Lores of Heart

The Lores of Heart

CoMPIleD by
Samadrita Ghosh
Samadrita Jana

Acknowledgement

We are eternally grateful for the opporıunity to
be first time compilers and exıend our platforN accordingly.

We thank our parents, ƒiends, family for all that they
have made possible till now in contributing to our success;
and also to all the souls we cross paths with in life
knowingly or unknowingly.

We thank Notion Press publication for bringing
forıh such possibilities for so many of us to put our
stories forward.

We would like to exıend thanks to all of the co
authors ofthis anthology for being patient and kind to
us, for encouraging and supporıing us every step of the
way; without all of you, these stories have no place.

We are very grateful to Pakhee Prasad for
reaching out and helping us in everyıhing whenever we
needed, for her constant supporı till the end. A huge thank
you to Amiritha Varshini S, for designing and curating so
beautifully the cover of the book. We are grateful to
Tanupreet Kaur for her contribution in designing and
managingthe cerıificates.

Thank you to all the readers, you make our words
worıhy.

COMPILERS ON BOARD

Samadrita Ghosh & Samadrita Jana
Friends since eArly High School yeArs, these two hAVe
AlwAys been fAscinAted with the world And life And the
people who inhAbit it. Their feelings, their stories, their
emotions hAVe mesmerized them And time And AgAin,
they hAVe found themselves wondering And
empAthizing. Being Authors themselves, they respect,
Adore And encourAge others to open down their
thoughts And pour their heArt out - A meAns to tell the
world their stories. "The Lores of HeArt hAs A speciAl
plAce in our heArt. We witnessed so much through our
Authors on boArd. They Are beAutiful minds And it wAs
An honour to work with them."

PREFACE

"That'ç ¢Ge ¢ßing obout bookç. TG¤ç Get yoG
ƒroy¤G çi¢hout moying yo⁄r feet." - Jß⁄Gpa
Loßiri, TGe NoGesohe.

TGe Loμeç ¢ Heak aߤGptç to Cring toge¢G¤r a
gro⁄p ¢ µeoμGe ond giye ¢G¤G a μlatforG, a
comfok çG¤μe ¢G¤ir Geak'ç confesyionç loç. IL
yu⁄h a fast-moying woçld, it iç g⁄itte ¢tt¤L
¢hat 4e forget o⁄r3¤Gyeç iL ¢Ge Gidst ¢ oGG ¢Ge
noi3e. At ƒiGeç, 4e gront o⁄r3¤Gyeç ¢Ge µeaGe
ond g⁄iet ¢ ¡ust ¢¤ing o⁄r y¤rç oçL 3¤Gyeç,
¢¤ing comfoflo¢Ge iL çho 4e wont to ¢e ¤y¤L
i) for a tt¤Gpororç μeyμitte.

Tßiç booh oimç to Cring toge¢G¤r oGG ¢Ge3e
y⁄iμµetç, ¢ bif¤μ¤nt moG¤ntç lost iL ƒiGe
ond G¤morç. It iç a coGGecƒioL ¢ μro3e ond
poeƒrç µ¤⁄⁄ed doçL Cç µeoμGe conston¢Gç
ƒrμing to ¤yμloμe ¢G¤m3¤Gyeç }G‡G¤rmoμe çho
hoye coGe toge¢G¤r to μut forword ¢G¤ir
Gindç ond Geaflç into ¢ßiç.

CONTENTS 1
4
➢ The Lady with BrightBlue Eyes 7
AbhijnAn SenguptA 11
16
➢ Alice
AbhijnAn SenguptA

➢ In this Moment You Feel
AbhishiktA BhAttAchArjee

➢ The Bus Ride
AfrinA Ahmed

➢ Where Do I FindMy Bliss
AindrilA ChAkrAborty

➢ When She Withered Away 18
AindrilA ChAkrAborty
20
➢ It’s 3 a.m. 22
AkAnshA BiswAs 25
26
➢ Him and I 28
AkAnshA BiswAs 31
36
➢ Utopia 40
AnkitA SAhA
43
➢ Autumne
AnkitA SAhA

