The Same Sky, The Same Moon

Once I dreamt of sharing a life with you,

That was long before life happened

And led us in different directions,

Living different lives in different cities.

I wish the best for you from afar,

Not knowing whether my prayers reach you quite—

Travelling across the distance between us,

Touching you like a whiff of silver moonlight.

I still remember your distinct smell—

Sweat mixed with nicotine

The touch of your callused palm

On the outstretched hand of your queen.

No matter how far you're from me,

Sharing your life with someone else,

I know we both live under the same moon,

And that's my only solace.

Image Source: Unsplash

(This poem received a "Special Mention" in Storyscrapers #RhymeShots prompt, "Under the Same Moon".)

This blog post is part of ‘Blogaberry Dazzle’

hosted by Cindy D’Silva and Noor Anand Chawla

in collaboration with Tanvi Agarwal.

Beneath the Same Umbrella

After days of incessant downpour, the road was no less than a river. A sudden gust of wind broke my umbrella. I shivered involuntarily as the cold raindrops hit me. 

"Madam, please come under my umbrella," a kind fellow pedestrian said.

I was in no condition to argue. I hurriedly took shelter under his umbrella. When I lifted my face to thank him, time seemed to stop.

A decade ago, he had left for his higher studies abroad.

The monsoon had brought us together under the same umbrella.

A married woman. A man she once loved. Under the same umbrella, yet destined to walk separate ways.

Image Source: Unsplash

This blog post is part of ‘Blogaberry Dazzle’ hosted by Cindy D’Silva and Noor Anand Chawla in collaboration with Mister Tikku.

The Words He Left Behind

My classes had just ended when Nilima aunty called.

"Misti, please come home as early as possible. Your father is not keeping well."

My father had been bedridden after a stroke for almost one and a half years. His sister, Nilima aunty— a widowed woman in her mid-fifties, lived with him and took care of him. For that, I was grateful to aunty. 

I booked the first available flight to Kolkata, my hometown. Even then, I couldn't make it in time. The messenger of death had already snatched my father, the man who always made me feel safe and secure. My mother had passed away when I was a little girl. I was an orphan now.

The next few days were a blur of activities— performing rituals for the departed soul, welcoming guests and so on.

After everything was over, a quiet silence shrouded our house. I was overwhelmed with grief and decided to stay back for a few more days before heading to Bangalore. One afternoon, Nilima aunty handed me a blue, leather-bound diary.

"Misti, your father gave me this diary and told me to hand it over to you. Please keep it."

That night, after finishing dinner, when I was alone in my room, I opened the diary. The first few pages contained practical details— insurance policies, bank account details, investments and other things Papa wanted me to know after he was gone. There were also neatly scribbled notes on menstruation. I smiled through my tears, remembering how Papa was the first to teach me about menstruation during my adolescence. 

After some pages, I stopped abruptly. There was a letter addressed to me.

"Dear Misti,

Hope this letter finds you in good health and spirit. When you read this letter, I'll be far away from you— resident of a different world altogether.

Today I want to tell you something I've hidden from you all your life. I told you that your mother had passed away, when in reality she had abandoned me for a rich businessman. You were just five years old— too little to understand the full import of the word 'divorce'. She didn't claim your custody and I was only too happy to have you in my life. In my bid to save you the heartache and trauma of your parents' separation, I made up the story of her illness and subsequent death. But Misti, please don't misunderstand your mother. She loved you in her own way. She was not happy with me. So she searched for happiness in another man's arms. And everybody, including our mothers, deserve to be happy, right?

I might have been an awful husband, but I tried my best to be a good father. Only you can tell how I fared as a father.

Be happy. My blessings are always with you.

With love,

Papa."

Tears pooled in my eyes. "You are the best father a daughter could ever have, Papa.", I whispered through my sobs.

Image source: Unsplash

This story has been chosen a winner in the fortnightly "The Spirit of Asia Contest #207" (Topic: My Father's Diary), hosted by the Asian Literary Society.

