From The Quill of Suranya

I sat alone on the overly comfortable couch in the room with blue walls and green curtains. There was something very clean about the room. The painting on the wall was abstract, and it felt like every piece of furniture, every bit of art, every bit of stationery was there to test my mind. I have never been to a psychiatrist, psychologist or counsellor before. This was my first time in therapy, and I wondered what he was like. The man who walked in after two polite knocks was rather older than I expected. He was about my grandfather's age. I wondered if he would understand the complexities of the new generation and the stress we go through. Truth be said, I did not even know if something was wrong with me, but I felt so overwhelmed lately that I could not sleep at night. That was when I decided to try therapy because my bad thoughts had by now transformed into bad dreams and nightmares that woke me up with sweat and tears in the middle of the night. I wondered if he could fix all of...

This day in 1540, around midnight in the separate quarters of Kumbhalgarh fort, was born a prince who would go on to be his dynasty's most famous king. Not because he won a battle or had a huge kingdom, but because of his resistance against a bigger power, his dream of freedom, his rebellious heart, the qualities that a true leader possesses. Of course, he was not perfect. He was impulsive and often put his heart and emotions above his head and mind. He was sometimes not rational either. You see, rational people don't do selfless things that may harm them. He did. He resisted with all his might. He fought against all odds. He inspired people who came four hundred years after him to fight for freedom. He never had the life of a king, of luxury and privilege. He chose the life in the forest, the guerrilla tactics that forced him to stay away from his family, the life that led him to many personal losses. But he did not feel defeated. That's where he became the man he is. Happ...

She watched his horse go till the dust settled back on the road. Her eyes shone, but no tear drop fell on her cheeks. There was no time to cry. It was time to prove that Love was the greatest strength. Days passed by, then a week. Many a messenger came and went telling about the progress at the battlefield, but each day her eyes were fixed at the gates, for a letter. A letter addressed to her, minus the seal and title. A letter that called her by the name she had otherwise forgotten. Every night as the stars twinkled, she sat sleepless and stared in the direction of the camp. That's where the sun set every day, almost as a metaphor of the darkness that engulfed her life after he departed. Somewhere in a tent in the camp, he stared at the flickering lamp with a feeling of longing. A will to return to her. Embrace her and feel at home. He could have written a letter, assured her he was fine, but what if she replied? Or worse, the letter reached her late? Long after he was gone? Could...

Since the COVID-19 days, I have limited my bus journeys unless necessary. After almost two years, I started regularly using the commute again, especially for long-distance journeys. It's on one such journey that I looked up to check the rain clouds and discovered that the journey looks so different if you keep looking up. The sun, moon, stars and clouds seem to travel with you, and as the branches in their geometric designs pass by, one can imagine oneself lying on a haystack on top of an open caravan or horse-drawn carriage being transported back in time. Come the tall old buildings of central Calcutta, and you can see their exquisite designs standing the test of time, a small, detailed motif or simply a name plate, almost faded into oblivion. The verandahs overlooking the busy streets full of traffic (which by the way I suddenly realised looks the same everywhere) are often filled with potted plants, discarded things or a broken railing, and sometimes an old man in his dhuti sitt...

It was summer when you left. The storm had plundered the city; another brewed in my heart. You were the familiar smell and flowers > I was used to. You were those familiar roads, that cafe or the park. That story I had reread too many times. Or that movie I watched enough to say the dialogue alongside. I had promised myself you were the taste of home. I would wait for you to return. Welcome you with open arms. You came back in autumn. Like those leaves that wither away, feeling useless to the rest of the world. You hoped to find the home you once chose to leave behind. And I had opened the door in anticipation. But your hug felt strange. Your smell wasn't familiar. Your words didn't make my heart race anymore. There was a huge void between us, and the silences were just blank, awkward and weird. I had unknowingly let you go. I have unknowingly adapted to the unfamiliar tastes through time. Danced in the rain alone. Become too comfortable in this unfamiliar feeling of lonelin...

Every child is fascinated by gas balloons and how they go up in the air. So was I. Back in the 90s, at every fair, there used to be this one old man with a bag full of balloons in all colours and a big machine to blow the gas in. The smell was really bad, yet we flocked there just to get one each. He tied the string to our wrists so that the balloon wouldn't escape. One day, as I saw my grandma deep in prayer, I looked up at the sky, trying to locate where exactly these prayers are addressed. She laughed and said, "Up there lives God in heaven. He hears all our prayers." My eyes lit up. "He does? Does he grant wishes?" "Only if you are pure at heart." She had walked away. Throughout the afternoon, on the lonely terrace, I had frowned at the sky. All I could see was clouds and the sun. Some birds flew by. Where was this heaven? And what was the address? Every time I received a letter from my cousins, they always wrote my address. I had frowned. "Th...

The last thing I remember I had a glass of water, and I fell into a deep slumber. I woke up feeling suffocated, unable to breathe. And before I knew it, my bed seemed to be a cold marble cot. I struggled to move in the small box, dusting off the dirt from my body. Where was I? In the moonlight, I could sense I was beneath the open sky. How on earth did I end up here? I was on my bed, in my room. I sat up and looked around. A thousand more marble cots. With tombstones. A thousand more like me roamed around the place. Children giggled. Lovers danced. Ladies gossiped. I walked away from my cot towards these unfamiliar faces. None seemed to notice me. And then I felt a tug at my waist as I turned back, almost in panic. Your eyes met mine after an eternity. I almost choked. It's you. It's really you. Like you always were. I inspected your chest in panic. The bruises of that day were gone. I smiled, relieved. You have healed. We have? Healed. You smiled at me, took my hand and whirle...

