Tomorrow - Today - Yesterday

I believe (a personal one!) the way one laughs changes over time. And that the change is proportional to the experiences of life.

Last Sunday one of my uncles visited me. Though I was meeting him after a long time but he didn’t seem to have changed at all. My uncle always laughed like a child; without any inhibitions and straight from his heart. The surprise? He still laughs like that. If I tell you about his life then your definition of ‘bad luck’ would certainly be pushed. But I won’t do that as it will dilute the intention of this particular post.

All I want to share is what he told me when I asked him how he still manages to smile in his life-is-beautiful manner. This is what he said, “Even if Tomorrow is the most gorgeous woman on earth I don’t fantasize about her. If Today is the girl I love the most but I know I can’t get her I still live it to the full and not stop mid-way. And if Yesterday is the first crush of my life I, at best, remember her but never miss her.”

God bless him!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Awaazein

Dum lu bhi toh kaise,
Khwabo mein aana ab tumhe manzoor nahi.
Tumahri aawazo ki sui si chubhan zinda rakhti hai mujhe.
Bechani meri suhagan hai,
Sukoon meri vidhwa.

Haqeqat se jannat ki dooriyon ko
Zindagi kaha karte the kabhi.
Unki aawaz ki gaaliche main let kar
Sadiyaan paar kar lete the kabhi.

Bachpan mein khilono ke tootne se
Hum ro liya karte the kabhi
Ab khilone tootte hai bhi toh kya?
Bahano ke bazaar se waqt milta hi nahi.

Rok nahi sakta mann ke darwazon se
Beete waqt ki roshni ko, magar.
Aaj aur kal ke ek room ke flat mein
Andhera kayam rehta hai abhi.

Bhool jau bhi toh kaise,
Zindagi ka sweater chota lagta hai abhi.
Tumhari awaazo ki rui se dabkar
Neend aa jati hai kabhi.


By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Mobile Phone

Last week one of my cousins bought a suave new mobile phone. And Jesus, was she hyper about it? All through the week she kept exploring its features to the maximum (postponing her dinner at times!). But this week she didn’t seem as interested and excited as she was when she just bought it. When I inquired she said, “Oh, I already know all about it.” So that’s it, I thought. I’ll probably see her hyper-self again when she lays her hand on another set.


I think there is a latent lesson in relationship here. And the more I thought about it the more the answers to what makes a relationship click or bleak grew on me.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Fault

A young boy, walking – quite rightly – on the footpath was transformed into pulp in a matter of seconds by a car driven by an alcoholic out-of-control rich brat.

It was a normal newspaper report I came across recently. This boy paid the price because someone else was drunk driving.

When I lay on bed that night I thought how many times it has happened to me. I did things the way they should have been done and yet paid the price because some alcoholic out-of-control brat (God?) rammed his car (destiny??) onto me squashing my hopes and will into pulp. I mean what else the boy could have done if not walk on the footpath?

And the question – whose fault was it – continues to remain unanswered in my mind.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Yun Hi...

Bheed-Bhaad ke pahado mein,

Khamoshi ban ke ghoomta hoon.

Takrata hoon beetein palon se,

Aur,

Ek gehri saans ban ke barasta hoon.

Dil ek Qabr hai.

Samjhote ki mitti se,

Jahan Dafan hai laashe;

Uski, meri aur humari…

Dosto ki mehfil mein,

Tanhai se mulakaat hoti hain, aksar.

Hum bhaitte hain ghanto

Aur,

Dard ka shagun baatte hain.

Dil ek Kahani hai.

Haseen shabdo ke beech,

Jahan chippi hai kayi Kashmir jaise lamhe;

Uski, meri aur humari.

Hassi ke pardon ke peechein,

Jab waqt fizool nikalta hai,

Tum mujhe sulana chahti ho?

Aur jab wohi waqt ek barf ban jata hai,

Tum mujhe rulana chahti ho?

Khushiyon ke oonche buildingo ke beech,

Ek kharab si lift ban ke rah gaya hoon.

Na upar jane ki taakat baki hai,

Aur,

Na neeche jane ka koi maksad.

Dil ek bebas Jism hai.

Har kone mein jiske giraft hai,

Intezaar ki ek Mahek;

Uski, meri aur humari.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Yaad Aayen

Zindagi ek gale ki kharash,

Aur tum, adrak ki chai.

Bukhaar ke dino main,

Mathe par bheege rumal ka rakhna...

