But me ..

The idea of having him, consumed me suddenly, desperately. His brazen self was attuned to the fact that my eyes slyly devoured him, while he had his beer, sitting in one corner of the bar, alone. I think I had made it evident that I did not feel an ounce of guilt or shame whilst staring a stranger and would wait, unceremoniously so, for his arrival at my side of the joint.

I waited, he never budged an inch from his seat. Frustrated, I tossed my heels and proceeded towards the dance floor. I could sense his eyes on me as I glided along. Men hunkered around , I could feel their breath, stinking of alcohol. Amidst the cacophony of sounds - voices, music, clinking of glasses and couples kissing in a distance, I was lost. In a haze, perpetual, transcending into space. I could almost fly, except that I couldn't. My bare feet was stomped on, almost cruelly by some lady who face I had missed because of her sheer height and the excruciating pain she had so kindly bestowed me with. Almost blinded with the pain, I stormed out, looking for a place to sit.

I swallowed a glass full of water and sat still, till the pain eased out. Although my friends weren't really convinced of my condition, they let me go ahead and dance some more. By then, I had forgotten about him. Momentous agony seemingly had a have a amnesic effect on my grey cells. Gangnam style was blaring from the speakers and in spite of my lesser known feminine self shouting in my in despair, I started frolicking around with a bunch of hippies who were more than kind to accommodate me into their group. The song suddenly changed. As people started pairing up, I was left on my own. Awkwardly I started leaving the floor, a little fatigued with all the jumping around.

Almost magically, the floor had clear little enough to accommodate a stunningly average looking man, whom I had found mind numbingly attractive few hours back. He was looking directly at me, even then, I thought of it as one of those moments when you think that some one is looking at you but they are looking at the person standing next to you. I was still debating in my head whether I should leave, when he came close to me and asked, "May I?"

My little known dance skills had gone down the drain that very moment. I was somehow intimidated by his tall and lanky frame and couldn't look into his eyes, even once. We floated along the dance floor effortlessly, in spite of my conscious self. And then, obscurely enough, I decided to let go. His hands glided along my back, never enough to reach my bottom. I looked into his eyes and saw my own reflection, earnest yet difficult. My frame, seemingly imperfect at all the wrong places never seemed to bother him as he held me at my waist, gentle and firm. My hands perfectly fitting into his, I was already building castles in the air.

We barely talked. He held me carefully enough, making sure that I did not stand a chance on succumbing to another blow by platform heels. In my mind, I was praying hard to cling on to the moment as long as possible. It was almost three in the morning. I had persuaded my friends to leave without me. He asked if he could drop me home. I replied with a faint, "yes"

The car journey was made in silence. I reached my apartment when I blurted out hurriedly, "Will I see you again?"

He looked at me for some time, distraught. He smiled and said, "Definitely, maybe."

"What does that even mean?"

"Bye, Anna"

"Wha .. ? How do you know my name?"

"Bye, Anna. You will see me soon" - his car stormed past me.

The next day my friend hurled the newspaper at my face while I was still fast sleep.

"I knew there was something wrong with that guy."

"What? Who?"

"That son of a bitch, yesterday."

"Hey mind your language!" I blared

"He is Ismail Faiz, the leader of one of the most wanted terrorist outfits in the country."

"No, no." - I mumbled in disbelief.

My phone vibrated next to me.

'I start letting my guard down when people stop giving me reasons to keep it up. This time around, just one person was enough. I hope I will see you soon.'

"I hope you do." , I replied and tossed back my head into my pillow without the faintest realisation that I had quite fallen in love with a man who posed a threat with almost everyone, but me.

It all started with the urge to write the perfect story. The perfect story. A story which had little bit me in it and also everybody else. A story which is like and unlike anything else you might have come across. A little less fiction and a lot more real, a little more sensitive, a little less careful. Something which provides neither the writer nor the reader with instant gratification but lights up your soul slowly, tepid yet existent.

