A Writing Quill

  Sunaina pushed the blue door with her entire body force. The long steel handle on each door of the pair was enough to establish a firm grip. But its texture suggested it to be cumbrous, made up of pure teak wood, very large, lofty, and high. She had never seen such a door in her life and was amazed by its beauty. She whispered in her husband’s ear, ‘What kind of door is this? So big and blue in colour. No thief on earth will ever be able to break it open.’ The husband pushed her to the left, with a fake smile to the waiters scattered all over the restaurant near each table, eager to serve and take orders. It was dinner time. The man had never taken his wife to such a costly restaurant earlier. Earlier, it was mostly the ‘ chat’ houses serving ‘ panipuri ’, ‘ tikki ’, etc. He had recently started earning a lot when a business venture had clicked at the right place. His long-awaited dream of dining with his wife in such a luxurious eatery had finally come true. They dressed th...

 

 

  The magical realm of death and life is the ‘forbidden’ space. One knows everything about life and nobody knows beyond it. Death is never escapable, and when it happens, the body is free from all pain and suffering. It has always been the reason for mourning and sadness, but the countless corpses brought every day to the Manikarnika Ghat situated at the bank of the river Ganga in Banaras city is a vivid example of a place where death is celebrated and is never a reason for unhappiness. The departed bodies are not wrapped in a white shroud but enshrouded in elaborated, colorful, vibrant red cloth, as is done for a bride when she is sent forever to her husband’s home, ‘bidai’, from her father’s doorstep. The feelings resonate similar intentions where the souls are sent to the other world, to their original homes, to the supreme God, Shiva , for moksha . The experience that one receives at Manikarnika Ghat is unexplainable in words. It is one such crematorium where anyone can at...

  'My wife is always right, ’ the man exclaimed in an assertive tone. The wife stared at her half-drunk husband with those big, round eyes, darkly accentuated with the kohl that her maid had prepared at home under her strict supervision. He thought it was a compliment that would make her smile; instead, the repercussion was contrasting. The other drunk person replied, ‘You are correct, Mr. Bose. My wife, too, is always correct.’ And then there was a wave of laughter that had spread inside the huge hall only among the masculine junta . And soon it was realised by all that it was a sarcasm presented in a complementary way, which eventually turned comic. The females were not happy and soon started to quit the party, whereas the men continued grilling their favourite subject- women as a wife. ‘They say women are subjugated and oppressed. But I argue, in the last fifteen years, have I ever been able to win a single argument from her? She uses all her verbal prowess to defeat me, ...

She had been sitting unwaveringly for the last two hours now. Not a single drop of tear had rolled down her gentle and wrinkled face. The only words she repeated whenever someone would talk to her were, ‘Good for him. Who would look after him if he had been bedridden? I am too old now.’ He was 97, and still took care of his lady, who was in her 80s. She was sick and had aging, fragile bones. He was, though, sturdy enough to hold her hand and walk her inside the house; he had been her delicate buttress-weak physically but morally strong enough to support her. Even though he was sometimes sick, he had never stepped away from performing his domestic duties towards his better half, children, and grandchildren. She had been away at her daughter’s place for a few days after many years and could not talk to him for the last time. She regretted. But they had been together for 65 years, and now they needed no words to communicate; they just knew each other’s thoughts, and so life went on. ...