JUICES and ?????

It happened to be in her twelfth grade. A November evening, clock hand heading towards seven. A narrow, dark lane with single dimmed street-light, and the passer-by being just her. Mathematics it was, she left her home to take tuition for, like other evenings. You better be told, this particular subject never inspired her legs to reach her sir soon. Hence she walked slow without any hurry. Suddenly, she felt something hard-touched her chest. Frozen, she stood like daydreaming. Recovering her senses after a short while, she bulged her eyes wider at something that ghast away with speed. No sooner, it disappeared into a darkness that her sight couldn't reach. Vexed, she had two questions in her mind. First, do nightmares come even on streets? Second, was that a street-dog or something else?

Eighteen was her probable age that evening. Imagining that smoggy incident, I'm twenty-four, capable enough by now to discover myself the reason of the pungency in that air. That wasn't just a chest hard-touched, but the tender breasts of a teen being preyed upon. And definitely, it wasn't a street-dog, but yet something, perhaps some worse creature that could easily lift its fore-leg to touch the juicy fruits hanging from a tree, and escape away soon after its testosterone juices have reached its heart of fulfillment.

That eighteen years old tree once happened to be me. Many may call her dumb. Well, I would argue then and call her innocent. You see, her unpreparedness to meet such a mishap could never be her fault. But every time I remember that incident, I feel the blood rush to my head, boiling and fuming. Less because that girl couldn't protest then, and more because too many such "somethings" still exist.

It reminds me of the deep words uttered by Julia Roberts in her "Notting Hill" film of 1999. "What is it about men and nudity huh? Particularly breasts! How can you be so interested in them? ... But seriously, they are just breasts. Every second person in the world has them. ... But they are looking there for milk your mother has in...and a thousand of them. So what's the fuss about?"

Giggles at Reality

When the Prime Minister visits Shillong
The bamboos watch in silence.
When the President visits my college
I count the cars of security.
Sipping tea from my balcony
I watch that little girl by the road.
Standing naked, scared and stoned,
Staring at the windy racing rush.
When the President visits Barasat
I watch, I giggle, and I do this.

REceivings

How would you define an onset of a day throwing surprises at you one after the other? A bouquet of happiness? Ummm, let’s decide that later! To begin with, it was another regular busy morning, hurrying for my university classes. Since awakening, if there’s any track on my mind, it was Shreya Ghoshal’s reprise version of Kabhi Jo Badal Barse, a soothing Bollywood number. Contrary to the fact that I’m not its regular listener, this morning I discovered myself humming it, bits and pieces, once and again. On getting out, ear-pluggs grooved appropriately, sadly found the track missing on my playlist. No time to sob! Waving my hand, the bus halted to offer me a window seat. Wallah! Co-incidences do happen. And an amazing one this time. The bus got a music system, and it played the same same similar track! Quickly removing the plugs off my ears, I curved my happiness. Suddenly the driver applying his brakes,  compelled the passenger sitting to my right dash hard against me. Oh! Too hard that dashing was. The tiny soft hands on my face with the soft curls bushying on my neck, tickling my skin with profound happiness. Aaw, it’s a baby girl sitting on her mother’s lap. Compositing ourselves as passengers, the diamond eyes kept staring at me, while she cunningly made attempts to get a hold of my cellphone. Don’t wanna remember who’s ride was the shorter one, but those moments together, attributed to my happiness. What better can one expect from life on a regular day? Pricelessness actually lies in simplicity and is sprouted with unexpectations. Well, that’s my kind of pursuit of happiness.

Adverses

The frame is inside a moving train's ladies compartment, yes a heavily crowded one. Luckily I happened to get a seat. Suddenly, past two stations, there was a certain commotion beside. A woman with her typical Bengali accent was someway consoling a girl standing beside her using broken Hindi pieces. One oily long braid was all I could see, as she stood positioning her back at me. Trying my best to acknowledge the event, I saw an eye cornered with oozing tears. Lending my ears for details, I got to acknowledge the matter.
A tribal girl has got on the train along with her father. A male passenger (not a hawker) has entered the ladies compartment! Oh yes, it's the postmodern age, an age of protest and revolution; being impacted upon this tribal aged man. Insulted and being shouted aloud, the father escorted himself someway at a corner beside the door. The ultimate impact being a daughter, separated from his old father. The father being threatened to be taken away by the railway cop, her black kohl bathed in tears.
All I did was to silently thank the Bengali woman, who tried to ease out the girl and consolidate her that nothing will be wrong. Sarcastically curving my lips, I settled back writing down this piece in the train itself.

Mapping Sensibilities

I was a perfect teenager then. More into junk foods, and less of fresh air. I was done with my first-ever relationship and first-ever break-up. Drying away tears, toddling over the flirty game seemed amusing. We met then. We spoke, we talked. He went weak. Me too. Actually I pretended. Yes, that weird yet common way of toughening up, greasing the heart of the other. We met once. We kissed. He inquired if I've reached home safely. He started dreaming. And then I left.

Years later. Me, pursuing my higher education. He, working. Someway unexpectedly, we started talking again. Like a few heard notions of his adoring nature, he showered his sugar-coated words. Strangely, a sense of guilt evoked within. More strangely, I felt a li'l weak this time. He asked to meet. I readily agreed. And we met for the second time. As we walked and talked, I realized. Yes indeed a long walk it was. He seemed to be a busy man this time; not just at the table, but on beds too. I don't know how to term his frankness about himself, honesty or desperateness. He tried kissing me many a times. I went reluctant against every attempt made. He never rang up after that. I never tried to figure out his reasons. His revenge or my reluctance? That late subtle weakness was for a heart that once seemed to exist, not a man of rush.

We haven't meet yet again. He's sailing well I believe. And me? Well, what happened between these two meetings, states what I'm and what I always wished to be. :')

Pointers

Just as Suzette Jordan, the Park Street rape survivor was refused entry into the Ginger restaurant at Hazra locality, the molested victim student of Jadavpur University has faced obnoxious interrogations. Sarbani Ganguly and Oishika Chakraborty representing the University's anti-harrassment cell had visited the victim's house and sprayed questions as to what did she drink and what clothes did she wear the time she was attacked. We also have great spectators like Mahendra Das from Kolkata itself who blames it on the "weeds" and "sexual services behind bushes and trees" which have led to such an "aftermath" and expresses his comment with a "lol" at a post added by the Storypick page on Facebook.

So we live in a society where the Malaria attacked patients are blamed for not using the mosquito repellents, while the Anopheles mosquitoes are allowed to roam free, where the sporozoites and merozoites are permitted by law to smirk and beat up the doctors who attempted to eradicate off the germs.

City of joy...your dwellers are ignorant about your colourless colour. Green or red, just don't let your vibrance go dead.

Enigma

I was in his arms, anew.
It was cushy. We felt good.

Heedless of a fracas within
Aback I missed your hands!

All the foxy shes around
Dream of being sheltered;
A part of me as well, howbeit
Lies a pursuit of wilderness.

Uttered no word of fervor,
Sang no lyric of spasm, yet
You played all the tunes
The music of the aeon...

I cognize no term, no sign
This half requited credence
Between the wacky us two
Prevails one hefty mystery!

 Rebuffing all norms of society
Refuting all that my senses say
Make me live, like I believe in you
Take me afar, feral and bay...