➢ Kali

AnushkA GAnguly

➢ Museum of Memories

AnweshA Dey

➢ Philia

AnyeshA MitrA

➢ B’sherı

AthirA MurAleedhArAn

➢ Gaze Through the Hearı
BAtul TAsneem

➢ Effervescent 47
ChAitipArnA BhAttAchAryyA 53
54
➢ Moonchild 56
DebolinA BiswAs 59
61
➢ The Cries
69
DebolinA BiswAs 71

➢ Ashes to Ashes and Dust to Gold
GurpriyA Kour MArwAh

➢ Star Dust
GurpriyA Kour MArwAh

➢ Leuing Go

IshitA ChAtterjee

➢ I Love You Because…
KAmAlikA DAsguptA

➢ Calcuua – My Woman

Kousumi BrAhmA 74
➢ Anthology 76
78
MAmAtA DeepAk VerlekAr 83
➢ Beads and Nightshade 85

MeghAmAlA Ghosh 87
➢ The Last Vow 89

MrittikA DAs
➢ Dear Daughter of Mine

NAiritA SAmAjpAti
➢ The Hollow

NAiritA SAmAjpAti

➢ 2 Days
NikitA NAir

➢ The StorN
NikitA NAir

➢ Fairyıale 91
NilAnjAnA BAnerjee 93
95
➢ Lap of the Sky 98
NilAnjAnA BAnerjee 99
101
➢ The Colour ofher Hearı
NishA HAlder 104
106
➢ Fade
N. SihhAh (RhyeA ShAh)

➢ Keep Shining
N. SihhAh (RhyeA ShAh)

➢ My Blue Diary
PAree Punnj

➢ The Street Light
PAree Punnj

➢ The Misunderstood Slyıherin
PAromA Dey SArkAr

➢ Love 111
PrithA Dey 114
116
➢ Strong Mercy 119
PriyAnkA BhAndArkAr 123

➢ Silent Steps
PriyAnkA BhAndArkAr

➢ A Map of the Soul
RAjoshree SinhA

➢ To One of My Greatest Inspirations…
RupkAthA DuttA

➢ Musings of the Soul 126
Ruth BAnerjee 133
135
➢ The Forever Tree
SAhil Sk

➢ Euphoria

SAmAdritA Ghosh 142

➢ Tacenda 145
147
SAmAdritA JAnA
115
➢ Photographs 154
SAnjeevAni Sen

➢ The Mind’s Noise
SAnjeevAni Sen

➢ Fireflies
ShAlini BhAttAchAryyA1

➢ Flightless
ShAlini BhAttAchAryyA

➢ An Awakening 156
Shinjinee BAsu MAllik 161
166
➢ The Beginning ofthe End 168
SohAm PAl 171
180
➢ The Devil Does Cry 182
SoumyA Roy 185

➢ Pain
SoumyA Roy

➢ Aditya weds Nayna
SourimA PAl

➢ Interplay of Darkness and Light
SreyA SAhA

➢ Scribbled Thoughts
SreyA SAhA

➢ Cerulean Skies and Unsaid Goodbyes
SrijAni BAsu

➢ LeuerstoNowhere 187
SrijAni BAsu 190
193
➢ The Courı of Emotions 195
Srotosini AchAryee 198

➢ Alternate Reality 201
Srotosini AchAryee
203
➢ Hush Baby Girl
Sruthi Ajit 205

➢ मेरे ªये लE कt Pिेतमे
TAj GAngopAdhyAy

➢ Lumière Du Jour
TApAtyA BAsAk

➢ Betrayed
TApAtyA BAsAk

➢ Depression
TiyAAshA AchAryA ChAudhury

➢ The Yearning for Momentary Bliss 20
UtsA Roy 9
215
➢ Empty Promises and Broken
Hearıs 217
VAishnAVi KulkArni

➢ My Polaris
VAishnAVi KulkArni

Co-ou¢hor’ç
De3h

Abhijnan Sengupta

Abhijnan is an undergrad student who happens to be highly
opinionated and political. He likes to read mostly about history,
philosophy and political theory but it is not a barrier to his long
wish list of books that he wants to read. Writing down
whatever words come to his mind has been his coping mechanism
since long as it helps him to detach from the semi-dystopian
world every once in awhile.

