The Little Spaces in Void

Forgive my lack of exactness but it seems like a couple of years ago that the chord which tied me to this cherished space snapped.

Two years is a long time. Many things can happen in the period. It was during this time that I lost my doting grandfather to everlasting sleep, turned a few pages in travelling, met some amazing persons in the journey yet back home friends walked out of my life.  I dreamt for things that are nearly impossible to accomplish. I made more and more mistakes than ever. It's hard to say whether that made me a better or worse person. Incidents which would forever etch their marks on my soul came to occur and pass. In the hardest possible way I was taught by providence that there is something unalterable about the shape which has been cast for the course of our lives no matter how hard we try or how cleverly we may attempt to recast it or elude it. And finally I saw time’s malleability through experiences that sped and slowed it. 

Whatever happened took forever a part of me while leaving, one I won’t ever get back. I reckon it was because of those circumstances that I found it hard to gather the requisite will to write something worthy of anyone's time. 

While the design of destiny was unfolding per its prefixed scheme a part of me missed being here, missed all of you. Your presence, cynical or constructive, sweet or sarcastic, was a symbol of a life which I adored regardless of its virtual existence. It sort of gave an unmatched sense of self even in the midst of all kind of clutter and chaos. Just like a safe haven. Therefore all this time that I was away I felt what being away from home must make you feel. I have always cherished this one place, this tiny window inside my desktop, this minuscule web space where I often found expression for my thoughts which you my friends have always embraced and considered with nothing but encouragement. This vibrant medium which reflects the beauty of its dwellers with serenity and fortitude as it gives recognition to whosoever aspires and works for it. That alone makes it a home like no other.

Maybe all what I have seen and felt during my time away is likely to reflect in my words. If it is much of a pain or embarrassment guide me as you always have. If I tend to amble into darkness be kind and remind me of the beauty of light. If I manage to summon whatever part of me it was which wrote once, the one that you guys wholeheartedly adored then tell me that I still have it in me to keep going, that there is something worthy of salvaging about the whole endeavor. It may be a little selfish of me, I concede, to hold these expectations. But we’re all artists and dreamers who sketch with words and I trust that you will agree life is never easy for dreamers. This is my way of holding out my hand to hold yours, so that our shared journey of expressions becomes a little less arduous and increasingly meaningful.

I do not know if I can ever infuse in my words qualities which I had once managed to imbibe in them, most of which art I learnt from amazing writers I came across here. I do not know if my words will ever evoke what they once did. Regardless I intend to apply myself to the task. Because it is a way of liberation. These very moments that our words conjure seemingly beyond the prefixed, mundane and unchangeable twenty four hours, words which earn for us the little yet beautiful and immortal spaces in void.  

Much Love,

Anupam

Village

The evening throbs as if a surge                                           
Of unspoken feelings on their verge
The satin night crawls far & wide
Melting everything hitherto in sight                          

The bamboo vines whispering lullabies 
In chorus, sound like gentle seas 
Mortal forms vanishing into nothing                      
Their footsteps & signs sans lingering

As I toss & turn on the cot
My head chases a single thought
Born of the faceless jingle
That do their job & hastily mingle

My sleepless eyes stumble upon
The starry pond where fireflies spawn
The million glints from their burning
Provoking an unearthly craving

Crew of crickets join for a supper choir
Their tunes tearing from beneath every layer
Melodious than the greatest known tune
Into every note rhapsody strewn 

The tender breeze rising from the banks
Of the distant river breaking ranks
Reassuring my sand ridden hair
Infusing a delight so delicate & rare

I'm captive of a perfumed whiff
Born of some mystic leaf
The many hued flora kneading
Charismatic musk seething

I forget I was born in the lights
I forget all the pointless fights
I forget every mirage to which I clung
I forget my need of a city, far flung

I move over the worthless addictions
I find refuge from haunting afflictions
I sense strain forsake my nerve
I feel the return of humane verve 

I sleep on my back
Looking at the soulful dark
Watching countless questions at sight
That I dodged in the bright

Then, like the ardour of lovers,
Like the embrace of mothers,
Like the ageless sage,
Begins to etch in heart, my village

