenished with the right dose of superficiality.
Thus, he was captured. What captured him is inconsequential. What matters is his progress. His seed of desire to cherish certain impulses was ready to be destroyed. The plant, which the seed bore, is trivial; it may be an annoying weed. However, one can’t foresee his passion’s desperation. This weird seed may grow into something noteworthy in the reign of future. Therefore, its important to slay it. Another important aspect is the intellect. Intelligence is welcomed with arms wide open. Nevertheless, intellect is undesirable. The blithe intellect comes in the way of cliché practices. Normal minds would never want that. The contrast is a great peril. Thereby, they are locked.
The excessive materialism clubbed with a dash of swank is the ideal, which they are taught to follow. Vague sarcasm and vainglorious wit is distilled out of their existence. Winners are forged. The glitterati of socialites. Lust is made to trickle down from the top of their heads. Drenched in its holy flavour, men of the world are created. They know their survival strategies.
The certain fellow we are talking about was still serving his tenure. He was chained to the still numbness. He had a way out. A way that led to illumination. He wanted to challenge the system and knew to challenge the system you need to be in it. Regarding the bug of asymmetry and eccentricity, it is incurable. He was confident about that. He reinstated his lost vigour and ended the war. Apathy was his key. The key, which opened all the locked attics of realization. He was an evolved being, who rediscovered himself and escaped the clutches of lucid delirium.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
When Love And Fart Collide
Compatriots, after thorough study of this paradoxical subject called Love; I concluded that the only thing that can near it is a fart. Fart, too, is a controversial object. Both of these can be classified into stark genres depending upon the impact they have on the surroundings.
The innards’ complementary work produces the low-pressure pocket of odoured air. The outside pressure being higher, the inner pocket of odoured natural gas whooshes into the atmosphere through a well cutout orifice. Thereby, increasing the temperature of the posterior. Proving the law of conversion energy. The mechanical energy of the gut is converted to heat energy of the fart.
Coming back to sound energy. The decibel level of the fart depends completely upon the pressure gradient. Now, the odour. It can be as mild as the serene smell of the vat nearby or as mighty as that of Kumbhakarna’s unclean loo (this assumption is made based on the amount of edible intake by this colossal hero). Based on the reaction time and nature of a “normal” homo-sapien, it can either cause a slight tremor or persuade someone to scamper out of the room.
Regarding Love, nothing new to be jotted down. Thereby we go straight into the analogies.
The acute low-pressure manifested in the utopian heart with the aid of some do-gooders is the primary definition of love. This low pressure tickles the vocal chords or hand muscles to explicitly proclaim its presence. The absence of orifice is the only noticeable difference. The visceral force during such a proclamation popularly termed as “proposal” is quite similar to that of a fart. Its intensity is relatively lower and the work vector travels in the opposite direction.
The vicinity of the Love-manufacturers result in the emancipation of heat. One fraction of the mechanical energy of the employees is converted to the heat energy and the remaining into sound. Love not only keeps you warm during winter, it also allows expressing the tenacity of your vocal chords. The more “heat”, the better is the quality of Love. We, thus infer that “heat” is a quality control factor of love. Cold Love-workers suffer from delusions. They are not actually in “love”.
Scent of love- What odour is to fart is scent to love. The efforts of two creatures of dissimilar chromosomal content have one huge task. The extent of their post-work scent. If the perfumes are smudged against each other overwhelmingly, then their love is pure. This is the purity control factor.
The more the pungency of fart, the better is the condition of the viscera. Similarly, when the male smells completely of the female, the quality of love is optimum. That’s what is hypothetical, in terms of science – ideal. Recent developments in this field may speak differently. Owing to the lack of substantial evidences, its still hypothetical.
P.S : This comparative study is purely based on “normal” facts. Any unintended exaggeration should be pardoned.
The innards’ complementary work produces the low-pressure pocket of odoured air. The outside pressure being higher, the inner pocket of odoured natural gas whooshes into the atmosphere through a well cutout orifice. Thereby, increasing the temperature of the posterior. Proving the law of conversion energy. The mechanical energy of the gut is converted to heat energy of the fart.