1

The Lady with Bright Blue Eyes

The path smelled of cherries,
The wind felt sublime.

As I walked down the road,
Under the bright moonlight!

And there she was, mountain's girl-
Lying in the lap of night!

I held my breath, I drank my wine
To the lady with bright blue eyes!

She's a queen dressed as a human
Her crown as vast as the sky!
Her eyes as deep as the ocean,
She's warm as a summer night!

So I wrote her a poem and,
I sang her songs of love!

2

As I sunk in her passion-
Divine as the heaven above!
There where the burning hell,

Does cease to exist-
And there where the heaven lies,

Etched across the sea.
I shall dive into those waves,
To rest in your eternal bliss-

As your summer fades,
As winter falls upon me.

3

Alice

Dear Alice, it’s been a while.
Oh how I wish I could freeze the time!

No compromises you say?
See, from the edge, it seems okay-
To have a shot, before you dive deeper.
Look out for dreams, in case they reappear.

It’s still okay, take your time.
Weep a little, drink your wine.
And before you know, the sun is spawned.

Oh, such a beautiful dawn!

So smear your face,
With the warm sun rays.
An aureate dawn, so rich and regal.
So mundane, yet so ethereal!
If you hear the voices inside your head.
It’s a daydream love, time to leave your bed.

4

Step out of the dreams, you’d feel tranquil.
Bide your time, until the darkness spills.
“Another night! Another night!”
Your face turns pale, you let out a sigh.

Fill your void with cheap beers, And in case they fail,
you could send your prayers.
And the lights turn dim.

Calm your mind, sing your hymns.
And if into the void you plunge-

Don’t worry love, the storm will pass.
Your cries for help, won’t be in vain,

Dear Alice, I’d write to you again.

5

Abhishikta Bhattacharjee
She hails from Kolkata, India and is currently pursuing a
Bachelor's Degree in Zoology from the University of Calcutta.
Her hobbies include reading, singing and a little writing. She's
obsessed with Rabindrasangeet, Frank Sinatra and Louis
Armstrong. She is a history enthusiast and has a dream to become
Robert Langdon's partner incrime.

6

In This Moment You Feel

Close your eyes. Stop for a moment. At this
moment you are not here. Right now you are lying down
on the fiery orange floor of a forest in autumn. You are
looking up at the bare branches of the trees snaking
through the blue autumn sky. All you see are pieces of
blue and white, large and small, of different shapes fitted
onto a canvas like a mosaic. You look around. All
around you are these orange leaves, once green, now
strewn across the forest floor. They don’t tell sad tales.
They don’t sing sad songs. Even they shine in the little
sunlight peeking through the clouds. Even the bare trees
stand tall in the hope of a green spring. There is silence
everywhere. Not a soul to be seen but you. Not a
heartbeat heard but yours. At this moment you are at
peace. I’m not done yet. Don’t open your eyes. The
orange and blue has faded away into a white; slowly,
gently. Yes - very slowly, very gently.

Now, you are in a car. Doesn’t matter who else
is. The window’s open and you are peeking out through
it. Wind in the hair is all fine. But have you ever felt the
warm, honey sunset on your skin? In the distance are
purple hills and above them a lavender sky. The road’s
open. It’s a winding path down a hill. The car stereo is
blaring out, “God knows, God knows I want to break
free.” You are swaying a little to the tune while
immersing yourself in the sunset and so are the tufts of
grass by the road. For it’s true – the song. At this
moment you are free.

7

Wait! Don’t open your eyes yet! The purple
sunset gets lighter and lighter. You’d think it turns pink,
but no – a splash of green takes everything over by
surprise. You wake up to the sound of rain splattering on
the window sill. You go to your window. The sky is
ashen; the green below, exuberant. You stretch your
hand outside the window. The rain is warm and cold at
the same time. It splashes on you, the little drops of
water trickle down your skin and send a shiver. The
perfect day to do nothing and everything. The perfect
day to sit by the window and listen to old songs. The
perfect day to immerse yourself in stories you have
heard since you were five – stories of ghosts, princes and
queens, of castles, of magical lands.