Homecoming

Work required Kabir to travel to the city of his birth where he had lived for twenty five years of his life. He was piqued over the strange lack of proclivity in him, for revisiting the city where he was born and raised. He found it annoyingly odd to not sense the quintessential joy, normally felt at the first sight of such opportunity.  So when Jayanth, his office mate, exclaimed that Kabir was a lucky man who is getting a chance to revisit a cherished place that too at the expense of the office, and remarked that it is natural to be very excited about it, Kabir was cautious to not spill his disturbing lack of zeal regarding this whole affair. He concealed that oddity and thought better than sharing it with anyone. Instead he pretentiously shot back at Jayanth "Excited ? Are you kidding me ? I'm dying for tomorrow to come. Ahh. It's been so long." The whole night Kabir kept loathing himself for his insensitivity. Or may be, he thought to himself,  a part of him had not forgotten what he had suffered at that place.

When Kabir and his family had left the city almost five years ago, it was sort of an escape from a land where they had endured perpetual humiliation and dejection. His father's enterprise after enterprise, each falling flat, for distinct reasons. His insurmountable debt and his unrelenting creditors, their intimidating visits to their house and all the threats and abuses that followed made the memory of his home not one to be cherised. He remembered the inescapable embarrassment of having to walk out of his house into the insensate stares of his neighbours who would've zealously witnessed tumultuous drama which unfolded at his doors almost every day. He could almost feel the suffocation and the  frustration which he had experienced then upon overhearing shameless gossip about his abject distress. He reminisced vividly, how his home would slip into chaos when time came to fulfill basic financial obligations like his tuition fees or rent. He recalled those repetitively hopeless mornings and evenings wherein he saw his whole family reduced to a gloomy bunch of faces. Wherever he went he was either received with pity or with slanderous remarks. It had to be the only plausible explanation for such a startling erosion of his affection for his birthplace. An ominous sensation, a looming fear that came intertwined with its biggest symbol. To such depths had the pain of his sordid past penetrated, that a characteristic anxiety and dry mouthedness came to torment him at the mere mention of his hometown's name.  Even sad was the fact that before the miseries had begun to unfold in those days of Kabir's life and also for quite a substantial duration thereafter, while multiple distresses were being perpetrated by the powers that be, he had lived the most memorable moments of his life there. It occurred to him then that his consistent focus on his shadow had kept him bereft of relishing the sunshine As he was on the verge of slipping into the tranquil embrace of sleep, he shuddered thinking about the coming day and of possible encounters with faces he deeply despised. 

Kabir was lost in the loop of indiscriminate contemplation inside the office vehicle en route to his home town, when a series of five speed breaking road humps jolted him out of his trance and he noticed that he was on the last bridge before the southern perimeter of the city. He rolled down the window panes despite past experience of headache and sinus attacks. The gusts of wind born of the river flanking the city, unmistakably persuaded him to reminisce the good old days of his life. He effortlessly forgot all the darkness which he feared would surround him under broad daylight. As the vehicle entered the city, it's velocity was forced to drastic reduction by the debilitating traffic, and there he found his first cheerful memory. He recalled how his father used to presage that he would never truly learn driving as long as he didn't face the infamous thick traffic of the city during the peak hour of the day. What Kabir felt thereafter opened a window to a long shut space within him. He guided the chauffeur with directions to the location of his school. He got down the vehicle and stood right before the forty year old facade, instantly recalling the twelve years of his life there. The playground area brought back memories of the countless prayers he had offered there in chorus and those zillion sermons he had heard, delivered by his persistent teachers. He didn't fail to notice the nearby medical college, whose best memories remained etched in the form of heart numbing glimpses of truly 'beautiful' doctors. During the age of raging hormones his school could be a very difficult place to spend nearly eight hours everyday, he thought to himself. Since every other lady he saw coming out of the adjacent medical college, took his breathe away. But the tragedy was that most of those majestic and mesmerizing women had already made their choices in the matter and for the rest he could simply never summon his teen courage to tell any of them how sick he had become in their love. These musings left Kabir embarrassed and shy as he giggled to himself over his foolish childhood cravings.

