Kill You, Sure (16)

Kill You, Sure (16)

                                             Nidhu Bhusan Das

            
             
                              



           The Boac Boeing has stabilized midair over Dhaka after take-off from Shahjalal International Airport in the winter December morning. The flight is to terminate in London. Bithi set her eyes on the clouds which keeps her thought downy. She hears a greeting: “Maidin mhaith!”(Irish for “Good Morning”).
“Irish!” she exclaimed and turned around, astonished and annoyed.
“Tá mé Conor. Tá aithne agam ort,”( I'm acquainted with you )said the young man,unperturbed. 
“Níl a fhios agam agat,” (I don’t know you )snarled Bithi,annoyed being interrupted.
Conor daresn’t proceed further.
Nothing but the impending get-together on the occasion of the anniversary of her grand parents is absorbing for Bithi.She is headed for Maryland to attend the event.However, the unexpected interruption has brought to mind the face of Anik at JNU,the charming boy,gentle and innocent.”This is  sort of quirky,” she thinks” that a disturbing incident stirs memory which is not unwelcome ,if not acceptable.Memory distracts,and often leads to comparison that may confuse.Anik isn’t Nizam... Nizam never deviates.Anik has someone to influence his decision, that girl, the naughty and envious Divya.The sense of etiquette doesn’t allow Bithi to use harsh language, or she would say Divay’s wicked,crafty who doesn’t have the sense of decency expected of a JNU student. Now she feels pity for Anik.Why? Unaware so long, Bithi has formed an idea of Anik being in love with her but unable to express.Is it that he has the religious inhibitions,being from a conservative region of India. Maybe, it isn’t so. He smiles always,an inviting and innocent smile. Such innocence cannot harbour any inhibitions,Bithi’s sure,almost.
“But I’m bound...cannot respond,”Bithi is conscientious. The face of Nizam’s in her mirror.She smiles,and the shining cloud greet the smile.She remembers her grand parents who’re a profile of honesty in their bond.Her parents’re also models of beauty and truth in their love life in togetherness. “I will be happy with Nizam ... why to look for someone else?” Bithi thinks,unaware that the plane’s now flying over the sky of Delhi,waiting for signal to land at the Indira Gandhi International Airport for a stopover.The announcement of the pilot breaks her reverie.But the smile lingers with the dream she has been in so long in the air.
She’s to wait at the lounge a couple of hours and have lunch before re embarking for the second leg of the intercontinental journey.The lounge is global in ambience, and abuzz with cheerful people around.With every flight landing new people arrive, and as many leave as other flights take off for different destinations across the world.Bithi remembers Tennyson writes,”For man may come and man may go...”, and a philosophic gloom visits her about the entry and exit of humans in this world.Usually sociable,in such a state of trance, she cannot interact with people.The thought about her grand parents being septuagenarians comes to her mind and reinforces the gloom.Never before did she have such a thought about her ever green and cheerful grannies.Her green eyes glitter with tears and some drops glisten her cheeks.Quickly she puts on the    glasses and employs efforts to hold back the liquid.Since she has read the poem of Tennyson,she fears a brook which symbolizes permanence against the evanescence of individual life.She doesn’t want to see a couple of brook run down her cheek.
The cell phone buzzes.Bithi sees it is her papa calling.”Hello Papa!” she answers.Despite efforts she couldn’t prevent her voice from being choked.Anis Chowdhury,struck by the sadness in her tone,asks,”D’you feel lonely,dear? Why? We’re coming and go together from New York.”He hands over the phone to Reba.
“I know,Papa...but..,”Bithi utters,laboriously.
“Had lunch?” asks Reba,her voice wet.
“Going to have,Mom,” Bithi says,to console her tender mother.She looks at her watch.Time to have lunch,she remembers and goes to the restaurant.She doesn’t feel hungry,and might go without lunch had her mother not reminded. She often forgets meal,not that she’s habitually melancholic;she remains absorbed in thought.She feels life more in thought.Whatever happens,she transforms that into thought to analyze it, to comprehend the essence.Now she thinks of the greeting of the Irish boy,of  Anik and his “Kill you” refrain,of Nizam.( next to follow soon)











             

Kill You, Sure (15)

                     Love Making

  Kill You, Sure (15)

                              Nidhu Bhusan Das

   It’s twilight.Evening birds twitter their way back home.Already some tired dryads are roosting on the giant banyan,its huge canopy attracts myriad winged beauties,and they keep the tree eloquent.Divya’s head is cradled on the lap of Ankit.Only the birds witness their amorous togetherness.