Jeena jaise ghanton ki bhuk,

Aur tum, ma ke haath ka khana.

Umeed ek chori ka samaan,

Aur tum, Diwali ki mithai.

School ke dino main,

Har din hajri dene ka mazhab...

Honsla ek ad-jali si mombatti,

Aur tum, sukoon ki neend.

Pareshaani ek daravni si parchayi,

Aur tum, shaadi ki shennai.

Ruksat ke dino main,

Gehri neend se achanak jag uthna...

Mann ek thaka hua musafir,

Aur tum, hawai jahaz ka udna.

Maut shaam ki ek local train,

Aur tum, baagiche main khelte bachche.

Mulaqat ke dino main,

Waqt ka bewajah fanaa hona...

Main sirf ek guzarta hua lamha,

Aur tum…barso ki yaari.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Thank You !!!

THIS SEPTEMBER 'A Thing Beyond Forever' COMPLETES ONE YEAR !!! A HEARTFELT THANKS TO ALL MY READERS...!

Hum Bichchre The

Aankhen band karta hoon, nami ban ke chedhti ho;
Aankhen kholta hoon, duniya ban ke chidhati ho.
Saans chodhta hoon, behoshi ban ke chah jati ho;
Saans leta hoon, zevar ban ke zindagi ki bahon ko sajati ho.

Yaadein saap ban ke lipti hain...
Pairon par, kamar par, haatho main aur wahan...
Jahan koi zaher asar nahi karta.
Shayad maut bhi nahi.

Dard Ganga naha chuka hai.
Dil Namaz padh chuka hai.
Sawaal ka jawaab sawaal se kyon deti ho?
Intezaar bhi toh pyar ka ek saya hain.


Khule main sota hoon, kabhi toh falak se nunhe-munhe khat ban ke barsogi.
Un Khaton se bheeg kar dooriyaan mitengi toh nahi
Lekin,
Sapno ke tikhe sharbat main beetein mithein din zarur ghul jayenge.



By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Choice

I REMEMBER...

Once in my third standard a boy was punished for stealing another student’s chocolate. The teacher had asked him to stretch his hands. He did. In one he was holding onto the half eaten chocolate while the other was open. The teacher boxed his ears and hit the open hand hard with a stick. And still the boy had smiled.

I HAVE REALIZED...

Whenever life gives us a chocolate in one hand it simultaneously hits our other hand hard. And it’s our choice (simple?) what we want to focus on: the pain generated by the stick or the pleasure of getting a chocolate.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Rest Is History

As he ran for his life the past unfolded like an old dusty carpet on the courtyard of his mind.

Morris Black was better than most at almost everything. That is, only when he actually tried to do something. This was one black spot in Mr. Black’s otherwise white personality – he was an incorrigible laggard.

When he realized his parents wanted him to take on farming, like his previous fourteen ancestors, he felt sick from head to toe. He simply couldn’t stand the thought of staying on the field all day long, under the sweltering sun, denying himself the chance to revel in his rambling reveries. Thus, one day he ran off in search of a job that would offer ample rest.

Within two days of his arrival in the neighboring village, he knew he had done the wrong thing. Survival, on one’s own, was surely tougher than he had anticipated. Time and again his mother’s voice haunted him.

“Don’t be that lazy son. Do something!”

“But mother I want to lie down and sleep. Is anything wrong with that?”

“Everything is wrong with that. This life, that God has given us, is an opportunity to do what one wants to, in a constructive manner. And opportunities are like shooting stars son; every one doesn’t get the chance to witness it. If you are lucky enough to see a shooting star then you better make use of it! It’s because man was clever enough to hold on to such shooting stars that the world hasn’t yet been a bog. So work my darling.”

“Isn’t there any magic wand with which I can become a better farmer than father?”

“There is, it’s called hard work son.”

“But mother…”

“Shut up and go join your father in the field.”

Hunger, they say, is the mother of direction. In Morris’s case, what began as an urgent reaction to hunger soon became his vocation. He started stealing food from different houses in the early hours of the day. This was the best survival tactic according to him as he not only could sustain his life but also keep his eighteen hours of daily sleep intact.

As time stripped the days, one by one, from its overwhelming figure, Morris mistook the calmness of his life as an omen for a happy life ahead ignorant about the fact that the butterfly of happiness sits on those who smell of sweat. But by the time reality rehearsed him about it, he found himself doggedly chased by a mad crowd.