 Kabir's engineering college wasn't far away. He  finished his engineering studies in a college which stood just near the abode of his high school sweetheart. Though by then they had broken up and she had discovered truer love elsewhere. Kabir  saw her house. He'd seen it so many times, under the scorching sun and blinding rain just to catch a glimpse of her vague moving silhouette beyond the curtains of her room. It had taken him a few painful glimpses of her and another man in various intimate indulgences to finally move over his feelings which he once nurtured for her. Unlike his school, this one neither brought smile nor sorrow. Nothing stirred inside Kabir when he moved his focus to her house and the same fluttering window curtain. Such void only reassured him that he has indeed moved on. He saw the roads, the traffic islands, the hang out joints, the cinema halls where he recalled  falling in love, again and again. Not only with some unforgettable people but with places, moments & indulgences to the point of addiction. There was this place where he and his friends hung out. He reminisced braving gales and torrents and chilly winters to make it there in time. Kabir had made some wonderful friends here. Friends who would go far away later in life leaving deep etched memories in his solitary guardianship . It was the place where he learnt to ride his grandfather's bicycle and his father's scooter. When he fell, people who he never knew came to pick him up and gave him smart tips to drive better. The best part was that the next time when they ran into each other, both would pause momentarily, thinking whether the other remembers the last meeting, before finally smiling away. The fast food joint, at Kabir's college gate, presented before him the revered image of it's humble owner who never thought twice before letting him and his friends feast away on credit. They were showered with his elderly affection in shape of liberty to pay as and when they liked. He remembered  how, when one of his friends made it big in college placement, he did not forget to touch the man's feet who too reciprocated with his sincere blessings. 

It was the place where Kabir had been showered with unconditional love and deep hatred alike. He'd been adored and whistled at by pals all along the street from his home to his college in consistent display of camaraderie. It is also the place where he had been in stupid, regretful fist fights and had been hounded by armed hooligans. He'd earned here, the fortunate company of friends who did not budge anywhere without him and others who got up and walked away at the very mention of his name. The city had given him souls by whom he had been been adored & respected, looked down upon, betrayed and back stabbed in the days he spent here. Kabir had bagged his maiden professional engagement and earned his first salary here. Here, he'd been called 'worthless' by his teachers and had been graced with  an "EXCELLENT - AA" remark by his the then boss for his splendid contribution in a construction project. In this city Kabir wrote his first love letter, his first prize winning essay and his worst answer papers ever. In one of its oldest galleries he fought his fear of public speaking and indulged in his first ever overt oratory. He learnt to smoke and gulped his first mug of beer here. He ran every year to the river barrage near his  house to see it's brim and the crowd swelling together. He experienced his maiden kiss and the agonizing sweet numbness of first love in its serene winter.

When Kabir finally drifted to his forlorn old house, he was saddened to see that it had lost much of its familiar identity. But the moment he peeped into the backyard and saw the old trees and the overgrown grass surrounding them, a rainbow of memories filled him with glorious images of his life's long departed days. He felt melancholy slowly creeping into his heart . Something snapped inside him, but he held himself together. He didn't want to embarrass himself by being moist eyed and all, before strangers. Though he doubted that they missed his urge. So many afternoons of his childhood, he'd spent under the shade of those twin trees. They weren't just trees anymore. They  had blended into human form looking at him through tears, fraught with age. As if poignantly conveying to Kabir how he had betrayed them by abandoning them in their last days. All Kabir could do was gently move his hands over their weary trunks to reassure them how he yearned, to relinquish all his ties and obligations and return to an unfinished game of hide and seek under their shades. The saplings that a young Kabir's father had made him plant then, now stared at him as handsome young trunks decorated with formidable branches and enviable lush leaves. He felt a parent like contentment upon what he witnessed of the trees in whose dedicated care he'd entrusted his days a decade back.. Finally as tired birds returned to their abodes nested in the bosom of his towering friends, he felt glad that his trees are not lonely after all. When it was time to go, he encountered a terrible reluctance to turn his steps away from the place, to come where he'd dreaded a few hours ago. He had to go. While leaving he could not help encountering a dampening realization, that he was enslaved to his urges, his obligations and his promises made to important people in his world, which prevented him from following his heart and staying back till it was content with experiences of ageless love.

On his way back through the clustered lanes of his old whereabouts Kabir saw the temple, from where penetrating conch shell reverberations used to wake him up early every morning, its purity demystifying the anxieties of the by gone night and where God's deity alone knew his deepest yearnings all through out his adolescence. Kabir returned with the tide of dusk brimming with a palpable disillusionment that he hasn't got over and probably never will get over his love for his hometown. It's where he was born and became the man that he is today.