“Sorry,I’ve misread you.Now I understand,”Divya goes emotional.

 “Pardon.”

“I shouldn’t have thought that way.”

“What thought?”

“That you’ve tenderness…”

“I have.So what!”

“I mean you…”

“Yes, I love you.”

“You love...me! Is it?”

“Is it wrong?”

“No Ankit,I don’t mean that.”

               Ankit’s unaware of the intended meaning of Divya.Under the canopy,he’s in joy with his girl,who’s now assured of having her coveted man in possession.Ankit doesn't share such feeling with her although they’ve turned one,soul and body.Divya’s back to her room at 9 p.m.,tired but elated.She’s in the washroom to rub off the day’s weariness and the remains of the cause of joy.She gets ready for bed to be in a tranquil sleep and sweet dreams.

“It’s stupid to be in love,” thinks Ankit,lying on his back, awake.Logic has gripped him and brought him back to prosaic sense.The Romantic aura under the tree in the lunar illusion is over after he has the first experience of functional love.He ruminates on how the innocent Green Eyes has been implicated by the jealous girl.”Divya isn’t equal,rather far  below the girl from Dhaka in stature and personality.It’s difficult to go with the girl who is aggressive with the venom of inferiority complex,no matter that she is,like him, from Haryana.

                   Bithi’s in communication with her cousin she will join soon in Maryland.She tells the girl across the Atlantic how an Indian girl in the campus,not familiar with her,is jealous of her imagining that she’s her rival in love.”This is fantastic,”she says with a peel of laughter.”Yes,you’re right,love’s preceded by the sense of possessiveness in this part of the world,”Bithi agrees.

                  Ankit goes out to the library to spend the possible sleepless night in the company of books.He’s a bibliophile,books remain scattered on his bed.Divya didn’t ask,but if you ask he’d tell,without a second thought, “Book’s my first love.Here Divya’s wrong.”

“Are you sure?”Ankit asks himself.Doubt has arisen.Should he be carried away by amour and hang the academic pursuit? Ankit  thinks,seriously.”No Divya,I won’t sacrifice.You too shouldn’t.Let’s do it after degree,”he thinks.

                       The cell phone sounds.Ankit pulls it out.A Hangouts message,from Divya.He opens it: “Where dear?I’m yet to rub off the moments we enjoyed a few hours back.”

Ankit ‘s in two minds.Should he continue or just ignore?She’s become desperate in the present mood.If ignored,she’s sure to despair.He himself cannot deny his role in the buildup to her present desire and desperation.In case he ignores,he will deny his part.It’s against Haryanvi pride and personal honesty.Ankit cannot afford to be dishonest.

“At the library,”Ankit has messaged back,tersely.

“Is it!But why?Won’t you sleep?”

“Something urgent,you know,”he lies.

“Urgent!But what could be more urgent than the sweet memory of two hours after dusk,”Divya tries to understand.

“Ankit,you need have sleep,dear.”

“You know,work on hand,” Ankit’s hesitant.

“You’re naughty,dear.Feel like coming to see,”desires Divya.

The loving tone of the girl takes

                  Ankit back to the event under the tree.The memory rattles the boy.He isn’t in politics,has been a loner craving for a company.Bithi stole his heart but dared not tell her or share with anybody.When Divya approached,his long cherished desire found a mooring, and the evening of coming together was a kind of fulfilment even for him.The Platonic love for the foreigner was replaced by sensual pleasure with the native girl.Now he feels like being with Divya again. “Shall I call her to come?”he thinks with a strong desire to feel her passionate breath on the face.

“Well,come and see,”he replies.

              Divya’s excited.She gets out of bed,promptly puts on casuals,locks the door,and hops down the stairs,rushes to the library.(to be continued)

Kill You, Sure (14)

           Kill You, Sure (14)

                                        Nidhu Bhusan Das

 Bithi’s at the stands of M.Chinnaswamy Stadium with Nizam for the Twenty20 World Cup match between India and Bangladesh.Both are cricket enthusiasts for different reasons.Bithi’s all praise for the game for its drama, suspense, poetry and beauty, enhanced by uncertainties. And she loves Bangladesh, the country of her father. For Nizam, he himself played in Abahani Krira Chakra in domestic cricket when he’s a student. The commonality of interest in the game, among other things, brings them face to face from time to time. They scarcely miss an international match in which Bangladesh plays.

                

                                 They sit among a swaying crowd of Bangladeshi fans who yell and wave their national flag at the fall of Indian wickets, and when chasing a target of 147 runs, the Tigers are in their scoring spree to the discomfort and anxiety of Team India.

