December 20, 2016
The medicinal redolence engulfed the deserted hallway swathed with the parroting echos of unheard snivels and screams derived from the druthers(urge) to be set manumit from the shackles of throe. I was lotus on the copper frame pew, taking a gander at the jalousie infused in the hem(wall) opposite to me. The cubbyhole(room) which prevailed beyond it had been my father’s refuge since quarter of a “many a moon”, the day had been inscribed as the juncture in our lives.
The MD informed us dilatorily the previous eventide that our father is in a coma and has minimal probability of waking up to see us smile again. Waking up to feel our arms holding him. My mother broke down, as the notice ringed within the empty walls of our house. Empty since he left.
My father is a very down to earth person. He was a green grocery storekeeper, the financial backbone of our ménage . Unlike me, he wasn’t grey, he was blue. He used to involve himself in Bandinages with me. He was calm as the ocean and vibrant. He always spurred me to pursue my dreams which were to serve as a banker in the corporate sector. Till crows came home, He is the only one to believe in me and my capabilities. He was my hero. He is my hero. A hero without cape.
“Diganta, never stop pursuing your dreams. Live your life at your own terms but with truth and sincerity. Always be generous. I am proud of you”, he used to say back in the days when I was imitating Apollo landing on the orb of night with my spaceprobe curio. Remembering those moments still brought a faint smile which was quelledly dominated by the overwhelming sorrow and sobs.
“Mother!”, my inaudible scream predominated my influx of imbricated indigo and gloom thoughts as I saw my mother collapse on my lap. She haven’t had anything to nibble since lang syne. The chronological events since the past month had quadrupled her pains. She barely indulged herself in a tête-à-tête. I felt really rueful for her. She didn’t deserved this. None of us did.
The news came in that nightfall.
January 12, 2017
“I would like to have a packet of soap and a kilo of sugar”, said the lady embodied in a voluptuous figure, draped in a saree, in a requesting tone, standing against the counter of the grocery shop.
“Here you go. That would be forty rupees in all”, the bald-headed boy, fair and in his early twenties, exclaimed while handing over the package to the lady.
In the street opposite, papers and opuscules continued burning in dying embers caressed by a dozen hands begging for a source of heat in the cold , dull winter. Among the garbage burning, was the banking books and papers of a young Diganta who mortgaged his dreams for reality.