Coming back to sound energy. The decibel level of the fart depends completely upon the pressure gradient. Now, the odour. It can be as mild as the serene smell of the vat nearby or as mighty as that of Kumbhakarna’s unclean loo (this assumption is made based on the amount of edible intake by this colossal hero). Based on the reaction time and nature of a “normal” homo-sapien, it can either cause a slight tremor or persuade someone to scamper out of the room.
Regarding Love, nothing new to be jotted down. Thereby we go straight into the analogies.
The acute low-pressure manifested in the utopian heart with the aid of some do-gooders is the primary definition of love. This low pressure tickles the vocal chords or hand muscles to explicitly proclaim its presence. The absence of orifice is the only noticeable difference. The visceral force during such a proclamation popularly termed as “proposal” is quite similar to that of a fart. Its intensity is relatively lower and the work vector travels in the opposite direction.
The vicinity of the Love-manufacturers result in the emancipation of heat. One fraction of the mechanical energy of the employees is converted to the heat energy and the remaining into sound. Love not only keeps you warm during winter, it also allows expressing the tenacity of your vocal chords. The more “heat”, the better is the quality of Love. We, thus infer that “heat” is a quality control factor of love. Cold Love-workers suffer from delusions. They are not actually in “love”.
Scent of love- What odour is to fart is scent to love. The efforts of two creatures of dissimilar chromosomal content have one huge task. The extent of their post-work scent. If the perfumes are smudged against each other overwhelmingly, then their love is pure. This is the purity control factor.
The more the pungency of fart, the better is the condition of the viscera. Similarly, when the male smells completely of the female, the quality of love is optimum. That’s what is hypothetical, in terms of science – ideal. Recent developments in this field may speak differently. Owing to the lack of substantial evidences, its still hypothetical.
P.S : This comparative study is purely based on “normal” facts. Any unintended exaggeration should be pardoned.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Untitled
All but her, sashayed through
Nothing to evoke guilt
When they fought over lime-stones
With a dash of filth
The profane Prussian hue
The prurient summer sky
The pharisaical turbid ale
The pragmatic’s divine vale
All but her, marched on
With the grunt of swine
Piqued by the nocturnal overtures
A faint fleeting green smile
Amidst the mob, did she stand?
Did the conjurer start his juggle?
Was the veneer red and bright?
Or did they mistake her visage?
Nothing to evoke guilt
When they fought over lime-stones
With a dash of filth
The profane Prussian hue
The prurient summer sky
The pharisaical turbid ale
The pragmatic’s divine vale
All but her, marched on
With the grunt of swine
Piqued by the nocturnal overtures
A faint fleeting green smile
Amidst the mob, did she stand?
Did the conjurer start his juggle?
Was the veneer red and bright?
Or did they mistake her visage?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Asymmetric
Asymmetric dreams. Windowpanes smitten by the storm. Abani is stranded at the crossroad. There are four ways to reach home. He contemplates each of them. He may have done this the whole day, even without a drop of rain. Actually, his clerkship exams guaranteed him five thousand over the table. Black was never that fascinating to him.
His house is akin to the cave in which some Robert, who was heavily influenced by a spider, stayed. The only difference, the house lacked spiders. In their place, were lizards, who meticulously consumed vermin flesh. The calculated steps towards the heedless prey and then gobbling it up is all he missed during this period of stagnation. Though, its nothing new.
Abani’s tattered umbrella acted like a sieve. It resisted the attack of hails and their sharp edges. He ponders on the degree of serration his parasol saved him from. He overlooks the entry of water, which has already wetted his attire. Certain sequestered memoirs seem to revisit the conscience. Alas! Its like the wailing wave. The moment he expects it to speak, it froths.