The perfect day to reminisce about old days, of things
left unsaid, of silent stares and of what could have been.
In this moment, you feel something called hiraeth. We’re
almost there but I notice you haven’t opened your eyes.
The ashen sky suddenly turns blue.

The rain stops and sunlight comes flooding
everything in sight. You find yourself in bed. You have
just woken up. Your groggy eyes take a while to adjust
to all the light. They find the curtains swaying in a soft
breeze. The potted plants in your balcony are bright
green. Your geraniums are in full bloom. It’s a spring
morning. You look at the numerous books lying on the
checkered floor, the old gramophone which needs
dusting, the shelf which needs to be reorganized. But
you are in no hurry.

8

Your eyes drift to the numerous pictures on the
large wall by the dusty gramophone. Pictures which tell
stories. That’s what this is all about isn’t it? Finding
stories, gathering stories, living in them or maybe
weaving your own, for a change? But most importantly
it’s about keeping a small part of that story with you,
making it a part of you. You could spend your entire day
like this- lost in these stories. You go to the balcony.
You see various people going about their business- the
baker next door arranging fresh bread on the shelf, the
paperboy going swiftly on his bicycle, the little girls in
uniforms on their way to school. Can’t you weave a
story about this? This sunlight? This checkered floor?
The dust on your gramophone? The mess of books on
your floor?

The smell of bread in the air? Your geraniums?
Maybe you’ll name it- “The Story Where I am Happy”.
Because you are. You remember the time you lay down
on the forest floor in autumn and felt peace, the time you
rode a car into the purple sunset and felt free, the time a
rainy day made you homesick for a place you never
knew existed. And now this. This spring morning and
everything that came with it. This meaningless happy
feeling. Yes, at this moment you are happy for no reason
at all. Do you want to open your eyes?

9

Afrina Ahmed
The writer's name is Afrina Ahmed. She goes by her pen name,
Miss Affie .She is currently studying Sociology Honours
in Maulana Azad College, Kolkata and hails from the city of
joy, Kolkata. She has been writing since the age of 9 years.
Afrina is a published writer and has served as the co-author and
compiler of many anthologies under various publishing
houses. She is currently working with pages such as
Penholics (as a creative writer and Editor for the English
department), Entangled Tales (as the Head of Writing
Department, as a creative writer, photographer and PR)
and the Inked Square (as a creative writer).

10

The Bus Ride

Being a college student,
Was never a matter of relaxation.
The times when our parents would say,
"Beta abhi padhai kar lo, college jaak itna padhna nahi

padhega" was something we
were all fooled by.

Waking up early in the morning,
Getting ready for college and coming back home almost

like a zombie was
something I became used to.

Bus rides were no fun,
Buses in Kolkata were always packed with people.

My class timings,
Clashed with the office hours.
Nonetheless, the buses would always be overcrowded,
Only when luck would favour me, I could find myself a

seat.
I had to follow the same old routine, every single day,

What a monotonous life it was!

11

Music was my only companion during these boring
rides,

I'd often have to stand while traveling because seats
were pretty much preoccupied
by the time I would climb in.

The bus was overcrowded that day,
There was not much space to stand.
People were sticking to one another,
None could help the situation either.

I felt disgusted,
The fact that people were sticking to my body, did make

me feel uncomfortable.
I had no other choice,
but to stand in that position for a good forty-five

minutes.
The bus came to a stop,
I tried to squeeze out and get down.
The conductor retorted,
He didn't let me move.
I was annoyed for sure ,

12

Felt a little humiliated too.
Soon, things started to take a weird turn for me,

I went completely mute.
He kept touching me here and there,
He brushed his sweaty hands on my chest.
I didn't know what had just happened with me,

Did anyone else see?
I felt insulted,

As though, people would misjudge me.
I was stuck in the situation,

I could not move, nor could I understand what just
happened with me.

