Sumita – Page 3 – Sumita Chakrabarty

MIRROR IMAGE

INTERIOR of an apartment. LIGHT is streaming in through a NARROW window with frilly curtains that look DRAB. The light is throwing patterns on the floor. Highlighting patches where the hardwood floor has peeled off.

There is sofa-bed/couch in a corner UNMADE, some clothes heaped on it.

ARUNA walks into the room.

BACKGROUND: Sounds of a bathroom flush going off.

She heads for the UNMADE COUCH. Clearly, she has just come out of the bathroom.

She’s about five feet four inches tall with a pear-shaped figure. Her body language is INTENSE. Even half-asleep she seems like she’s ready to SPAR.

The corners of the room are dark. Full of unrevealed SECRETS.

ARUNA lies down on the pile of clothes and murmuring to herself settles down to sleep.

There is a slight sound of a CREAKY floorboard. And then NOTHING. But she continues to sleep, undisturbed.

INSIDE THE ROOM –

The camera pulls back to reveal the rest of the room. There’s a table and chair in OKAY condition. In another corner is the kitchen area, also as untidy as the rest of the room.

The CAMERA continues a slow tour past the open bathroom door with a frayed mat in the front. The walls of the room are an insipid shade of grey-blue.

And then it comes to a STOP in front of a MIRROR with a wrought iron border from where some trinkets and tassels are hanging.

There’s something a little odd about the MIRROR. As the camera moves past it something catches the eye.

The camera RETURNS and we see someone move away quickly. We barely catch a glimpse.

ARUNA moves and snores a bit in her sleep. The camera almost CREEPS up on her. She’s sleeping on her back, one hand thrown out and one hand resting on her chest. On the floor near out-stretched hand is her mobile phone. The light on it is flickering showing the time –

14:58 hrs

And then the phone RINGS. An abrupt staccato sound which comes in short, frequent bursts that seem to ERUPT from it.

At first, she barely stirs. Yet the CAMERA stays focussed on her RELENTLESSLY. She mumbles in her sleep. Gives a giggle.

The camera stays focussed.

The phone is still ringing.

And then her eyes OPEN. The slightly unfocussed look gives way to a look of comprehension. Her hand reaches towards the phone.

The PHONE is still ringing and just as ARUNA’s hand reaches for it and swipes on the answer icon SOMETHING reaches out and swats her finger away.

“Aaah”, she shouts in surprise and irritation.

The camera barely lingers on her angry expression and turns to FOCUS on the tall mirror. A barely visible SHADOW enters the mirror.

ARUNA turns around and goes back to sleep.

*********************************

NEXT DAY – Early morning. The same studio apartment.

ARUNA is up. She pulls back the curtains. They are old and a bit TATTERED.

Something falls out of the FOLDS of the curtains. It makes a tiny tinkling sound. She picks it up.

It’s a small Halloween mask, about two inches tall. There’s something strange about it. The eyes are not hollow spaces. It seems like they’re looking back.

Aruna gives out a tight little SCREAM and then walking to window she THROWS it out.

****************************************

RUBBISH DUMP

The Halloween MASK falls there. The camera moves CLOSER to it. And CLOSER. The MASK is just lying there, on the trash. And just as the camera is moving away from it, the eyes BLINK!

My fate…it’s blowing in the wind!

I realized one windy morning while looking out of the balcony that the ‘something’ which whizzed past my face with an angry buzz was my fate. Thankfully it was a good day and I could quickly reach out and grab it before it could fly away.

There’s nothing more annoying than having your fate fly in your face. Okay maybe there’s something else – having your fate fly away and as you reach for it what you grab by the ends of your fingers is a piece of bad luck that got dislodged. And if that’s all that you end up getting, boy, are you in for a bad summer.

That day when I could luckily grab the entire chunk of my fate I figured that I was in for a season of power and prestige just like the polished faced people on those TV shows which meander their way across a decade. Instead I found that having your fate tightly in your sweaty palm means nothing more significant than probably an abundance of loose change when you need it most. Or maybe some meaningful one liners in your fortune cookies.

