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About Sumita

Sumita considers herself as a writer for all reasons. She has written most of her adult life starting with a book of stories at the age of eleven. After an unsuccessful attempt to get into journalism school Sumita fell head first, into advertising copywriting and that started an affair of a lifetime (at the risk of sounding a tad cheesy). Today Sumita is a not so lean and mean writing machine displaying capabilities in many styles. Check out the offerings on display and do get back to her with your feedback and requests for writing work - sumita@sumitachakrabarty.com

Tired thoughts riddled with stray emotions

By the time I heard the story from P it had already curdled at the edges. The tiredness of it made it even more unappealing and insipid. But I was determined to laugh through it and enjoy it. Seemed very much in keeping with my sentiment of the day which closely resembled something I had read some months ago – if you live in the actual world you can’t have your own way. That about summed up my feelings when I heard P’s story, which like most of his other stories had the feeling that it was about to come apart at the seams. And that if he laughed hard and emphasized enough it could somehow be held together.

The evening was kinduv sortof gathering speed. T’s cackles lacerated the night air with their hard-edged desperation and C was just being herself, languid and bilious every time she imagined a slight. I nursed a tepid glass of wine, which in keeping with the general mood was less wine and more a statement.

‘Who makes a statement with a glass of cheap wine’, M remarked when I had described it all to her. She said it in her usual sweeping manner which brooked no second opinion. I had to agree. But that evening it did seem more like I was making a point.

By the time the evening was cruising along at a steady pace AR showed up and it was like somebody had slammed on the brakes. AR deliberately wore an air of intrigue. It always seemed like he was on the verge of divulging a secret and yet what he ended up saying was overwhelmingly ordinary. He was doing the same thing even now. He had walked through the doors staggering under the weight of his unsaid secret expecting everyone to wait with bated breath for what he had to say. Instead he found a roomful of people with other thoughts to explore and conversations to take forward. It was a moment that hit him hard and he chose to deal with it by walking up to the nearest person and saying out aloud, ‘what the hell is this’?

It was one of those moments that everyone remembers differently. I distinctly recollect that I had just scooped up some salsa with my tortilla chip, hand hovering near my open mouth while my ears took in the words. My brain had already absorbed the statement but had failed to pass it on to my hand. The tortilla chip found its way into my mouth. B told me, months later, that he found my nonchalance, stunning. To this day I’m not sure if it was meant to be a compliment. But then again, if it sounds like one and feels like one then it must be one. So I accept it the way it was, as a compliment.

The loud statement did nothing more than put a temporary brake on the overall momentum of the evening. AR was back to looking like he had to spill his guts while M walked up to him and scraped a seductive nail down his arm hoping that it would be the perfect catalyst. Was it effective? For that and more tune into this another time when I have more idle thoughts to share!

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