Love, 2100

Rina opened the door to her apartment clutching the bag of groceries. Though it was 2100 AD and drones delivered everything at home, she enjoyed her stroll along the quiet streets. 

"Riya, where are you?", she asked.

"I'm talking to Orien, Granny", came the reply.

Girls of this generation! They always preferred AI to men.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door. Amit burst in. 

"Where is Riya? She can't break-up with me this way.", he screamed.

Riya appeared. "You are toxic. I don't owe you anything."

Suddenly Orien's metallic hands grabbed Amit's collar and flung him outside.

Image source: Image AI generated

The Silent Lover

"There is an ocean of silence between us... and I am drowning in it." - Ranata Suzuki

I can't remember the day I fell in love with him. The memory of those early days is obscure, like the dim light of stars veiled by the clouds at night. No clock, no calendar can measure the number of days, months and years I've been in love. My love for him is more ancient than time itself. 

Through the haze of time, what I'm able to remember is a masculine figure, draped in blue and green. One look at him and I knew that I was bound for eternity. Since that day, I have been devoted and loyal to him. My life revolves around him - day after day, year after year. 

But it breaks my heart to admit that he was never mine. He will never be mine. His life revolves around someone else. Someone who is brighter than me illuminates his life. Her blinding light mesmerizes him, sustains his very life, gives meaning to his existence. Yet when he finds himself in darkness with no one to guide him, he gently turns to me. I give him solace with my softness. I try to remind him of the rhythm of life - that the journey is always from the darkness of the unknown towards the soft radiance of truth, the path that unfolds through the growth of understanding, the path that requires the complete surrender of ego on its last leg.

Sometimes, I become jealous like any ordinary woman. My heart desires to reclaim its love from the clutches of that other woman. And guided by the follies of my heart, I step between the two of them, bringing an eclipse. But those moments are always fleeting. And they always leave me heartbroken.

When I feel too vulnerable, too powerless in my love, I send him silver tides - a reminder of my presence in his life, a sign he cannot ignore. Years of enduring the pain of unrequited love have left its scars on me in the form of craters on my surface - the tell-tale signs of a life of suffering.

When my soul's yearning for him becomes too intense, I silently retreat to my inner self, cocooned by the darkness of night, invisible to him. I introspect deeply what it means to love, what purpose my unrequited love serves. Then I realize that I too have some importance to him, however trivial it may be. I may not be the center of his life, but it's I who shape his tides and light up his night sky. Neglected by the love of my life, I continue my journey in my own orbit, for no matter what happens, life must go on. 

I may be the silent observer of the love affair between the Earth and the Sun, I may be the woman never chosen by the man she loves, but I too have my own identity. I, the Moon. The silent lover.

Image Source: Unsplash

Chaalchitra

"Bajlo tomar alor benu..."

("The flute of your radiance begins to play...")

Mrinalini woke up to the tune of 'Mahishasurmardini' being played on radio sets of neighbouring households. On Mahalaya's auspicious morning, Birendra Krishna Bhadra's voice reciting the 'Mahishasurmardini Stotram' floated in the air. To Mrinalini, it always seemed like the first breath of autumn on earth. 

A sense of relief washed over her as the realisation dawned that all the chaalchitras ordered for had already been painted. Today, representatives of Puja committees and some bonedi households from Kolkata were supposed to collect the chaalchitras and pay her dues. The months leading up to the Durga Puja had been hectic. This was the time when demand was high for the chaalchitras.

Mrinalini put the kettle on the stove to make some tea for herself. Today she had no more work left on chaalchitras. She was just a year shy of eighty and those long hours of work for the past few months made her legs heavy and her hips ached. She added a few cloves and cardamoms to the boiling tea leaves for that extra tang.