The night of the fate catching I dreamed that I was by myself on a wind-kissed, sun drenched, white sand heaven with warm seawater bubbles tickling my toes. A happiness barometer dangling nearby showed an off the chart reading. Clearly, I was in heaven. But fate was not supposed to take you to heaven. It was supposed to be on your side helping you as you charted uncertain times, I thought. And as I was thinking this I opened my fist and let go of it.

I woke up with a start. My fingers were unclenched. Damn, what had I done? I had an opportunity to hold on to my fate and here I was, fingers unclenched. Thankfully I was not too superstitious, otherwise I would’ve spent the rest of my life bemoaning my lack of fate.

I have learnt that…

I have learnt that the maturity which comes with experience and wielding responsibilities increases the tensile strength of your emotions and your capacity to absorb stress and most importantly, deal with bullshit on a daily basis.

That when my eyes and lips don’t say the same thing I’m definitely lying.

That looks do matter and at the same time an old T-shirt and ragged shorts can make the person you really care about look like a million bucks.

That the heart sees and knows everything. The gut is highly over-rated.

That sympathy, kindness and patience come with an expiry date.

That innocence can linger around in your eyes and smile long after you think it has left you.

That you’re at peace when you accept yourself – warts and all…with a smile and a shrug.

That very few people really deserve a place in your life.

The dragon slayer

As a family we’ve in the past been bold wayfarers and finders of opportunities in distant lands with no hesitation in leaving behind complete lives if there happened to be such an event. Like every good story mine too begins in the days of yore. I love that word, yore. Conjures up images of bearded tough men wearing armour and slaying dragons. My family’s dragon slayer was Nityananda Chakrabarti and he was not so much slaying a dragon but fleeing one, the Bengal famine of the 1770s. The district of Birbhum where he lived was caught in it and leaving his home seemed the only solution. The famine which left a scar on the history of Bengal, was the reason why even generations later we continue to call ourselves East Bengal folk.

Nityananda was a rebel. In those days rebels wore the traditional dhoti and their attitude on the lapel of their crisp, white kurtas. His father Pandit Rajeshwar was an orthodox Brahmin who taught Sanskrit in a school. For him it was a calling, not a profession and he wanted his children to follow in his footsteps. And he was both vocal and unequivocal about it. Nityananda respectfully declined and in a show of how strongly he felt against it, learned Persian and some English so that he could converse with the masters – the British East India Company. The result was almost instantaneous, he was appointed Revenue Collector in the hill districts of Chittagong (now in Bangladesh), a British protectorate. It was a position that commanded unquestioned loyalty and tremendous respect, attributes that are extinct in many parts of the world, today.

Chattogram, the Bengali name for Chittagong has been flowing through our veins since then. There is general misty-eyed look that my father and uncles adopt each time the name is mentioned. Considering that they have never lived there, I wonder why. I suppose the answer lies in the many stories told over generations of the rich soil, the ponds full of silvery fish and the clean air of the town of Rangamati where Nityananda had settled.

The benevolent Raja Harish Chandra Roy was Nityananda’s employer and he took notice of the young Revenue Collector’s extraordinary intelligence and capabilities. The Raja was credited with moving his permanent residence to Rangamati from the plains of Chattogram. But for him, Rangamati would not even have found a footnote in the Chakrabarti annals. The young rebel was promoted to the position of Dewan, i.e. Chief Minister by the Raja. These appointments could not be done arbitrarily, the permission of the British administrator was essential and so my illustrious ancestor became an officer of the court.

The British administrator who was responsible for this was Captain Thomas Herbert Lewin, a man of, I’m guessing, excellent intellect since he has published books on the hill tracts and its people. However, Nityananda did not think so since there were regular clashes between the two men which even resulted in the latter filing a lawsuit against the administrator in the Calcutta High Court. A truly audacious move by a brown man.

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!

Shadows, memories and that nagging thought that refuses to go away

Shadows have always intrigued me. The ones that I encounter when I turn a corner are usually the friendliest, almost benign. The annoying ones are those that follow me around and slip away just when I turn my head. Occasionally, just to up the ante they leap out fully formed from my head ready to wrestle down other more productive thoughts so that I’m left wondering, what just happened? And then there are those that show up in the mirror. Turn around and they’re gone!