And as he turned back the past became as insignificant as an old wrinkled face. The present took over…

His legs could take no more. Acting intelligently Morris ran up to an apple tree in the distance and before the crowd could notice, he hid himself behind it. The crowd kept running and soon they passed by the apple tree. Morris let out a sigh of relief. Suddenly something hit his head. He looked down first – it was an apple from the tree – then he looked up. The fruits seemed tempting. He carefully climbed the tree and started plucking the apples one at a time. After he had gathered enough he wished to come down when he saw a man sitting below. He wasn’t aware of his presence till then. Morris stealthily climbed down but not before accidentally dropping one of his fetched apples. It hit the man on his head. Caressing his head, the man picked up the apple from the ground. He kept staring at it. By then Morris had climbed down. And as he did the man looked at him for the first time.

“I was taking few apples for my children.” Morris lied in a casual manner. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No I don’t mind for that’s not important. What’s important is why did the apple fall?”

“I need to go. I am getting late. May be one day you will exactly know why the apple fell.” Morris said with a hint of mockery and left the place in a hurry.

Mr. Newton wasn’t bothered though. He stared at the apple trying to figure out the reason behind the fall. He was sure to make use of this shooting star.

The rest, as we all know, is history.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Peephole

Since her marriage to Nikhil, a year back, Sheetal’s favourite, and only, hobby involved turning herself into a self-talking gossip magazine.

The posh colony in Ballygunge, where she lived with her husband, had many dwellers but none with an overt socializing instinct. Thus trapped inside the three-bedroom flat, all day, her eyes kept making notes on the diary of her sub-conscious from whatever she could see from behind the curtains of the myriad windows in the flat or the spacious balcony or standing behind her best friend – the peephole on the main door.

And lying idly at night, beside her always-tired-after-work husband Sheetal used the notes to prepare a collage of a fantasy world.

Her current collage work, though, concerned her neighbour, Mr. Bhatt. His wife, on Sunday, had gone to her parents’ place for a week while he was supposedly bed ridden with viral fever. But on Monday Sheetal’s peephole helped her see a fit and excited Mr. Bhatt opening the door to a woman clad in a saffron sari with a matching blouse and a neatly made bun.

“Who is she?” Sheetal wondered.

Four hours later when she saw the woman leave adjusting her dress indecently Sheetal reframed her query.

“Who the hell is she?”

Her mind scripted all sorts of stories each with the tarka of a typical daily soap but it was while returning from the market on Tuesday evening she knew exactly who the lady was.

It’s Mrs. Sen! She was wearing the same saffron apparel. But she has got two kids and a husband. Her senses felt a forbidden tickle. That’s the eligibility criteria, I guess, these days!

On Wednesday, Sheetal, with a journalist’s instinct, waited for Mrs. Sen to arrive. And she did! Same time, same dress. After half an hour Sheetal decided to defy her patience. She went to the kitchen, took an empty cup, walked up to the main door and opened it slowly.

She looked around. There was nobody in the corridor. A quick glance at the elevator’s indicator told her it was on the ground floor. She took one deep breath and proceeded towards Mr. Bhatt’s flat.

At first she only placed her ears on the door. No sound. Then something. Rocking of a bed? No, falling on the bed. No, rocking of the bed for sure! No, nothing really. Sheetal pressed the calling bell once. After few silent seconds there were urgent footsteps following which Mr. Bhatt opened the door. He was perspiring copiously and breathing a tad faster than normal.

“Oh! Sheetal.”

Is his face exhibiting a caught-red-handed expression?

“How can I help you?” He asked.

“Sorry to disturb you but I ran out of sugar. If you could-”

“Yes-yes. No worries.” He hastily took the cup and closed the door.

He closed the door! On other days he requests me to come inside. All her doubts were crowned with conviction. He is having an extra marital.

On Thursday, after her husband went to office, Sheetal fast motioned through her daily chores and waited impatiently by her door. The woman came – again same dress, same time. Doesn’t she stink? Sheetal thought and immediately dialled Mrs. Sen’s number to confirm.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Bakshi?’

“Wrong number.”

“Sorry.”

What the hell? She is at home, Sheetal wondered, that means Mr. Bhatt and Mrs. Sen aren’t having an affair. She sulked. On an impulse she decided to go to the security. There she checked the visitor’s register. The name read: Mohita Jain. Not from this colony, she thought.