                                                                                                                  **********

("Homecoming" is a work of fiction and any resemblance in it, to any person, incident or place is purely co - incidental)

My Home - Lost and Found

A few days ago, work required me to travel to my old city, my birthplace. At first I felt a strange lack of proclivity towards revisiting the city where I was born and raised. It felt indeed very odd, not to sense the quintessential joy, normally felt upon being offered an opportunity to walk down memory lane. I concealed that oddity and thought better than sharing it with anyone. Frankly, I was embarrassed deep down. I was feeling almost ashamed of myself for not feeling any longing for a place where I grew to become what I am. The whole night I kept loathing myself for the insensitive person that I have reduced into. Or may be a part of me had not forgotten what I had suffered at that place. When we had left the city almost five years ago, it was sort of an escape from perpetual humiliation and dejection. It had to be the only plausible explanation for such a startling erosion of affection. An ominous sensation, a looming fear that comes intertwined with its biggest symbol. The sadness and degradation comes to haunt me every time that place is mentioned to my ears. The greater sad part is that before the miseries began unfolding and also even for quite a substantial duration thereafter, while multiple distresses were being perpetrated by the powers that be, I had lived the most memorable moments of my life there.

A series of five speed breaking road humps jolted me out of my trance and I noticed that I was on the last bridge  before the southern perimeter of the city. I pulled down the window panes despite past experience of headache and sinus attacks. The gusts of wind born of the river flanking the city unmistakably persuaded me to reminisce the good old days of my life. I forgot all the darkness which I feared would surround me under broad daylight. As we entered the city, the velocity of our vehicle was forced to drastic reduction by the debilitating traffic, and there I found my first memory. I recalled my father presaging me by saying that I would never truly learn driving as long as I don't drive in the thick traffic of our city during the peak hour of the day. What I saw from thereon opened a window of a long shut space within me. As I was guided through, softly held by the tip of my index finger.

When I saw my school I recalled how I managed to  finish my schooling of twelve years in the same school but struggled miserably in my twelfth board exams. The playground area where we offered countless prayers in chorus and heard zillion sermons. Then I noticed the nearby medical college, whose best memories remain etched in the form of heart numbing glimpses of truly 'beautiful' doctors. During the age of raging hormones it could be a very difficult place to spend nearly eight hours of your day, since every other lady I saw coming out of it, appeared worthy of my heart. The tragedy was that some of them already had boyfriends and for the rest I could simply never summon the courage. My law school wasn't far away. I did my law just near the place where lived my high school sweetheart. Though by then we had broken up and she had discovered truer love elsewhere. I saw her house. I'd seen it so many times, under the scorching sun and blinding rain just to catch a glimpse of her vague moving silhouette beyond the curtains. The roads, the traffic islands, joints, the cinema halls where I fell in love, again and again. Not only with some unforgettable people but with places, moments & indulgences to the point of addiction. There was this place where we friends hung out. There is a colloquial term ascribed to it. It's called "Khatti". I remember braving gales and torrents and chilly winters to make it in time to 'khatti'. I had made some wonderful friends here. Friends who would go far away later in life leaving only nostalgia in my custody . It was the city where I learnt to ride my grandfather's bicycle and my father's scooter. When I fell, people who I never knew came to pick me up and gave me smart tips to ride better. The best part was that the next time when we ran into each other, both of us would pause momentarily, thinking whether the other remembers the last meeting, before finally smiling away at each other's face.

The fast food vendor at my college gate did not think twice before letting me and my friends feast away on credit. We were showered with his elderly affection in shape of liberty to pay as and when we liked. When one of my friends made it big in college placement, he did not forget to touch the vendor's feet who reciprocated with his sincere blessings. It's the place where I have received unconditional love and deep hatred alike. I've been adored and whistled at by pals all along the street from home to my college in consistent display of camaraderie.I have also been in stupid, regretful fist fights and have been hounded by armed hooligans. I've had the fortunate company of friends who did not budge anywhere without me and others who got up and walked away at the very mention of my name. I have been adored & respected, looked down upon, betrayed and back stabbed in the days I spent in this city. I bagged my maiden professional engagement and earned my first income here. I've been called 'worthless' by my teachers and been given an "EXCELLENT - AA" remark by my the then boss upon drafting my first ever petition for a Court Case. In this city I wrote my first love letter, my first prize winning essay and my worst answer papers ever. In one of its oldest galleries I fought my fear of public speaking and indulged in my first ever overt oratory. I learnt to smoke and gulped my first mug of beer here. I ran every year to the Mahanadi river barrage near my house to see it's brim and the crowd swelling together. I experienced my maiden kiss and the agonizing sweet numbness of first love in its serene winter.