This blog post is part of ‘Blogaberry Dazzle’

hosted by Cindy D’Silva and Noor Anand Chawla

in collaboration with Mister Tikku.

Book Review: The Art of Moving On: Healing after Heartbreak

The Art of Moving On: Healing after Heartbreak by Anurag Paul

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Heartbreak is a near-universal experience. Yet we are often at a loss when it comes to dealing with heartbreak. What makes heartbreak particularly difficult is the fact that it comes with a mixed bag of emotions — sadness, longing, regret, and hope, often all at once.

This book offers some practical steps to heal from heartbreak and illustrates the steps with examples followed by a few reflective questions. I wish I had come across this book when I was younger. It could have saved me a great deal of heartache.

Some phrases and sentences in the book are repetitive. It could have benefitted from a tighter editing.

Recommended for young men and women navigating the pain of heartbreak. Even for those who have never experienced a broken heart, it offers useful guidance during periods of major transition — whether a career change, personal transformation, or the uncertainties that accompanies new beginnings.

View all my reviews

Two Wheels, Many Memories

Pedalling fiercely,

I raced to the school;

My ponytails bounced,

Brushed past me wind cool.

The cycle became my companion

Day in and day out—

I hung around with my friends,

As my laughter echoed down the road.

Be it school, be it coaching classes,

I had my trusted friend,

It carried me on its back

Swiftly manoeuvring through every bend.

I was a free bird,

Travelling wherever I liked,

Low-maintenance, no-carbon travel

This friend of mine afforded.

I grew up and secured a job,

I was able to afford a car,

But this friend stayed in a quiet corner

Of my home and my heart.

Image Source: Art Attack on Unsplash

(This poem written on the occasion of World Bicycle Day has been chosen a winner by Storyscrapers.)

Book Review: The Lives of Others

 

The Lives of Others by Neel Mukherjee

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"The Lives of Others" written by Neel Mukherjee was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize 2014. That piqued my interest in picking up this book. And I've not been disappointed. It's an extremely well-written novel.

The Ghoshes are an upper middle-class family living on Basanta Bose Road, with their fleet of servants. The book traces the intersecting lives of the members of the Ghosh family, along with the lives of those who play prominent roles in their lives. The characters are well-portrayed and we get a glimpse into their inner worlds. The author has done a commendable job in dissecting the lives of the characters almost with surgical precision. The only drawback is that the vocabulary is a bit difficult. While reading the book, I had to pause at many places and search for the meanings of the words.

The novel is set primarily in the Calcutta of late 1960s. The naxal movement and the lives of naxalites are portrayed so vividly that I almost teared up reading the book. Then there's the recluse mathematician who fought against all odds to secure his place in the world. The forbidden love that blossomed between a young naxalite and his widowed aunt. The venomous women indulging in dirty domestic politics. All the quirks and eccentricities of the characters have been etched in vivid detail.

It's the kind of novel that will stay with you long after you turn the last page.

Strongly recommended for readers of literary-fiction.

View all my reviews

A Holiday Gone Wrong

Priyo, Rini's husband, announced from the living room, "Good News! The government has declared no-work-day for all tomorrow." Rini was elated. 

Next day, there was no school, no office. Priyo went to market, but soon came back disappointed. All the shops were closed. Rini somehow managed to cook lunch with leftover vegetables. The newspaper had not been delivered. The maid was absent. Rini wanted to visit the salon, but it was closed. In afternoon, she wanted to watch a movie with her family. But all multiplexes were closed. Exasperated, she switched on the television. There was nothing— the screen blank. Now she wanted the cursed holiday to be over soon.

Image: AI generated

(What if the clock stops ticking for the economy, but keeps moving for the soul? A day with zero output, zero deadlines, and zero labor. Is it a dream or a descent into chaos? This tiny tale written on this prompt had been chosen a winner by team "Storyscrapers".)