On Friday Sheetal’s indomitable curiosity pushed her to be more daring. And she once again took an empty cup and approached Mr. Bhatt’s flat. This time I won’t let him close the door quickly. But before she could press the bell her eyes fell on the door knob. It wasn’t locked properly. Wetting her dry lips she pushed it gently. The door slowly opened up. She rubbed the perspiration off her forehead with the lose end of her sari and stepped in. She was about to call out to Mr. Bhatt when she heard some vulgar groans. An instant lump formed in her throat. Should she call out his name? Or should she simply run back to her flat? Eventually the voyeur within her won.

With the gait of a cat she carefully ambled towards the bedroom unsure about her endeavour. And as she peeped into the room she saw the saffron sari scattered on the floor, the blouse, petticoat, undergarments, a white trouser, vest, a wig and finally on the bed, she saw, Mr. Bhatt riding her husband.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Staircase

Yesterday, after a long time, I used the staircase (usually I take the elevator – I am damn protective about my couch potato status!) to reach my flat. The moment I landed my feet on the desired floor I turned back and looked at the staircase. I impulsively counted the steps in my mind: nine in total. My look became a stare and I started naming them one at a time. The names, starting from bottom upwards, are as follows:

STEP 1: Loss. [It often is sudden and when you are least expecting it.]

STEP 2: Pain.

STEP 3: Tears. [The time between STEP 2 and 3 is the quickest.]

STEP 4: Realization of purpose.

STEP 5: Preparation. [Nick names: Struggle, Hard work.]

STEP 6: Meeting with Assholes in the garb of a Saint. [These big time losers are there only to make you smarter. So cheer up!]

STEP 7: High octane Insult. [Nick names: Failures, Heartaches, Challenge and the like.]

STEP 8: Indomitable Stubbornness. [Many people stop here because of exhaustion.]

STEP 9: The Ultimate Goal.

Once you cross these nine steps then – Voila! – you are at a place which your heart called and soul recommended as Home!

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Deep Sleep

Questions were asked, Answers denied;
I slept, slept and slept.

Darkness transpired, Light expired;
I slept, slept and slept.

Winter arrived, Spring passed;
I slept, slept and slept.

Dreams blossomed, Hope suffered;
I slept, slept and slept.

Happiness knocked, Wounds hollered;
I slept, slept and slept.

Songs were sung, Tears oozed;
I slept, slept and slept.

Love happened, Separation followed;
But –
On the bed of Arrogance,
With the soft pillow of Ignorance,
I slept, slept and slept.


By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Font Size

I chose to tell stories not because I was in a habit to do so since childhood. A catapulted result of a cavalcade of bad luck (causing incomparable and ineffable internal suffering) had eventually helped me to meet and express the real me.

And whenever I ask myself about the significance of suffering (as in what I gained by it) my within repeatedly comes out with one answer: you were always what you are. Suffering only increased the font size of your innate belongings just to the limit so that you can understand and express them well.

Really well.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Address

His Heart

C/O Her Heartbeats

First Sight Villa,

Sleepless Nights Avenue,

(Landmark: Tears Tower and Internal Pain Shop)

Phone Call Block, Weekend Date Building,

14, February Gift Lane,

Right turn from Trust Crossing (Away from Break-Off Cafe);

Opposite Flirt Market.

In front of Honesty and Care Salon.

P.O: HUGS & KISSES ; DIST: RESPECT

LOVE STORY – 2009

United Soul for Marriage.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Zeroes

When he told his father the truth – he failed in the second unit test as well – his father took him to a restaurant. Why? He was clueless.

After they placed the order his father took out a pen and placed a paper napkin on the table. The boy watched him write on it.

“What is it?”

“Zero.”

He wrote something beside it and asked, “What is it now?”

“Zero again.”

His father looked at him for a while and then wrote on the napkin again.

“What is it?”

“One.” The boy replied looking intently at the figure on the napkin.

“What does it do to the other two zeroes?”

“It adds value for its one hundred now.”

“Good. The point is, son, never be afraid of the zeroes in life. Even after an innumerable number of zeroes a ONE is always possible which might alter the figure of your life to your liking. The important thing is,” his eyes riveted on the boy, “Keep up the hard work going.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Coordinates

The solid hug they gave each other almost made up for the years that kept them apart.

“Gosh! Its ten years since we last saw each other.” Exclaimed one of the two.

“Eleven, to be precise.” The other one corrected.