The bus finally halted,
I brushed aside everyone and stepped down at once.

It took me a while,
To contemplate whatever happened with me during this

short ride.
I felt weak, I should've taken a stand for myself and said

something in my defense.
I didn't know how to react,

I was too lost for words.

13

I still travel in public transport even now,
This time, far more alert and observant about whatever

happened with and around
me.

I know I couldn't take a stand for myself back then,
Doesn't mean I'll do the same once again.

I know people will judge me for not speaking up for
myself,

but hey, I'm still glad,
I'm doing just fine, all by myself.

14

Aindrila Chakraborty
Aindrila Chakraborty is an avid reader who loves exploring
various works of literature, an aspiring writer, a passionate
artist and a relentless dreamer. Books and music are the part and
parcel of her life as they have been a perennial source of
inspiration to her opening up to her the portals to ineffable
destinations. She is currently a student pursuing her bachelor’s
degree in English.

15

Where do I find my bliss…

Where do I find my bliss…
I find my bliss in that impish little ant

breathing through torment
relentless, undaunted

while walking through vicissitudes.

Where do I find my bliss…
I find my bliss in the agonizing chilly bites of the wintry

breeze
searing through the sinews of my soul

rejuvenating, invigorating
the numb veins of my lifeless stupor.

Where do I find my bliss…….
I find my bliss in the inundating whirlwinds of silence
While drawing in several puffs of thoughts and blowing

them into nothingness
Contemplating, words weaving

16

The tenuous tapestry of meshed hearts.
Where do I find my bliss…

I find my bliss in the senile dilapidated ruins
suffused with steadfast ivy and verdurous moss like

death shrouded with life
withering, the wane glint glimmering

on the seared cracks of existence.

17

When she withered away...

Her blossoming, dazzling petals
Electrified the entire ambience.

Her bewitching beauty
Summoned the ceaseless clamour

of the buzzing bees
Restless to savour her nectar.
Her unparalleled splendour,
Her magnificent radiance

Set her apart
From the rest in the bouquet.
But she withered away in the callous clutches of

oblivion.
Putrefying…
In ignominy…

18

Akansha Biswas

Ever heard of someone who is crazy, inquisitive and shy at the
same time? Akansha is the name. She loves flirting with words
and making up scenarios. If imagining stuff were a job, she
would be a billionaire by now! And oh, she's an otaku which is a
cherry on the top for anime watchers!

19

It's 3 A.M.

Last night, I had a dream
A beautiful dream where I saw myself in your eyes,

With a look of longing and love
, And not a gaze of sadness or cold as ice.

Last night, I had a dream
A dream where we gazed long into the horizons,

Holding our hands,
With a tug of smile at our lips as the comets showered

by.

Last night, I had a dream
A dream so real that it wanted me to make stop time,

A dream from which I wasn't ready to wake up,
A dream where we found peace and togetherness in each

other.

Last night, I had a dream

20

Where everything was impeccable,
Just because I had you
By my side.

21

Him and I

And then one day, you left.
After days of making memories filled with fun and

laughter,
Love and promises that were to be kept after,

You left.

I knew we were falling apart,
But I tried to hold on cos' you were my hiraeth.

Only to realize
That in the end, it will break my heart.

Was it easy for you?
To become strangers like before,
And stop talking and finally accepting the fact,

That we were no more.

Our love was ineffable and there was no "forever".
But I gave my all,

22

However, it's still a mystery to me,
Was it infatuation for you or did you really fall?

23

Ankita Saha

Ankita Saha, a student of English, a literature and art enthusiast,
began writing at a very tender age. She believes in imbibing
education, learning new things everyday and imparting the same
with a ray of sunshine. She writes to express and not to impress.
Her writings mostly emphasize on, include and incorporate ardent
emotionsthat hide inthe depths of the humanmind, wherethekeen
desires of the soul are at play. Poetry is the love of her Love. She
has her heart set upon becoming an impactful and influential
author. Ankita is a professionally trained dancer who moreover
takesaverykeeninterestinmusicandpaintingaswell.Apart from
being a teacher, a photographer, an art curator and an editor of her
college magazine, she has worked for several pages, production
houses, initiatives and institutions on and off media, as a script
writer, content writer, creator and curator. She can be found
@flawed_pitunia on Instagram.