When I finally drifted to my old house, I found that it had lost much of its familiar identity. But the moment I peeped into the backyard and saw the trees and the overgrown grass surrounding them, a rainbow of memories filled me with glorious images of my life's long departed days. I felt melancholy slowly creeping into my heart . Something snapped, but I held myself together. I didn't want to embarrass myself by being moist eyed and all, before strangers. Though I doubt that they missed my urge. So many afternoons of my childhood, I'd spent under the shade of those twin trees. They weren't just trees anymore. That had blended into human form looking at me through tears, fraught with age. As if to say that I betrayed them by abandoning them in their last days. All I could do was move my hands reassuringly over their weary trunks to convey how sincerely I wanted at that moment, to relinquish everything and play a game of hide and seek under their shades. The saplings that my father had made me plant then, had grown into handsome young trunks decorated with enviable branches and lush leaves. I felt content with what they looked like. Finally as tired birds returned to their abodes on their higher parts, I felt glad that my trees are not lonely after all. On the way back through the clustered lanes of my old residence I saw the temple from where penetrating conch shell sound used to wake me up early every morning, its purity demystifying the anxieties of the night and where God's deity alone knew my deepest yearnings all through out my adolescence.



I returned with dusk but not before having "Dahi Vada Aloo Dum", the customary spicy Odia delicacy. (I've always considered it Odisha's answer to Chinese Fast Food for which it was my regular breakfast / brunch during college days.) And not before realizing that I've not gotten over and probably never will get over the love for my hometown. It's where I was born and became the person that I'm today.

Childhood

I miss my childhood

Where no one was shrewd

All played all day

And aside worries lay

I miss my childhood

When everything felt good

Except when the exams came

Leaving play felt so lame

I miss my childhood

When life wasn't so crude

Even when told a thing or two

I forgot 'em as if they weren't true

I miss my childhood

When joy was life's food

Nothing else mattered

Except when friendships shattered

I was told to grow up

And I did what was tough

Bidding adieu to purity

Leaving behind incorruptibility

Many moons have shone since

The day when I dreamt becoming 'Prince'

Now I'm told to join a race

Running a pointless chase

Good were the days when I could cry

For I can't anymore even if I try

All that well up within

Remain under a cloak so clean

I miss my childhood 

When nobody told lie

When to be happy

I didn't have to try.

Village

The evening throbs as if a surge                                          
Of unspoken feelings on their verge
The satin night crawls far & wide
Melting everything hitherto in sight                         

The bamboo vines whispering lullabies
In chorus, sound like gentle seas
Mortal forms vanishing into nothing
Their footsteps & signs sans lingering

As I toss & turn on the cot
My head chases a single thought
Born of the faceless jingle
That do their job & hastily mingle

My sleepless eyes stumble upon
The starry pond where fireflies spawn
The million glints from their burning
Provoking an unearthly craving

Crew of crickets join for a supper choir
Their tunes tearing from beneath every layer
Melodious than the greatest known tune
Into every note rhapsody strewn 

The tender breeze rising from the banks
Of the distant river breaking ranks
Reassuring my sand ridden hair
Infusing a delight so delicate & rare

I'm captive of a perfumed whiff
Born of some mystic leaf
The many hued flora kneading
Charismatic musk seething

I forget I was born in the lights
I forget all the pointless fights
I forget every mirage to which I clung
I forget my need of a city, far flung

I move over the worthless addictions
I find refuge from haunting afflictions
I feel strain forsake my nerve
I feel the return of humane verve

I sleep on my back
Looking at the soulful dark
Watching countless questions at sight
That I dodged in the bright

Then, like the ardour of lovers,
Like the embrace of mothers,
Like the ageless sage,
Begins to etch in heart, my village


                 

                                                

Gone

Where are the sunny days gone,
Why have the frivolities become unknown,
Why I can't relish my days
Despite the countless ways


Why have the birds stopped singing
Where have they been flying
No flutter of wings I hear
No kissing beaks saying "Love You Dear"