The prefect story, does it come from knowing yourself? Or travelling a lot? Reading, understand, comprehending, analysing or just writing? How am I to look for something when I am not sure about what I am looking for?

Patience is a great virtue; someday I would like to be blessed with it. Till then I am content in remaining famished, in search of knowledge, information, experience and inspiration. And who knows, it might just lead me to what I am looking for.

In search of the perfect story,in search of the perfect story ...

Arziyaan saari ..

"It will get better"

"Will it? I don't know .."

"It always does.Trust me"

"Then it will .. get better"

"So much confidence in me?"

"You have no idea .."

But I hope someday you do ..

“I close my eyes, thinking that there is nothing like an embrace after an absence, nothing like fitting my face into the curve of his shoulder and filling my lungs with the scent of him.”

He moved towards me staggeringly. No part of his movement was untoward or unplanned. I hated the sight of him, yet his brusque mannerisms made me awkwardly comfortable. I wanted to turn back and run away as fast as I could, but here I was, standing in front of the only man who had ever seen a daft of terror in my eyes, drowning in the smell of his musk.

His touch sent a shiver down my spine. I turned back and closed my eyes wishing feverishly, hoping this to be a horrid dream. He planted a kiss on my neck whispering fervidly into my ears, “I want you, now.”

I wasn’t in a position to think any longer of the past, or of future repercussions. I was suddenly swept by a torrid of emotions; I slapped him as hard as I could and mumble the words, “How could you?” He looked unperturbed and said nothing. I punched him in his chest and kept punching till I was howling in the middle of the road, unable to pull out a single sentence. Deep inside, I had always known that he would come back to me, just like he had left two years back. I had been aware that I would fight my parents and wait for him, even if he never came back.

“I will not let you touch me, do you get that?”

“You think you can fuck the daylights out of me and leave, just like that? I hate you, I hate you every ounce of my body and my soul. You don’t deserve me. You don’t deserve anyone, not even a prostitute. You ...”

He took me in his arms and all my anger enveloped. Why could I not be resilient and headstrong? Why could I not hate him enough to free myself from every little thing which reminded me of him?”

“Have faith in me, please.” – his eyes looked painful, for the first time.

“Look, I know you are here to just quench your physical desires. So just do that. Don’t ask me to trust you when you know that you can never be trusted.”

“Then I would rather not make love to you.”

“Take me to your apartment. I want you to make love to me. I want you to love me, morning, noon and night. I want you to love me. I don’t want anything else. Please love me.”

I could not believe my ears. I wondered whatever happened to the free spirited 25 year old who had promised herself to never be overbearingly crazy about any man, ever in her life.

When we finally returned back to his place, I almost dove on him as soon the door closed behind us. I unbuttoned his Hilfiger shirt and buried myself in his chest, the place where I felt safest. He stood limpid and said, “You know I don’t think this is a good idea, you had too much to drink.”

“No, I did not. Love me. Love me.”, tears welled down my eyes, tears of immense pain and desperation.

He did not utter a single word after that. He unzipped his pants, took me in his arms and carried me to his bedroom. He touched me with such tenderness and brought me back to life. I cried throughout knowing that the next morning, when I would wake up, he wouldn’t be there beside me. I finally fell asleep hugging him as tight as I could with the hope that he could never escape.

Next morning I woke up to find myself alone in the bed. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. I found a note on my table, unlike the other times.

“I love you. I think you know that already. I used to see myself as an overbearing compulsion that wanted to but could never escape you. I had never seen love in my life, till you came along. Never believed in it truly till the first time you let me hold your hand, never experienced it in all its might till we made love to each other. I have tried not to depend on anyone in my life, for absolutely anything. Last night I realized what a fool I was to believe in such a thing. Which person in his right senses would ever want to let go of you? I love you, and this one last time, I am here to stay.

P.S – You had run out of supplies so made a run to the supermarket so that I could fix up breakfast for ‘US’”

It took me about a zillion years to read his incorrigible handwriting. I heard a click on the door. Life was changing finally - and for the better.