The ones that linger around are usually memories pretending to be shadows. Like my memories of my third grade teacher who used to mock and reprimand me so often that my feelings would curdle up inside me and then stay on as a sour taste in my mouth all day. To this day, the shadows that bother me the most are square and dark and of medium height.

My imaginary friend Vouz (I pronounce it wooz), tells me that shadows are really us in a parallel universe. Since our conversations are usually one way I don’t know much about this idea, but the thought does indeed, sound very plausible. Since they’re made up of our thoughts and memories, what else could they be? Maybe in a parallel universe I continue to be tormented by a square and dark person or go on picnics with pleasant gargoyle like character. Ever since that thought has found acceptance within me I find shadows less bothersome….annoying yes, but nothing more.

But what really gets me and I just can’t seem to shake it off is that elusive thought that keeps gnawing away at the edge of my mind without revealing itself. I can’t swat it away and it just won’t let me hold it up to the light long enough for me to see what it is made up of. Memories? Disappointments? Unfulfilled dreams? Really…what is it and why won’t it let me see it properly? The day I grab it by the scruff of its neck and shake it hard will be a good day. Shadows are much easier to deal with, unlike pesky, malformed thoughts.

A vivid shade of Italian

My first truly golden sunset in Italy was the one I saw from our room up in the craggy hillside of Amalfi. I had climbed over 200 steps huffing and puffing thinking after the 121st step that my heart was going to leap out of my body and run away to find a quiet place to rest. Instead, I carried on taking one brave step after another till I reached the room and my world turned golden. The sunset gently kissed the waters of the ocean leaving them tremulous with myriad emotions. How could it not be that way? The sunset had barely glanced my way and I was smitten. Italy arouses emotions and passions that are always 200%….never less.

The cobbled streets of Florence are strewn with vividness. Turn a corner and you’ll encounter your 320th stone cathedral (they come in all sizes) in a particular shade of nondescript. Your curious eyes want to see it so your feet follow and then…boom…the vivid colours hit you. And as your sense scramble around trying to take them in you’re filled with one overwhelming feeling …can life really come in so many shades of vivid?

Pisa was grey and rainy. The real leaning tower was much smaller than it was in my head. I thought that only happened with people you have looked up to before meeting them, but clearly that was also the case with architectural marvels.

Siena’s gets into your bloodstream and makes you go languid and relaxed till all you want to do is put your mind away in your purse and shut it tight. No pesky thoughts to interrupt as you sip your wine and soak in the straggly beams of sunshine forcing their way through muscular clouds.

The Cinque Terra blue has a vividness that makes every other colour seem a little frayed at the edges. The blueness extends across the five little towns that share the rugged coastline and its aquamarine ocean waters. Every square inch of sky attached to it has surprises in store as it goes from coy pink to angry grey or mellow yellow. The palette is never ending.

Rome has attitude. The kind that walks up to you, sticks its face under your nose and demands that you take notice. No waiting on the sidelines for your attention…oh no. The vividness disappears in the glare of the lights but surfaces occasionally as you walk past a marble cherub’d exterior and comes to life within the magnificent walls of the Vatican. The sheer brilliance of the gilded ceilings and walls where heaven and hell meet in an explosion of colours is an experience in vividness that is beyond compare.

Sometimes all it takes to celebrate life and living is to walk through the colours, soak them in and let them take you on a rendezvous. The memories that come of this rarely fade and if you allow yourself to go back to them from time to time, they stay vivid.

Grief is two-toned but happiness has many shades

The colours of joy are many. Just as there as many words to describe the feeling. My friend Dee even has an expression called mellow-joy. And she uses it from time to time. I suspect it is mainly because people always stop mid-sentence to ask her “Mellow joy? What’s that?” She loves that, because it’s quite apparent from the way she uses it that it never has one singular meaning. Really annoying!

But if you fall off the cliff of happiness into grief then it is always two tones. Gray and bluish gray. Nothing more. And when the haze of grief lifts, the world is bathed in pastels. Bright colours can occasionally be spotted in the distant horizon, but it is too much of an effort to get there. Strangely however, in my dreams grief has an overtone of yellow which makes it bearable. My pop psychologist friend Dee of ‘mellow joy’ fame, thinks that it is my way of dealing with the problem without coming apart at the seams.