“Oh, doesn’t matter. Now we’ll be in regular touch. So, tell me what’s up? Hey did I tell you I am going to join IIM, Ahmedabad this summer.”

“Great news. Congrats.”

“Thanks. What about you?”

“I am a struggling actor.”

“That’s alright. But what are you doing in life?”

“I told you.”

“Struggling actor? Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Dude, thousands run after the glamour but only handful of them survive. Get yourself a job first and may be then-”

“Have you ever seen a star studded sky?”

“Why, yes.”

“You may like the star just above your head or the one in the right or to the left perhaps but you got no right to question why the star to the left is in the left. I believe the point of our living is to find the coordinates where we know we belong and respect it irrespective of whatever difficulties or humiliation we encounter.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

The Dove and the Eagle

“Why shouldn’t I cut someone else’s throat to snatch what I deserve? Why shouldn’t I be blatant about my needs? Why shouldn’t I cut the crap of decency and get straight to the point instead? Why shouldn’t I simply be a predator? Why shouldn’t I push the other in the crowd to get to my prize? Tell me mom, why shouldn’t I?

His mother thought for a while and then replied, “Have you ever seen an eagle?” The boy nodded. “Have you ever seen a dove?” The boy frowned but nodded again. His mother continued, “An eagle can fly much higher than a dove. Much higher! It’s fiercer than a dove too. Anytime! And being an eagle may surely help you fly higher than high in your life but in the end, my son, people only admire a dove. For - doesn’t matter its limitations - it’s a dove that inspires love in the hearts of people. And it’s the image of a dove that stays on, in a pleasant way, long after it’s gone.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

GUILT

Gopi was destiny’s illegitimate child. And apart from his distant dreams he only had a father who, presently, needed an urgent heart operation.

Gopi, in his quest for some money, knocked at Mr. Sharma’s house where his father worked as a gardener. He, in his own sugar coated words, denied to give any money. Gopi was upset but the moment his eyes fell on the exquisite flower vase kept on a table beside the couch his desperation peaked. He asked for a glass of water. The moment Mr. Sharma disappeared into the kitchen Gopi went straight in and grabbed the vase. He wanted to put it inside his bag when Madhuri appeared in the room.

She was Mr. Sharma’s only child and, perhaps, used to live elsewhere for Gopi had seen her only once before. She was sitting by a window and he was working with his father in the garden. And one look at her made him connect to that portion of his soul where all the will to fight life lay.

Gopi was taken aback seeing Madhuri in the room. He didn’t know she was there at home else he would have never attempted such a mindless act. He immediately loosened his grip and kept the vase back on the table in haste. Gopi didn’t even dare to look into her eyes. He simply dashed out of the house dressed in utter shame. From now on, his within hollered, his first love would know him as the boy who tried to steal her vase. As a thief!

Seconds after Gopi went away, with the snake of guilt around his conscience, Madhuri called out to her father, “Papa, would you please bring me my dark glasses and the stick. I want to go out for a walk.”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

Just A Thought

Little Mickie was with his best friend, Chickie. It was evening time and instead of playing cricket outside they were in his room playing Scotland Yard (a detective board game).

“Hey,” Mickie said, “yesterday I saw my dad shouting at grandpa.”

“Really? Your grandpa means your dad’s dad, right?

“Ya.”

“God! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shout at my dad.”

“Same here. I couldn’t believe it.”

They continued with their game. Outside the room Mickie’s dad, sitting idly on the couch, happened to overhear the conversation. As a child even he used to shudder in front of his dad. Perhaps more than his own son did in front of him.

Looking out pensively at the evening Sun, through the window, he realized: nobody dares to eye a noon Sun. But when the Sun is half into the lap of horizon…

A shadow of remorse, soon, blanketed his conscience.

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY

RACE

Officially N wasn’t racing with C but unofficially they wanted to beat each other. Both were on their top gear and no streak of time witnessed either of them going past the other.

As they approached yet another traffic signal N slowed down seeing an old woman cross the road while C recklessly zoomed past her.

By the time N picked up his speed the signal had already turned red. He reluctantly slowed down, again, watching C drive away showing him a thumbs-down.

The speed was almost the same…my concern was justified but still I got stuck at the red signal and he…N sighed with disgust.

Waiting for the signal to turn green he wondered, “Does the colour of the signal, in the end, decide the outcome of every race?”

By: NovoneeL ChakrabortY