The beginning and the end.

"Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know."

Sameer held my hand in his for what seemed like eternity. He didn't say a word, nor did I. Anger, hate and frustration charred my soul inside out. I cried and howled but what came out was a mere yelp begging for forgiveness. I could hear their angry voices, muffled yet staggeringly clear. The acid in my eyes was blinding.

Sameer had been still for a long time. "So, this is the end." - I thought."This is how we die." And with the realization of the latter, I was inconsolable. The man I loved lay beside me with more than half of his body blistering in pain. I could not see him for the generous dose of hydrochloric acid which was thrown on us, assiduously, for trying to flee our respective households. For wanting to have a life together, no matter what.

"You know Seema, I am in a lot of pain right now. A lot of pain because I had promised you a life of happiness and I have failed. I had promised to protect you, to guard you with all my life but I have failed. I had committed to love you enough, to keep the hatred of both our families astride. But I have failed. Seema, I failed."

I buried my head in his chest kissing him feverishly. I prayed with all my might that this was just a horrid nightmare. That none of this never actually happened. I felt his heart throbbing rapidly and suddenly I felt it no more.

Prabuddha Dasgupta: A Reflection

“I am not a maestro. I am just a person in front of you, having a conversation with you. Hope we learn from each other.”*

He was but a storyteller, someone who weaved tales out of light and shadow. On hindsight he was the revolution the Indian woman truly needed. He was the reassurance that beauty is not limited to deeply anorexic and lanky models strutting by in fashion shows. As an artist and an ace photographer Prabuddha Dasgupta was drawn to unconventional faces, he found beauty in places where nobody could. He perceived sexuality as something innate and powerful and used it to his advantage. Through his camera lens, even black and white appeared colourful reflecting on a cavalcade of emotions effortlessly, through a single snap shot.

Born to famous sculptor Pradosh Dasgupta, Prabuddha was trained to be a historian but he never became one. Instead he became a copywriter before meandering towards photography. A self taught photographer soon his lack of training became his greatest strength. “I read somewhere that anything that can be taught is probably not worth learning”- said he in an interview with The Telegraph when asked if he missed formal training.

A woman presumably a model is looking into the mirror while being decked up for her next photo shoot. Topless, she stood rather comfortably with kohl rimmed eyes intently gazing at her reflection while the photographer stood somewhere behind capturing the blissful moment unleashing her beauty. Prabuddha Dasgupta was fascinated by Indian women whose photographic representation had, till then, been only limited to glamorous models and bollywood actresses whose opulent lifestyle and mannerisms could barely embody the spirit of a coming age Indian woman whose accomplishments had long surpassed her male counterparts. In his book Women (1996) we see a host of portraits and nudes of urban Indian women who are captured in their element without an iota of doubt wavering in their minds. Elucidating further Dasgupta had once said, - “The challenge of nude photography does not lie with me, it lies with the woman who is baring herself, laying herself totally vulnerable in front of me.”* In ‘Women’ he captures his subjects with such passionate ease be it the expectant mother who stood uninhibited, wearing a tank top, glowing with happiness from the life growing inside of her or the crop haired woman, possibly a trainer who sat in her gymnasium smartly posing in track pants and shoes surrounded by dumbbells and other weight training equipments.

His next book Ladakh (2000) explored along the remnants of India’s last stretch of wilderness along the Tibetan plateau. The young freckled Buddhist monk, the even clouds sharply contrasted against the uneven landscape or the burdened yak with the backdrop of world’s highest mountain ranges, each picture of Dasgupta transcends beyond the obvious to tell a story, ever so beautiful. His last book Edge of Faith (2009) paints a portrait of the Catholic Community of Goa which even today suffers from a loss of identity – with the comforting nostalgia of the past, the ever developing present and the forever changing future. Through his camera lens we observe blurry coconut trees, hand clamped rosaries, beguiling households and churches which even today reflect a Portuguese spirit much more than Indian.