I recall something that my mother used to say when I was little, which would help me cope better. She would say that we all have an extra muscle in our hearts which gets stronger and goes dhakaa dhak…dhakaa dhak every time we feel sad or frightened or want to cry. That muscle is what helps a person in times of trouble and if I keep absolutely still and quiet I can hear its occasional flutter.

To this day I find that every time I’m punched in the gut with grief and sorrow I search within me for the beat of the extra muscle and take strength from its rhythmic dhakaa…dhak. Maybe that’s why for me the two-tones have pastels in them as well.

Luck, destiny and the speed of life

My luck has a tendency of sometimes outrunning me. When I speed up to catch it, destiny fails to keep up. It is really annoying, this constant slowing down and speeding up. Leaves me exhausted and completely messes up the overall equilibrium of things. For example, the day I decided to go on a romantic date with Fey I had everything planned out. My luck was doing an even pace and it seemed things would be just fine. But then my destiny decided to take a breather and stop to smell the roses and Fey fell into a vat of wine and came out looking purple. We had gone grape crushing and the pips tickled his toes so much that he just fell over laughing. Till date the sight of anything purple gives me the heebie-jeebies.

I have always favoured luck over destiny. That’s because with luck, the result is instantaneous and that gives me such a high. I hate to admit it but I’m one of those for whom instant gratification always scores. What can I say, I’m shallow. Destiny is such a slow starter, takes years to warm up and that’s such a deal breaker. I mean why would it take seven years for me to get a promotion. Yo promotion gods and that dumb line on my palm which says a promotion is in the works…stuff it! Don’t need no promotion if it takes so long.

Looking back now I find that there are times when I should’ve caught luck by the scruff of its neck and forced it to listen to me. Maybe I would’ve got off the slow lane and moved into the faster lane of life if I had a bit of luck in the tailwind. But destiny interrupted the course of my thinking by forcing me to make ‘sensible’ decisions. But now that I’m older and okay with throwing caution to the winds, I’m ready to run at the speed of luck. Did you hear a quiet giggle? That must be my destiny!

Tattoo girl

The day she created her first tattoo, Rohini realized that she had magic in her fingers. Literally. Every groove she inked into a person’s skin danced with a life of its own. The design called out to her and she responded to it with abandon. She would look at the person who came to her and in a flash knew what to draw. For instance, Kiri was a dolphin girl. Nothing else would sit on her skin. So Rohini created one and watched it almost weave its way across her rounded shoulders. When Rosto came to her his ebony skin demanded something unique and at once she knew that it had to be the intricately patterned sphinx moth. Under her talented fingers the colourful speckles came to life till Rosto’s back became the nesting spot of this beautiful creature. Rohini’s face broke into a smile. Her fingers were magical, indeed and she had no idea how they got that way.

And then one day, she knew why. That was the day she met Gore. Gore with his lazy eye and a mouth that rarely smiled. There was an air of barely concealed raw power even when he was sitting down. She had no idea what the design was going to be. Almost as if moving with a force of its own her fingers started moving. At first Rohini positioned the needle on his right shoulder. It seemed like the most likely place, but of its own volition her hand moved to his heart. She resisted. And when she looked at Gore he looked at her as if daring her to ignore what was being asked of her.

She felt a frisson of excitement as she started. The design started forming. She still had the magic in her fingers. And then she began drawing. She saw a face appear and then the lips and a freckled chin formed. They seemed to be familiar. A few loose strands of hair had spilled on to her forehead and she pushed them away in a distracted manner. She continued with the tattoo. Gore barely moved. His muscles under her hand seemed relaxed.

The face she was drawing was almost over. She added the last little touches with a flourish and then stepped back to examine her handiwork. And that was when Rohini realized that it was as if she was looking at a mirror. The strands of hair on the forehead accentuated the features. She almost dropped the tattoo needle in fear. And as her glance fell on Gore’s face she noticed his smile. It seemed to say something.

But all Rohini could register was the fact that she had no idea where she was. As if a part of her was missing.