“No, we’ll win,” Bithi assures Nizam.

“Don’t know, it’s a tricky game,”Nizam’s uncertain.

“We’ve beaten Pakistan and even the Kangaroos,” she recalls, confident.

“Let’s see,” Nizam murmurs and yells as Mushfiqur Rahim hits a six off a delivery from Pandyan who ultimately spells death for the Tigers in the last over.

Now it’s the last over, and Bangladesh needs only 11 off it. Nizam kisses Bithi in excitement oblivious of their being in the crowd. Their first ever kiss goes unnoticed as every eye is on the field.

“Haven’t I told you we’ll win? Now see,”Bithi’s excited.

“Wait, you cannot tell,”Nizam says in bated breath.

Mushfiqur brought the target down to just two runs off the last three balls with two fours and one single.

“Have you still doubt?” Bithi asks her paramour.

“It may go anyway,”Nizam replies to the annoyance of the girl with his focus on the 22 yards between the wickets.

“O-u-t!’ the scream goes ringing. Mahmudullah’s out. Now the last ball will be the decider - Bangladesh needs 2 to win, India 1 to remain in the competition.

“Bithi’s bumped into a hard reality. What to happen!” she whispers to Nizam who doesn’t hear.

“No-o-o! We’ve been foolhardy.Fie on us!” Nizam’s cathartic.

                       Bithi cries and leans on Nizam.Even the first mutual touch takes time for them to stir up as the galleries are getting deserted quickly. Chinnaswamy sees the beauty of a spell of romantic love in the euphoria of victory and the melancholia of being trounced when victory has been 1+1 sprints of 44 yards only. This still picture’s the reality of life. This happens. Cricket reflects the truth that we’ve to run after what’s often elusive. We succeed when failure doesn’t pull us back.

                       Bithi and Nizam come out of the stadium heads down. They cannot come to terms with the reality. Were they flying to reach the horizon, which moves away perpetually, and failed? We cannot keep pace with the movement. We may scale unreachable height, cover unimaginable distance in a flight of imagination but have to bump back to reality. The two foolish children are yet to come out of the stupor. They reach the Oberoi unaware of each other even when their two hands are joined. Back to the room, they sit face to face on the sofa, speechless. The silence breaks when Bithi says, “You’re right Nizam. Now understand we cannot tell what’s ahead.”

“Cricket tells the story of life, of uncertainties.”

“Everything in life resembles a taper, isn’t it?” Bithi says, philosophically.

“Hope’s like that.”

“We shouldn’t hope, I think”

“Then we shouldn’t use taper also,” Nizam reasons.

“Won’t we have lunch, dear?”Bithi responds to her impulse.

                         Nizam slowly and reluctantly rises and proceeds to bathroom. After a cool shower comes back fresh with a sad smile hovering over the soft face.Bithi’s sponged her face and neck. Only soup has been ordered. They know the shock has taken away their appetite. Hunger for victory has been a strong emotional urge which is dashed, and it’s a shock like the one the passengers have when a ferry boat which successfully has negotiated the turbulent river during a storm sinks near the bank.

Having the first sip, Nizam murmurs,” We won’t have remorse. We played and dominated but rocked the boat just before mooring.”

“We couldn’t match their cool planning and maturity,” Bithi’s back to her analytical power.

“We shouldn’t try to exhibit glory before it’s achieved,” Nizam vents anger.

“Means?” Bithi wants to know.

“Why, Mahmudullah went for glory, hit two consecutive deliveries high in the air though playing them on the ground would have been enough. That sealed our fate,” Nizam explodes.

“Okay, the flight is at 4.30 a.m. We should go to bed.”

 They kiss and go to sleep. The two are now in dream spurred by the kiss. Two angels hover over them.

“Will this love endure?” one angel raises the question to Nizam.

“He represents the lack of confidence of your players in crucial moments,” the other angel whispers to her.

“She’s too emotional,” pours the first angel into the ear of Nizam.

“”Too much reason causes indecision,” says the second angel.

                     The dream has goaded them into fear and an embrace. But they cannot kiss any more. The game with its thrill is over. Gone is the stupor. But it has aroused questions in the mind of the lovers as leftovers of their varying shades of emotional responses during the match. Each of them analyses the response of the other. She recalls, Nizam has said,” Cricket reflects the truth that we’ve to run after what’s often elusive.” Bithi cannot forget it. She knows love’s an emotion which doesn’t tally with reason.( Continued on 7th May 2016)