A Louis Vuitton vanity bag sits daintily on a similarly patterned trunk by a wall with an overview of the Jama Masjid. Three white and one coloured pigeon sit by gazing keenly at the azure sky. Prabuddha Dasgupta’s commissioned works have been equally if not more popular than his personal works. Over the last few decades he had worked for several international brands and magazines namely Vogue, GQ, L’Oreal and Hermes. Some of these pictures have featured his muse Lakshmi Menon.

“I am a lonely person. There is a desolation inside me. I don't know why, I don't know where it comes from. But my most personal work reflects that again and again.”*

Over the years, while Prabuddha grew as a person, his art matured along with him. Wherever he went, his camera followed. Wherever he was, there was an incessant urge to look past the obvious, to delve into something magical and humane at the same time. Wherever he was, there was a woman just as striking. Prabuddha passed away on August 12, but his work lives on. All for a man who lived in the humdrum of post colonial and liberalized India and wanted to revive art in its purest form.

*Quotes courtesy: Mr Sunil Bhandari

A Prisoner of Consience

"As you look at me and listen to me, please remember the often-repeated truth that one prisoner of conscience is one too many" Aung San Suu Kyi

It was just another exhausting day in my life where I had to travel almost three to fours for my internship in this sweltering heat.First it is the hurry to make a giant escapade from the blaring horns, the bad traffic into my air conditioned office where people abuse others as if that is the best way to go about it. They assiduously try to over shadow each other when it comes to their knowledge of politics and sports.And that's it. They talk about news feverishly but it stops right there, they don't do anything else with that truck load of information except swallowing it with an air of smoke and a bottle of rum which Rajeji(the canteen-man)gets for them whenever he leaves office. But yesterday was different. For two distinct images I witnessed while going to and coming back from office. Images which made me shudder balefully at the dichotomy in the life of a 19 year old who happened to be a media student and believed that activism in the press could be practiced as well as preached. I got down from the train, uncomfortably late and started moving hurriedly towards the nearest sub way. I was stopped mid way by the sight of a woman, sitting against a pillar on the platform, her saree was pulled up to her knees and above her waist she was, as they say, au naturel. Her face was peaceful perhaps unperturbed by the numerous men staring at her ostensibly and the women chuckling in disapproval at her audacity to expose herself in such a manner. She was almost expressionless and I could not help but wonder what was the reason, the story behind that vast expanse of oblivion which clouded her eyes. In spite of being an alleged as a feminist by strangers and friends alike, Like any other woman I kept questioning, "Was there none she could call her own (as if a woman needs to be taken care of constantly)? As a woman what was my duty towards another woman who could clearly do with a glass of water, if not anything else ?" But like everybody else, I moved on, towards something I thought I loved doing, something which beckoned me incessantly, something which prevented me from helping out that woman, but then again what could a 19-year old have possibly done, no ? That very evening, I was outside Howrah Station at 9 29, running frantically to catch the 9 30 train. I was already a bit cranky after battling a 50 year old pervert's continual attempt to bang me in an unbelievably crowded mini bus. Thankfully, I got the train and again there was hardly any place to stand properly. The train had already started moving when I saw a black hand grabbing hold of the newly polished steel pole. As it turned out, the young girl (12) finally managed to board the train with her mother and her young brother (7) who hands were similarly smeared with an ostensible black lubricant almost up to their elbows. She wore a torn salwar kurta, her hair was tied up in a pony tail, she was clearly exhausted but every time her brother chose to fall asleep whilst standing on his feet, she grabbed hold of him, ensuring that he did not get hurt. People boarded the train, people got off and all I could observe were here two hands, fragile yet petite , covered in black oil. In an almost immediate flash back I was reminded of those n number of classes in college where the we discussed about the Right to Education for every child in India. For what ? What did these children ever do to deserve a life like this ? To work in factories, mines and dark dungeons in the most inhospitable atmosphere for children and adults alike. I returned home very disturbed and I am still clueless about my role playing as an literate and informed individual. For I am but a prisoner of my conscience and I know not where my duties lay.