The tourists had dispersed; the ASI officer checked every nook and corner of the premises and shut the door of the wonder in marble. It was another moonlit night. He smiled, swaying the large set of keys on his way out of the premises. One of those nights, when the Taj looked absolutely like heaven was imagined to be. The silence of the place was filled with the rustling of leaves, and the moon shone on the marble tomb like a radiant pearl. In the distance, on the opposite bank, stood the Agra Fort. The marble of the palanquin-shaped roof shone as well. And the moonlight entered through the jharokha, creating a design of flowers and leaves on the marble floor of the secluded fort. The breeze blew again. Cool and silent. Somewhere far away, the fading music of a mosque was heard. The Taj resonated with what were perhaps footsteps. She turned to see him arrive. White as the moon, his attire shone just like hers. Eyes met, and they smiled. It was a night of union, of two souls who were fo...

The waves crashed onto the sand. Again. And again. She sat there, eyes closed. Inhaling the cool breeze that brushed past her open hair playfully, she watched the waves come to her feet, touch her and leave. The wind whispered undecipherable words in her ears. She saw the wet sand and scribbled her name on it. The waves washed it away in a flash. A smile appeared on her lips. Perhaps, like the waves washed away her name, people are also wiped from existence. It's so strange that sometimes you have to accept that the closest people are not close anymore, and a stranger can be closer than you ever imagined. She got up and brushed off some sand from her dress, and started walking towards the lighthouse in the distance. People were like these waves. They came and went. As and when needed. Her existence was her only truth. The sole constant. Not even the name stayed forever. She sighed at the ring on her finger. She was not optimistic about Love. It was like these waves. A chase game go...

To the man I call my father, Remember how you complained about Maasa having an opinion of her own? Remember all those times you came home drunk? Or abused Maasa? I hid behind the door and watched you, horrified. I had silently caressed her bruises. She had smiled, hiding tears. Remember all those school functions you missed? All the awards of mine you broke in your fit of rage, mixed with the intoxication of whatever you took? And all the time you cursed me because I did Mom's house chores? How you taunted me, saying I would end up being a house husband. How you taunted, my career decision. All the criticism you had when I raised my voice against marital rape? Was that your encouragement? I am obliged. All the time, I had been jealous of my friends who had fathers like friends. Often, I read quotes on how a girl wants a guy like her father. And I shudder at the mere idea of it. I don't want that for Munni. She is just like Maasa, warm and gentle. You made me hate men, being a m...

Summer is here. The leaves are still. The air is suffocating to breathe. The earth had been scorching with the heat, and the leaves had withered away in the burning light of the sun. The birds had long gone home. It is then that the breeze turns cool. The wind gushes and turns cooler. And like a whirlpool, the Storm dances her way into the city. People rush to close their doors and windows. The rebellious Storm can do them harm. Break their glass houses. Perhaps blow away some precious things. People are never ready for rebels. Be it the Storm herself. She picks up speed and music. And prances around in the beat and rhythm of the drums of the clouds. The lightning is her spotlight to glory. She unties her long black hair and lets it sweep across the earth. Brushing away the dirt. Making it enter homes. Perhaps that's how people will learn to clean up their own mess. She smiles. Only Nature enjoys her dance. The trees sway in rhythm to her body, and the leaves rustle like the music ...

He had kept down the key and stared at her eyes one last time. She chose to look away. He smiled faintly, shook his head, and walked out with a small bag. She had slammed the door shut behind him noisily. He pressed the button on the elevator and tapped his shoes on the marble floor. It echoed through the empty corridor, and the lift arrived. He thanked heaven it's empty for he won't be able to explain to the neighbours that his wife threw him out in the middle of the night, because he asked How?" to her, "We are pregnant." A sudden replay of the scene made him laugh at himself. He had taken out the car key, hoping one of his friends would be awake for a drink, and his phone beeped. "Stay." He looked up in a reflex at the window of the apartment where she stood, moving away carefully behind the curtains as he smiled. Her phone beeped with "Always" before the doorbell rang. ~ SURANYA

The silence of 1AM. It's winter. Insomniac and sleepless, I sit with the laptop. You knew it, didn't you? You stare at me intensely. Like your deep brown eyes have a lot to convey. Thoughts. Feelings. Emotions. You just need the right words from me. There is complete silence. I can hear my breath. And the keyboard. I stop as the cursor blinks. You give half a smile. That spark in your eyes. What's next? I sigh. You wait. You then dial her number. Disconnect it, unsure. Then, leave her a message with a soft, nervous prayer. I smile at your nervous face now. When you frown in tension, your eyebrows make an arc like sea waves. They straighten soon after you choose your shirt. Blue? Black? Grey? You settle for Purple. You practice a speech. I watch you, amused. We both know how nervously you have discarded the hundred other types of proposals. And you finally settled for being spontaneous. For others, they will just know your perfect speech. Taking a deep breath, your heart thu...