The morning tea ritual was over. Mrinalini had ample time today. She lovingly looked for one last time at her own creations, the chaalchitras heaped on the floor of her workspace. In the middle of one particular chaalchitra, she had painted Mahadev. It reminded her of her own Mahadev - her long-departed husband, Subodh. Subodh was a chaalchitra and pot shilpo artist. It was he who initiated her into the art of chaalchitra painting more than sixty years ago. Mrinalini could almost visualize the shy, naïve, eighteen-year-old version of herself, the touch of Subodh's callused palms on her tender, creamy hands, gently guiding the intricate brushstrokes while she painted Radha-Krishna. She was the Radha, head over heels in love with her Krishna. Subodh was not just her partner, he was her mentor, her guide and her eternal lover - steadfast in his love towards his Parvati, just like Mahadev.

Subodh had always hoped to pass on the mantle of his art to Sunil, their only son. But Sunil had neither the artistic inclination nor the patience required to paint chaalchitras. Instead, he was more interested in making quick money. After finishing school, he managed to find a job as a security guard in a residential complex. When Subodh passed away, after forty years of blissful married life, it was Mrinalini who took up the mantle.

After Subodh's death, Mrinalini suddenly found all the colours drained from her life, leaving behind a gloomy, grey-tinted existence. The only things that added colours to her life were the colour palettes meant for chaalchitra painting - white derived from chalk dust, yellow from turmeric, blue from indigo and red from vermillion. She clung to those colours for dear life. Today as the honey-coloured autumn sunlight bathed the earth in a warm glow, she whispered, "Wait a little more for me, Subodh! Together we'll paint the heaven red."

Glossary:

Chaalchitra - A traditional form of painted panel art from Bengal, often depicting mythological or religious themes. These paintings are typically created on wooden boards using natural pigments. It serves as a decorated, painted backdrop behind Hindu deity idols, particularly during Durga Puja.

Bonedi - A term used in Bengal to refer to members of the traditional aristocratic or upper-class families, usually landowners or people of high social status with a long-established lineage. Bonedi families are often associated with wealth, heritage, and influence in society.

Pot shilpo - A term referring to artistic work involving painting or drawing on earthen pots, often featuring traditional motifs and designs, and is considered a form.of folk art from West Bengal, India.

Image: AI generated.

Our Ganesh Chaturthi

Every year, my father's sweet shop does brisk business in the days preceding the Ganesh Chaturthi as an array of modaks and laddus gets sold in thousands. Also, the shop celebrates it's own Puja. 

"Why do we offer prayers to Ganeshji every year, Baba?", I ask my father innocently.

"Beta, He is the Vigneshwar, remover of obstacles."

I ask my Granny, "Dadi, if only I pray to Ganeshji, will He remove all obstacles from my path?"

She replies calmly, "Yes, dear. But this does not mean He magically erases difficulties. When you start cultivating intelligence, balance, and clarity, obstacles dissolve."

Image Source: Unsplash

Memories I Can't Erase

The memories that I can't erase

Lay scattered in the nooks and crannies of my heart.
Whenever I reach for them
They rustle gently, like fallen Autumn leaves.

I wonder often in quietness:
What should I do with them?
Should I wrap them in tender love,
And put them in some inaccessible part of my soul?
Or should I discard them altogether,
Like peeled vegetable skins?

Then I think of us, those shared moments of joy,
Moments of togetherness, of intimacy,
The shared vision of building a future together.
What should I do with these memories?

For memories are not like gifts;
They can't be discarded at anyone's whims.
They come unbidden when you least expect them,
And catch you off-guard.

Our memories, that can't be erased.

Image source: Unsplash

Whispers of the Clouds

Grey monsoon clouds hover over the sky,
Laden with the possibility of rain,
The parched earth is eagerly waiting for the drops
Falling like threads white and silken.

"We're in a hurry now", the clouds whisper,
"To quench the thirst of the earth,
Any delay further will bring forth drought
And spoil the nature's dance of mirth."

"If you too have promised something", they smilingly say
"Fulfill that promise now, for now is the right time,
Later you may miss the window of opportunity,
And end up regretting for a life time."

"Later the landscapes change, 
Later the sky changes colour,
Later people move on,
And close ones go far."

Image source: Unsplash

Table for One

Present day

This year, monsoon has arrived with a vengeance in Kolkata. There has been a steady downpour since morning. When Iravati stepped out of her office in the evening, it was still drizzling. With an exasperated sigh, she opened her umbrella and headed towards the nearby café instead of rushing to the bus-stop. Today, more than anything else, she needed to sit with herself.