24

Utopia

Let ..
Theatres be your Chaos,

Books your Wave,
Coffee your Warmth,
Vanilla your Crave,

Music your Jam,
Windows your Cave,
Heaven your Muse,
Aesthete your Rave

Poetry your Drug,
Art your Grave.

25

Automne

Amidst Trees ..
And Walls of Concrete ..

Lies a Universe ..
Full of Sunshine ..
Deep in Melancholy ..
With Blooming Faces ..
Of The Merry and The Dead ..

And ..
The Colours of The Oblivion ..

That Lie Still ..
Wrinkled and Withered ..
Hovering and Fading ..

But Staying Over ..
Living and Breathing ..
To form the gloom of the Fall.

26

Anushka Ganguly
Tiny soul scurrying through life harbouring an insatiable love for
stories. Part romantic, part cynic and entirely clumsy. Extremely
gullible to old school wooden swings and brownies.

27

Kali

The drama seeps in as the clouds bring in a
gentle drizzle. A dimly lit park, a bit damp green beneath
the feet, wooden swings of course. Bit of old school, bit
of romantic, anytime a clear cut win over the glazy blazy
mirrors and spotlights screaming to promise you real
faces but in the process blinding you a bit more. Straying
a bit from the topic are we, a little distraction so next
comes a thud as a limp pot-bellied grey haired body hits
the grass and comes to a stagnant still. The irony of how
the most intimate places give the scope for a perfect
crime.

No, it can't be gruesome of course, heinous god
no, apparently impossible for a twelve year old in a pink
printed frock, the unfortunate soul, the sole witness to
the episode. The pink bowed ponytails doing the delicate
yet perfect job of masking the venom which had spurred
and flared in her veins with every unwanted caress,
muffled scream, horror and pain of actions she couldn't
even comprehend. Of every time she'd pleaded to be left
alone but had been dragged to the very park, her
repertoire of traumas. Of every time she had cried to her
mother because she couldn't understand why it was
paining. Of every time she had just hushed her, asked
her to bury her memories claiming them to be bad
dreams. So she just went on with her nights, keeping the
everyday drunken quarrels at bay with tiny feeble hands
desperate attempts to lock out the thrashings and abuses,

28

after all every happy house gets their own radio to doze
off to.

Sleeping was never the aim, all she needed was
to get through to the quiet, dark stillness, when the
drunkard had passed out, ma fallen into a slumber tired
from raining tears. Just to let the night in, because for
once someone embraced her as a part of their own as the
night melted into her dark skin like it had been waiting
for her to come home to it all day. The darkness had now
seemingly bred into her a rage seeing no mercy. An easy
crime to change it all, an advantage of the careless
regular to bring him to an end he always deserved. It
shouldn't be surprising for him to have his insides burnt,
god knew most of him had been rotten since the day he
first walked the face of earth. Her only prayers that the
attention and the enquiries of the helpless adolescent
took their minds off the missing vials of acid from the
school lab. Wouldn't have been much of a trouble to slip
some into the steel flask of whiskey he carried as a
companion to revel in the exploits of the youngster.

The heavy drinking through the years had already
weakened his systems enough, it was like all they were
asking for was the gentle push to throw it over to the
other side. She always knew she and her Ma were better
off alone. It was just that ma had always been too weak,
like all the times she had dragged her to the temple to
atone for her daughter's impurity and ask for forgiveness
and a peaceful night. As for her, she always knew, she
only bowed down to Kali for a reason.

29

Anwesha Dey
Found in silent corners with a book and cup of tea when she's
not studying literature or watching Woody Allen films or
writing Sylvia Plath poems on sticky notes. Also, she makes an
effort to post regularly on social media about her eccentric, little,
mental trips and turbulences.