Where is the smell of earth gone
Why can't I feel it being born
When the rain comes lashing
And answers our praying


Where have my mates travelled
The lure of the abstract they no more marvelled
In some distant village they found 
Among strangers the reason for an abode


Where have the waves of the sea gone
In their company why I feel alone
Why can't I feel my heart beating
Nowadays when I see beauty walking


Why today I have to try
To stretch my wings & fly
When I used to be air borne
Since the day I was born


Why no more I dance to music
Why do memories make me weak
Why do I remember futilities
Why am I n't pulled by galore gravities


Where is that thrill gone
That never left my heart alone
Where did it die
That I now live with a lie


What has become of me
Things no more, I can touch or see
If they say they're still there
Why then, do they escape my stare?




                                                                                  - Anupam

My Grandfather's Bicycle

(This poem is a tribute to my grandfather's  bicycle which I always rode when I was a kid. But as I grew up, I could not find any use for it, hence it stood  "leaning on the wall", in our backyard for many long years before it was finally sold to a junk dealer. I regret not having cared for that one thing which was a source of great joy to me during my childhood. 

It depicts my lament with an undertone as to how man usually forgets long treasured things upon meeting new found indulgence.)


There it stands leaning on the wall,
On a simple touch it shouts a call,
Be not deceived for on days sunny and in the rain,
It carried me through throngs thick and plain

I stole it from under its master's eyes,
And rode it all right after a dozen tries,
It never let me use my feet,
Carried me to distant meadows and friends in need;

The neighbourhood brats always on a chase,
But it'd fly with me and top every race
Though many came and challenged to win,
We always rode ahead and clean

I was never nervous in a race,
For I knew it'd surely top every chase,
It got me rid of the school bully,
And I held on to it so dearly

It risked all and let me have my way,
It smiled through pains and bumps I gave it night & day,
Cried and complained it never
It rolled over wounds and seemed to go on forever;

My lures changed and I moved on,
To newer rides with flashy horn
Never looked back on that thing so slow
So what!, if once I begged for it bendin' low;

It had left its master & to me it clung close,
It went on, no matter what I chose,
Only to see that one day I'd leave it
To stand alone and get covered with dirt

My heart's in a race all the time
Seeking bliss and pleasures sublime
But the one who gave me those tastes first
Now wears a coat made of rust

It has no hopes I can hold,
Yet it dreads the day when it'd be sold
It has no illusions any more,
I've achieved to make it feel unwanted to its core

No one bothers anymore to recall,
How once it stood by us in our chores big and small
'T's okay if it's forgotten by its people,
After all it's just my grandfather's bicycle.


                                                                                     - Anupam

The Waiter's Son

Sourav and Alok decided to go and have lunch one afternoon in  "Lajjat", a popular restaurant of their city. Earlier that morning, Sourav had spotted an advertisement of that restaurant in a local daily which read "Come & Enjoy the 'Pakhala' Festival. Before any further is written about this story, its imperative to know that the 'Pakhala' is a local cuisine of the state of Odisha and very popular too, especially in summer. Its humble constituents are rice submerged in water. However the assortment of dishes that are picked with 'Pakhala' make it quite an unputdownable delicacy. A quintessential serving of 'Pakhala' can give its consumer an ultimate satisfaction, both in his tummy and taste. Sourav and Alok shared their appetite for 'Pakhala', for which it barely took any persuasion on the part of Sourav to convince his otherwise home food loving pal for a satiating treat of their favourite dish not prepared by his mother. Maybe the urge to eat "Pakhala" in the dehydrating summer heat had also some role to play in it.

At around fifteen past one in the afternoon, Sourav honked his bike horn impatiently at Alok's residence. Alok rushed down and soon they hit the road to "Lajjat" the ever crowded, ever sought after eatery situated at the heart of Bhubaneswar. When they reached there, they found, to their sheer frustration, half a dozen guests in the lounge area, already in the queue. Alok threw himself at the door and opened it slightly just to take a peep and he was greeted by the hustle and bustle of pervasive chatting at the crowded tables, incessant clinking of the spoons and forks as they were being eagerly glided over ceramic dishes with some faint familiar music humming in the background. The scrumptious mixed aroma stole its way into his nostrils further stirring the already ecstatic hunger enzymes inside him. He just left the door to shut by its own and walked back to his friend who from the look on his face guessed that 'Pakhala' had just been wiped off their fates. The grand wall clock adorning the plastic painted walls of the lounge area read two and by all means when their turn would come "Pakhala" would be out of stock. He remembered the advertsisment from the local daily and recalled those tiny words after an asterisk sign which had warned that guests would be served only on "First Come First Serve Basis". A dismayed Sourav sighed "May be tomorrow."