Abani checks his watch. Its late. Too late. He heads towards the least traversed street. The monotony of the relentless day was already disturbed by the storm. He thus adds sauce to the dish. On his route, he encounters an abandoned park. A specter of a park to be more precise. He decides to digress a bit. He can afford to as the desk back at his place was devoid of the regular folders. He voluntarily attempts to disturb the symmetry of the place. He picks up a broken log, lying beside him, on the bench, inanimate. He keeps his umbrella on the bench and gapes at the wood. It should have been living before the storm, as per Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose. Now its dead. What difference does it make? He discovered the log is akin to him. Mirth paved its way. A desire to smile coaxed him, but he was obstinate. Now, back to the goal. He gets up and hits whatever he gets in his way. Repeated blows oozed out lunacy. What happened to this perfectly sane bloke?
A peal disturbs his action. He throws the log and picks up his umbrella. He scampers out of the park without even opening his parasol. He darts towards his den. His acceleration hurts his inflexible muscle. The agility he is used to is no where near to this new found speed. The gyration of some wheel in his think tank pulverizes the conventional sanity the world is used to. The world as always will perceive it with a negative filter, since its new, unaccustomed. That’s the law.
Newton’s first law of motion says the body tends to retain its static position. A genius was he. This is applicable in case of the society. The prejudiced lot will rot the fresh. The penetration of reason is inapplicable. They fear a change but are desirous of it. The outcome is the generation of corrosive force, which epitomizes the barbarism in them. They inoculate their peers too. Generations after generations of monotony. Same inclination. Same oppression. Same depression. The clerk is not the defaulter. His father has confided in him the easiest way to consume life. Pay heed to the basic amenities. Neglect the idiosyncrasies.
That doesn’t stop the great to purify the land. The clerk has returned. He freshened himself. Siesta won’t embed in him tonight. He became one with the monotonous desolation of his existence. The giant wheel still revolved in the realms of his conscience.
Dawn struck its quarter.
The palest blue was omnipresent. The weary faded brown in the eyes revolts. Gazing at the last visible sparkle, he contemplates. The diluted orange strata poke. His conscience provoked. He lifts up with a mighty jolt, searching for her soul. The halogen brushed green of a distant canopy, may be the missing abode. Or is she the hydronium ion of the yellow muriatic bottle. Or is she in the crumbs, left alone. Maybe she is encumbering the exhausted palette, exhausted by the toll of clerkship. Or maybe she is the colorless slumber in his arid throat.
She is the answer to Abani’s dying quench. She is the answer to the monotony. The answer to the beguiled existence of mankind, unyielding to the newness. The answer to the pathos leading to cannibalism percolated through generations. She is the answer to the never-ending regret of proletariats.
His house is akin to the cave in which some Robert, who was heavily influenced by a spider, stayed. The only difference, the house lacked spiders. In their place, were lizards, who meticulously consumed vermin flesh. The calculated steps towards the heedless prey and then gobbling it up is all he missed during this period of stagnation. Though, its nothing new.
Abani’s tattered umbrella acted like a sieve. It resisted the attack of hails and their sharp edges. He ponders on the degree of serration his parasol saved him from. He overlooks the entry of water, which has already wetted his attire. Certain sequestered memoirs seem to revisit the conscience. Alas! Its like the wailing wave. The moment he expects it to speak, it froths.
Abani checks his watch. Its late. Too late. He heads towards the least traversed street. The monotony of the relentless day was already disturbed by the storm. He thus adds sauce to the dish. On his route, he encounters an abandoned park. A specter of a park to be more precise. He decides to digress a bit. He can afford to as the desk back at his place was devoid of the regular folders. He voluntarily attempts to disturb the symmetry of the place. He picks up a broken log, lying beside him, on the bench, inanimate. He keeps his umbrella on the bench and gapes at the wood. It should have been living before the storm, as per Acharya Jagadish Chandra Bose. Now its dead. What difference does it make? He discovered the log is akin to him. Mirth paved its way. A desire to smile coaxed him, but he was obstinate. Now, back to the goal. He gets up and hits whatever he gets in his way. Repeated blows oozed out lunacy. What happened to this perfectly sane bloke?
A peal disturbs his action. He throws the log and picks up his umbrella. He scampers out of the park without even opening his parasol. He darts towards his den. His acceleration hurts his inflexible muscle. The agility he is used to is no where near to this new found speed. The gyration of some wheel in his think tank pulverizes the conventional sanity the world is used to. The world as always will perceive it with a negative filter, since its new, unaccustomed. That’s the law.