30

Museum of Memories

A childhood warmth. The lazy sun drooling slowly
through the wooden windows of the ground floor, at our
house at Begampur. Thhamma weaves a bright crimson
sweater and tells me a story, from ‘Thakurmar jhuli’. I
put my tiny head on her soft, cottony, white lap and
gradually fall asleep, with two heavily oiled pigtails. The
sunrays shine on the glass of the wooden wall shutter,
forming long shadows on the plastered white walls. The
story stops. Thhamma puts me to sleep and continues
weaving.

Seasoned in the lattice of early adolescence, comes
memories of afternoon strolls and merry mischiefs.
Didia and I, run around our whitewashed house, go
cycling past the pond and the bare bricked walls, sneak
out to the coconut gardens and come back, plucking
dahlias and lemons from the courtyard. Didia is six years
older than me. She talks to me of her dance classes, her
tight bras and the one who winks at her geography
tuition. We sleep on a wooden chauki, our vaselined legs
put up on the silvered window rails, and we smile and
cuddle each other. Later we listen to Arijit Singh, crying
hand in hand and watch Bollywood movies - Ashiqui 2
or Barfi.

All of us grow up in bits and fragments. I'm of Didia's
yesterage now. Didia is not always at home these days
when I go for holidays. The afternoons are lost. I sit
alone, in my dead Dadu's room, recounting the
honeycomb of old times. Dadu used to talk of the three

31

big framed pictures in his room,- Maa Sarada,
Ramakrishna Deb and Swami Vivekananda and used to
recite and teach me Tagore. Dadu made me mug up and
understand Debatar Grash on such passing afternoons.
Everything comes back in a difficult but colourful
kaleidoscopic view. I write on a leather notebook.
Stories of the lonely crows and goats and coconut trees.

There's a humongous pressure from school and
tuition these days. I can hardly go to Begampur. I go on
a Friday evening and am back to Kolkata by Sunday. I
don't cry on the train or on the rickshaw while coming
back anymore. By the time I cross Dankuni, I'm already
thinking of tomorrow's packed schedule. But my heart
still jumps in leaps and bounds each time I cross
Rajchandrapur, just how it did ten years ago. Didia
comes back from college. Friday evenings pass
beautifully. The house is renovated. The kitchen is wider
and has more light and modernity. Didia cooks delicious
stuffs, homemade pizza and brownies to paneer
paseenda and chicken korma and I chat with her sitting
on the marble cabinet and pass to her salt and turmeric
and sugar. Later, at night, we spend sleepless nights. I
tell her about my crush and stuff I write in my diary. We
discuss love, heartbreaks, and growing up. Sometimes,
in the middle of the night, we argue and cry. Later, on
Saturday afternoons, we sing together, our favourite
Rabindrasangeet and wear our favourite white sarees of
Thhamma. We have hardly grown up.

32

I'm in college. Didia goes to the office. Thhamma
is bed ridden. Our parents are getting old and there are
diabetes and heart attacks and gastric issues and severe
rheumatism. We hardly have time for one another.
Sometimes, we call. Didia tells she seriously loves
someone and is marrying him. My childhood excitement
circulating her forbidden feelings is gone. I merely
congratulate her, being more interested with the dress
and jewellery. Didia gets married one winter evening.
The entire house is ornamented in coloured clothes and
fairy lights and marigold garlands. There are flocks of
people. I watch her on her big day's afternoon, in Dadu's
room, and she looks beautiful. Her mehendi clad hands,
her shimmering gold and her soft pink taant and the
yellow glow of marriage on her fair skin, the sunrays
filtering through the window mesh and glittering up her
deep black hair, I cry a little. Later in the evening, she
looks stunning in her vermillion benarasi. After she gets
formally married, and her hair parting is saturated with
vermillion, I wink at her and show her a lemon plucked
from the tree we plucked from, as children. We both
laugh.

I go to Begampur, sometimes, now in the dead
silence of December afternoons. I wrap myself in my
khadi shawl and sit on the maroon cement seat before
the blue door in melancholy, watching the sun shine on
the apex of coconut leaves and gradually fall to the
rippling pond water. I look at the books beyond the wall
shutter, and at the wooden chauki and the three big
framed photographs. I look at the big shadows on the

33