As both stood gaping at the abstract design of the restaurant's name inscribed on the building, they heard someone whisper "Sir" from their behind and instantaneously turned around. They saw a man, in about his mid fifties, short in stature but stout, with an uncapped pen stacked behind his right ear earnestly looking at both of them. He wore an uniform of white shirt, bow and black trousers. His shirt's collars and cuffs were starched yellow indicating relentless use of it due to lack of choices in his wardrobe. His stubble was in the process of greying and from his disheveled hair it could be discerned that he was past the age where eagerness to appear presentable and smart mattered supremely, unless of course other factors of life dictated otherwise to one. He easily stood out among the staff of his fellow waiters who appeared invariably below thirty years of age and much better suited up to the occasion. He was an oddity in that flashy restaurant. The communist in Sourav was glad that this poor man had not been sacked for being a mismatch in the pristine display of the restaurant. 'Experience surely has some value'  Sourav reassured himself. "Yes ?" asked Alok. The man informed both the friends, in a perfected mannerism unique to the workforce in the hospitality business, that he could arrange a seat for them to enjoy their "Pakhala". Sourav instinctively enquired "How do you know that we are here for "Pakhala" ? The man gently replied in a calm tone that he had noticed Alok keenly investigating the banner which displayed the tariffs of dishes served in the "Pakhala Festival". The three of them smiled and Alok expressed his gratitude on both their behalf and thanked the man. He courteously asked him his name and the man said 'Naba'. 

They were led by Naba to the table No. 14 as they grinned at each other. It was a table for two at the farthest corner inside the restaurant . The cool air flowing out of the air conditioning machines soothed their crying skins. At the table, Naba pulled one of the chairs and Sourav alighted on it. Sparkling clean water was poured into their glasses for which they thanked Naba. After a brief discussion on the supplementing dishes to be purchased besides their common order, a final list was scribbled down by Naba. He melted away into the crowd, promising to be back within ten minutes. Sourav was marvelling at the ritzy interiors of the restaurant when Alok began to grimace in realization of the fact that they had been lured into a very well laid trap. He went ahead and notified Sourav that he should be now ready to fork out extra cash to return Naba's favour. He did not discount to add his knowledge about rapacious servers in such sprawling eateries, who are on the hunt for unsuspecting foodies, with the sole aim of grossing that 'little extra' in lieu of smartly staged favours. Not happy with such unwarranted cynical expression, Sourav seethed "A modicum of gratitude would do you no harm brother, habit of profiling would." "How do you know that he has 'staged' his help ?', he continued with emphasis. 'Wait and watch' shot back Alok. Sourav chose better than arguing with his friend.

The food arrived in exactly ten minutes. It was indeed very sincere of the restaurant to stick to the printed commitment made by it on every menu card which read "Please bear with us for at least ten minutes to serve you your Order." Now, the restaurant could easily choose to hide behind the term "at least" which had been cleverly placed in the statement. Rather it had chosen to be earnest in its effort or so it seemed. Naba and his colleague placed the small dishes of the assortments surrounding the main attraction. It looked like an arc with the bulgy 'Pakhala' bowl in the middle surrounded by the tiny dishes  in a picture perfect style. Alok had already begun devouring his lunch, even before Naba had left to attend other customers, making all kind of sounds which one is not expected to make while eating, least of all, while eating at restaurants. Naba flashed a warm smile at Sourav and said "Sir, I'll be at that corner" pointing at the billing counter, "Just wave if there's anything you need" and walked away. Sourav began with his food. He started to take small pinches from each dish and put them to his tongue, a habit sheltered since his childhood. He smiled approvingly and submerged himself in the delicious depths of "Pakhala". He kept consuming continuously for a considerable stretch without even raising his head. Exhausted with the marathon gulping,  he began throwing random glances at adjoining tables and their occupants. All of a sudden he caught a glimpse of Naba, who appeared to be caught in a heated communication with the manager. Sourav immediately waved at him pretending to be in urgent need of  his services, with a latent motive to rescue him. Naba came rushing to their table and gasped 'Yes Sir'. Sourav delicately began to inquire about the matter and came to be informed by him that a complain has been made before the Manager that he had been inattentive to requests which had been placed much prior to that of Table No. 14's. Enraged at the blatant display of disregard a couple of customers had decided to walk out but not before formally complaining to the manager. A surprised Sourav immediately verified the truth of the allegations to which Naba confessed that he had indeed ignored their requests in order to accord preference to the servings at table No. 14. It was hard for Sourav to not let perplexity creep into his expression. He  gently asked "Why ?". "Better prospects I guess" Alok mumbled mockingly taking time out of mashing the potatoes inside his mouth. When Sourav looked back at Naba after frowning at Alok he had already retired to his usual spot.

