Scribblings

The rain that didn’t make me drenched, The wind that didn’t blow away my thoughts, The love that I lost, The years that I existed, but didn't live, The smiles that I began to distrust, Will I ever remember them?

The little boy was on the summit of happiness. He just got to know he was the topper of his class in the annual examination. He couldn’t wait anymore. For a whole year, he had been waiting for this moment. He hurried to his bicycle and started riding fast, to the bungalow near the big mango tree. He was going to meet the aunty in that bungalow, to tell her that he got the highest mark in the class.  It was exactly a year back that aunty had promised him a prize if he scored the highest. What would she say while hearing the happy news? The boy couldn’t resist his excitement. Parking the bicycle in a corner, he walked towards the main door of the bungalow. With a shivering finger, he pressed the calling button. He was expecting the aunty to open the door, but it was her young son who appeared at the door. “Hmm?” He looked surprised. “Nothing. Came to meet the aunty,” the son replied. “Mummeee could you come here?”  his long call went inside. There was a moment of silence. ...

A long rail bridge across the Ganga separated the city and me from the rest of the world. After a tiring second-class journey, the train dropped me at  this historical city of chaos and colours. Between life and death, this eternal city stood, giving thousands of men and women the promise of solace.  After a quick face wash, I took an early morning stroll towards the river. The mist was still in the air and my watch was showing half past four. The first light of the day slowly appeared on the eastern horizon. Crossing narrow streets and dark corridors I entered an open space; the sandy banks of the Ganga. The air was filled with an unfamiliar and unpleasant odour. Unknown people from unknown places were wandering. Three men were dipping a rat trap in the river, liberating the soul of an unfortunate rat that was fooled by the bait. I walked directionless till something stopped me. Here in front of my eyes lay a human being without the vibrations of life, fully...

M ufzina was just three years old when her father left home to look for a job.  No one in the  village ever heard about him after that.  In this land of conflicts, no one was sure about anything? Her young mother may live her entire life waiting for her husband.  How could she marry again without knowing the whereabouts of her husband?  The entire village would damn her if she did that.  Without the death certificate of her husband, she couldn't avail herself of any government welfare.  In between the game of life and death, she became a half-widow. The remote village seemed to be a prison for that young woman and her little daughter. *** A narrow mud path through the middle of an apple orchard led me to a small wooden building. It was a small school. Children were busy with their books.  I was there to know about the children who were adopted by an orphanage.  Children from far-flung villages were being provided free food, accommo...

I am searching for my name on this old noticeboard. Finding one’s own name on the board seems a difficult task. A cool breeze passes me to flutter a piece of paper pinned to the board. This paper has lost all but just one pin to support its precarious existence on the board. What would happen to the paper when it is finally uprooted? Who would know that this paper once stayed on this board? Unknown numbers of paper have come, stayed and vanished from this board. Does anyone know exactly how many papers has this board hosted till now? Oh! Finally, I find my name on a piece of paper on another corner of the board. This paper is held strongly by the board now. But what if I am not able to find this paper here on another day? The noticeboard is full of pins. Some of them are so rusted while some are about to fall off the board. Most of them have lost their colours. Yes! There are fresh pins too, but all the pins make their own marks on this board. Some marks seem to be so deep while ...