As she neared the café, her mouth felt dry and her feet wobbled. She had visited the café many times with Neel. She was afraid that going alone this time would flood her with a fresh wave of grief and longing. But she was determined to get out of the murky feelings of heartache. So she steeled her heart and walked on towards the café.

As she stepped inside the café, the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee, buttery pastries, herbs and spices greeted her. After taking a cursory look at the menu card, she decided on Caffe Americano and a plate of Corn patties.

Two years ago

Iravati was fresh out of Engineering College when she joined "CodeLyne Technologies" as an Associate Software Engineer. He was already a name there- Neel Sengupta, Senior Project Manager. He was tall with athletic build. His broad shoulders draped in crisp cotton shirt, his neatly ironed trousers, shiny black shoes, few grey strands of hair near his temples rendered him an aura of respectability. He had piercing black eyes which seemed to scour anyone's innermost thoughts. However, there was a lingering shadow of melancholy in his eyes. He was twenty years older than Iravati and... married.

The day Iravati laid her eyes on Neel Sengupta, she felt an almost magnetic pull towards him. But she was well aware of his marital status. So she tried to give him a wide berth. Iravati herself was an average-looking woman with wheatish complexion and medium height. But her mother said that her eloquent eyes and her long, glossy, straight, raven-black hair made up for all her shortcomings.

Neel was proficient at his job. Iravati soon discovered that he was very kind-hearted and always willing to extend a helping hand to juniors when necessary. She also received his help on many occasions.

One and half years ago

It was a day of unrest. A day of revelation. The election results had just been declared. Around midday, there were violent clashes among followers of two rival political parties. All of a sudden, a strike was declared and the entire city came to a standstill. At evening, when Iravati reached the bus-stop, the road was almost empty save a few private cars. Suddenly a car stopped in front of her and the window glasses rolled down. It was Neel peering from the driver's seat.

"Want a ride?'

She hesitated for a few moments, then gave in.

The air inside the car was fragrant with the scent of Neel's woody, citrusy perfume. He broke the silence first and started making small talk. He talked about his unhappy marriage with Maya, about how trapped and suffocated he felt in that marriage. for the first time, Iravati saw a vulnerable man masked behind the suave corporate executive who had no one to care for him.

The distance between them suddenly melted that day. Iravati felt a strange affection for this man. She often cooked his favourite dishes to serve him during lunch-time.

Reshma, her workplace buddy and closest confidante, sensed something was amiss.

"Neel Sengupta is a married man. Don't fall for his charm.", she warned Iravati.

But Neel was Ira's own secret which she fiercely guarded from the world.

"You're over thinking. We're just good friends", she laughed drily.

With the passage of time, love between them intensified. She loved how he made her feel. She loved how his lips felt so perfect on hers. And she loved their secret love-making sessions.

Neel promised her that he would soon divorce Maya so that they could marry.

One month ago

The office grapevine was abuzz with the rumour that Neel's wife was pregnant. Ira's whole world crumbled down when she heard the news.

"Is it true?", she accosted Neel.

"Yes, Ira. It is true. I wanted to tell you myself, but didn't have the courage. It was just... a mistake. But now, I can't avoid my fatherly responsibilities for the sake of my own happiness. Forgive me, if you can. And please try to forget me."

Ira stood shell-shocked.

"One more thing. I've applied to the HR for a transfer. You don't have to face me daily."

Present day

The waiter placed her order on the table. She inhaled the invigorating aroma of the coffee and felt relaxed. Then she took a bite from the corn patties. The chopped green chillies of the stuffing set her tongue on fire. Her eyes smarted. But she didn't stop. Another bite. Then another. Something inside her unravelled.

She realised that what lies on the other side of heart-break is reclaiming her self-worth. He might have failed her, but she must not fail herself. He might have abandoned her, but she must not abandon herself. He might have wandered to a life that didn't include her, but she must not wander away. She must come back to her whole self.

Outside, the rain had subsided. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin up, gathered her belongings and headed towards the bus-stop. 

Image source: iStock