Newton’s first law of motion says the body tends to retain its static position. A genius was he. This is applicable in case of the society. The prejudiced lot will rot the fresh. The penetration of reason is inapplicable. They fear a change but are desirous of it. The outcome is the generation of corrosive force, which epitomizes the barbarism in them. They inoculate their peers too. Generations after generations of monotony. Same inclination. Same oppression. Same depression. The clerk is not the defaulter. His father has confided in him the easiest way to consume life. Pay heed to the basic amenities. Neglect the idiosyncrasies.
That doesn’t stop the great to purify the land. The clerk has returned. He freshened himself. Siesta won’t embed in him tonight. He became one with the monotonous desolation of his existence. The giant wheel still revolved in the realms of his conscience.
Dawn struck its quarter.
The palest blue was omnipresent. The weary faded brown in the eyes revolts. Gazing at the last visible sparkle, he contemplates. The diluted orange strata poke. His conscience provoked. He lifts up with a mighty jolt, searching for her soul. The halogen brushed green of a distant canopy, may be the missing abode. Or is she the hydronium ion of the yellow muriatic bottle. Or is she in the crumbs, left alone. Maybe she is encumbering the exhausted palette, exhausted by the toll of clerkship. Or maybe she is the colorless slumber in his arid throat.
She is the answer to Abani’s dying quench. She is the answer to the monotony. The answer to the beguiled existence of mankind, unyielding to the newness. The answer to the pathos leading to cannibalism percolated through generations. She is the answer to the never-ending regret of proletariats.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Obscured
Atomic study of the object would have yielded groundbreaking results. But object is again a very incorrect term. A tad more lust may have made the perfect amalgamate. Still, its completely subjective. Well, I tried to delve into the origin of the event. Uneventful stuff doesnt have an origin. Or are the thoughts unfathomably divergent. Now, the upsurge of relentless adrenaline did not help. Guess, over usage led to its complete consumption. Should have known its conventional.\
Shamik - "What did I expect?"
Rhiju - "Obscured"
Shamik - "Reason for getting into such a thing "
Rhiju - "Blurred"
Shamik - "Should I feel numb ? "
Rhiju - "Futile"
Shamik - "People may think I am evading"
Rhiju - "Fools"
Shamik - "What is my destination?"
Rhiju - "Camouflaged"
Shamik - "Did I rise from it's ashes?"
Rhiju - "Fleeting"
Shamik - "Re-established glory"
Rhiju - "Evident"
Shamik - "Mission Half complete "(grin)
Rhiju - "Kuddos" (quissical smile)
Shamik - "What did I expect?"
Rhiju - "Obscured"
Shamik - "Reason for getting into such a thing "
Rhiju - "Blurred"
Shamik - "Should I feel numb ? "
Rhiju - "Futile"
Shamik - "People may think I am evading"
Rhiju - "Fools"
Shamik - "What is my destination?"
Rhiju - "Camouflaged"
Shamik - "Did I rise from it's ashes?"
Rhiju - "Fleeting"
Shamik - "Re-established glory"
Rhiju - "Evident"
Shamik - "Mission Half complete "(grin)
Rhiju - "Kuddos" (quissical smile)
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Cameo and Nulliet
Act II
location : an abandoned park(preferably in salt lake)Nuliet(wailing) : You dont love me. You fantasize that.......(with the advent of act 377, this void can be "de-void"ed by any name, barring Cameo's own blood).
Cameo [terrified (stupidity cajoled him to take a false step). He is desperate to refrain this siren from breaking free. Also afraid of..........(fill up perverts) ] : Why? What have i done ?
Nuliet : You didnt (producing her cell, as if to smash Cameo's nose) reply to this L.M [lunatic(read love) message]
The message:
How many moments do you miss me ?
[Units favourable : picosecs, nanosecs,microsecs ........secs(no perverts no) ]
[Time : five minutes after their two hour telephone(read loveline) conversation]
Cameo (sigh) : Am I that bad a lover(i mean modern day lover. perverts at work again)? Am I ? (shedding a tear drop)
(All of a sudden, starts singing) Baby (and not maybe) I m addicted
.......ur the drug that keeps me from dying.......baby i m a liar
(holy shit, Cameo is screwed)
Nuliet (yelling) : Yes, yes, yes. Now u speak. You are a liar. An excellent one.