Trying to figure out the motives of Naba, Sourav continued eating. Just about the time when they were finished and ready to leave. They heard a commotion outside, in the lounge area. Naba was also not standing at his usual spot. Done quickly with the payment for their lunch, both Alok and Sourav rushed outside. They saw two men clad in flashy attire raining down on Naba and the manager. 'Now what ?', Sourav though to himself and walked forward. He heard one of them yelling "What kind of pathetic restaurant is this, where you don't honour the table reservation made by customers ?..." Alok stole away a staff who was witnessing the stand off and asked him what has happened. He informed Alok and Sourav that Naba had given them the exact table which was reserved for these two gentlemen, who are regulars to this place. Naba was quietly standing there swallowing all the fire. But given the circumstances, the man was not without fault. The manager intervened and said "Sir, please come inside. Your table is now available." indicating that the trespassers had left. As soon as they entered inside the restaurant, Naba joined Sourav and Alok and offered to see them off to their vehicles. As they were crossing the street Sourav was quickly making an assessment of an adequate compensation for all the trouble the poor man had tolerated for accommodating them. Alok continued to nod his head sarcastically. 

When they reached near their bike, Sourav forked out two hundred rupee notes and shoved them into Naba's hand hoping he'd not be expecting more. Naba unfolded the crispy notes and put them back into Sourav's shirt pocket, blessed both of them and walked back to earn his livelihood, probably praying that he does not get sacked over the incidents of the day. Sourav stood speechless trying to fathom the last half an hour of his life as Alok put on his helmet and inserted the keys into the ignition slot. At this time, Sourav saw another waiter walking out to unwind as he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Wasting no time, Sourav rushed to him and after narrating the whole string of events, requested him for an explanation . With a wry smile the waiter spoke "Sahib, Naba has been working here since its inauguration day, sincere and loyal barely complaining about anything. Naba's son came here once to meet him at the restaurant over some urgent matter. I remember seeing him happy after they sat down and discussed whatever it was. He also introduced his son to all of us. His name was Baldev and he was a Junior Engineer, recently employed by the State Govt. He was so proud of his son., it glittered in his eyes. He also treated him, that day, to his favourite dishes. When Baldev took our leave and both of them walked out, we followed them to see him off. He pleaded with his father to return back to his work and promised to take care of himself and started to cross the road." Pausing for a moment the man continued "The next thing we see is that Baldev is crushed to his death by a speeding lorry. The rogue didn't even stop to look back on what he did. Naba's twenty four year old son breathed his last at the spot, right before his eyes. Not a day passes when Naba doesn't regret working at this place. But Sahib, what choice a poor husband has. He has no chance of an alternate employment at his age and his present employment pays for his wife's medical bills.". He paused again, a little longer this time and continued "On that fateful day, Baldev had come to inform his father that the Govt. has approved his loan application for two lakh rupees for his mother's operation." Sourav had no strength left to query about the woman's exact ailment. The waiter's mate summoned him to attend to the swelling crowd of guests inside. He took Sourav's leave and started walking back. Mid way he stopped, turned back and exclaimed softly "Sahib, the whole staff is talking about how similar you look to Baldev, just like his mirror image !!"

Sourav saw two lads mounted on a bike, fly past him, screaming their wits out and the rider driving without holding the handles of the bike. He let his gaze follow them till they became ants caught in the shimmering summer air far away. The last words of the waiter hung in his mind just like the obstinate winter mist of the hills.

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("The Waiter's Son" is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person (alive or dead), place or incident is only coincidental.)