[A peal of thunder(read screech) followed by a zephyr of tears]
Cameo (understanding the subtlety in tears, starts cuddling) : How can you............
Rest is recorded in the minds of modern perverts.
P.S : This extract is taken from the " World Perverts United " forum's daily journal, under the category "Stereotypes"
Monday, March 1, 2010
Six more months
“Six more months, not a second less,” proclaimed the biopsy report. Patient repeated the affirmation quite a number of times like a hymn. Doctor was exasperated for the first time. He detested this patient’s lament. He was used to such cases. In fact, he was the only gastroenterologist of Midnapore municipal hospital. Colon cancers are ‘in’. It renders the affected a distinct historic value. So why is this creature crooning? Death is the cardinal truth of life. Evasions are impossible. Therefore, no point cribbing. Coming back to the Doctor, being a prodigy does not guarantee you a satisfactory life. Moreover, he was an anachronism of the bygone era. A period in the history of homo sapiens, when people preferred service to money. They held themselves responsible for the betterment of society. His disarrayed thoughts took him back to his reflective pension.
“….brightest of the lot,” ended Professor Munshi, then H.O.D of the Doctor. Munshi was the most profound admirer of him. He was especially impressed by his dogmatic approach. He was determined to join a government hospital and be posted in some forsaken village. This sort of behavior would definitely be termed as “ersatz” in this mechanized ambience. His retrospective parentage could not justify such vehement discrepancy in his character. They tried a bit of retardation technicalities citing examples of poverty. The never-yielding soul refuted. He renounced his luxuries and off went to Sundarban. Only objective was to serve the people, desperately in need.
A peal of thunder inaugurated a new phase in the Doctor’s life. His absentmindedness had gained another dimension. The patient was gone and he did not even notice. He was relieved. Once again, he drifted away.
Sunderbans was harsh as expected. A span of three months, which rusted his ironical youth. The youth, which could have been utilized in, amassing as much as possible and establishing a happy materialistic family. Yes, it is true. He had a lover. A love-lust amalgamation. The girl too is a doctor. She preferred a branded hospital. Repulsion. The sole complication was one missed period, which was an outcome of an unprepared night. Anyway, He paid for the abortion. Being the only son of a competent stock-broker has its own set of pros(and cons). That was the only sin, he dared to commit. The last time he saw the girl was in the hospital, post-abortion. The mixed stare of disgust, detestation, disgrace and the most effective love. He camouflaged his share of emotions.
A phone ring helped the Doctor regain his senses. He refused to answer. Gulped in some water and started for his car. The swanking second-hand-decade-old Maruti 800.
After serving Sunderbans, he was transferred to Midnapore. A township where people know the market price of an M.D. This helped him earn a lot of respect. He transcended the hospital single-handedly. The amount of funds rose considerably. He refrained from getting addicted to extravagances. Thereby, he used to donate a lump sum portion of his salary and stuck to a bare minimum. It took four years and an ocean of compassion to reach the pedestal of a ‘demigod’.
The Doctor netted the ball. He was detached, in this forsaken land. Faraway from the maddening crowd. The patient rekindled some of his extinguished emotions. Today, he craved for a bit of recklessness. Felt the dash and balm of his lover’s stare. Beyond the veneer of vanity and economy, a girl wailed for him. A desperate crippled lover, whose feeble pleas were specious enough for this humanitarian to ignore. Today, he wanted to relish that love. The nincompoop father failing to recognize his son’s broadmindedness. The demigod’s final ride through the most intimate causeway of his mind manufactured a few tiny droplets, which trickled down his wrinkled cheek. The death of his mother happened when he was eight. He blamed the money-thirsty hounds who are better known as “doctors”. His father pledged to accumulate an immense fortune, which would last three generations. On a contrary, he did just the opposite. That incident shaped up his altruism and a voluntary visage. His stoic cocoon was now shedding. The cancer-inflicted patient has stirred up his forlorn spirit.
Next morn, another rendezvous with the same pessimistic patient. Uneasiness crept in. The ruddy eyes of the patient hinted at his insomnia. Their face-off would have been a bit more drastic if the patient wouldn’t have asked the most foolhardy question, “Just six months! “.
This statement was like a medium to attain a state of incredulous tears. The façade has evaporated. Just then, his father called. The infuriating 10 digits always led to a fit of supreme professionalism. Today, an unconventional zeal manifested the obscured-humanity in the otherwise stoned baritone.
“Hello father, I was about to give you a call….just to say…..I have six more months, not a second less”
“….brightest of the lot,” ended Professor Munshi, then H.O.D of the Doctor. Munshi was the most profound admirer of him. He was especially impressed by his dogmatic approach. He was determined to join a government hospital and be posted in some forsaken village. This sort of behavior would definitely be termed as “ersatz” in this mechanized ambience. His retrospective parentage could not justify such vehement discrepancy in his character. They tried a bit of retardation technicalities citing examples of poverty. The never-yielding soul refuted. He renounced his luxuries and off went to Sundarban. Only objective was to serve the people, desperately in need.
A peal of thunder inaugurated a new phase in the Doctor’s life. His absentmindedness had gained another dimension. The patient was gone and he did not even notice. He was relieved. Once again, he drifted away.
Sunderbans was harsh as expected. A span of three months, which rusted his ironical youth. The youth, which could have been utilized in, amassing as much as possible and establishing a happy materialistic family. Yes, it is true. He had a lover. A love-lust amalgamation. The girl too is a doctor. She preferred a branded hospital. Repulsion. The sole complication was one missed period, which was an outcome of an unprepared night. Anyway, He paid for the abortion. Being the only son of a competent stock-broker has its own set of pros(and cons). That was the only sin, he dared to commit. The last time he saw the girl was in the hospital, post-abortion. The mixed stare of disgust, detestation, disgrace and the most effective love. He camouflaged his share of emotions.
A phone ring helped the Doctor regain his senses. He refused to answer. Gulped in some water and started for his car. The swanking second-hand-decade-old Maruti 800.
After serving Sunderbans, he was transferred to Midnapore. A township where people know the market price of an M.D. This helped him earn a lot of respect. He transcended the hospital single-handedly. The amount of funds rose considerably. He refrained from getting addicted to extravagances. Thereby, he used to donate a lump sum portion of his salary and stuck to a bare minimum. It took four years and an ocean of compassion to reach the pedestal of a ‘demigod’.
The Doctor netted the ball. He was detached, in this forsaken land. Faraway from the maddening crowd. The patient rekindled some of his extinguished emotions. Today, he craved for a bit of recklessness. Felt the dash and balm of his lover’s stare. Beyond the veneer of vanity and economy, a girl wailed for him. A desperate crippled lover, whose feeble pleas were specious enough for this humanitarian to ignore. Today, he wanted to relish that love. The nincompoop father failing to recognize his son’s broadmindedness. The demigod’s final ride through the most intimate causeway of his mind manufactured a few tiny droplets, which trickled down his wrinkled cheek. The death of his mother happened when he was eight. He blamed the money-thirsty hounds who are better known as “doctors”. His father pledged to accumulate an immense fortune, which would last three generations. On a contrary, he did just the opposite. That incident shaped up his altruism and a voluntary visage. His stoic cocoon was now shedding. The cancer-inflicted patient has stirred up his forlorn spirit.
Next morn, another rendezvous with the same pessimistic patient. Uneasiness crept in. The ruddy eyes of the patient hinted at his insomnia. Their face-off would have been a bit more drastic if the patient wouldn’t have asked the most foolhardy question, “Just six months! “.
This statement was like a medium to attain a state of incredulous tears. The façade has evaporated. Just then, his father called. The infuriating 10 digits always led to a fit of supreme professionalism. Today, an unconventional zeal manifested the obscured-humanity in the otherwise stoned baritone.
“Hello father, I was about to give you a call….just to say…..I have six more months, not a second less”
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