A TypeWriter -By Keya Dutta

Two years of marriage,  many changes in Niraj’s behaviour punched the clock. He is highly ambitious of wealth, pompous, opulent to compete with the comrades. Niraj has been working as a finance consultant holding many rewards & awards, certificate from top business school. While, Adhira, only kept following her passion as a writer, despite a her higher degree and good job experience in a reputed farm.

She knew it would had to happen someday! A mere divorce paper couldn’t able to tremble her firm mind. She signed the divorce paper with just a thought that how her creativity once been admired and love by Niraj, today, it became an encumbrance. She had to choose between a facile, flaky, superficial relationship and a typewriter. And, she choosed the later.

7 months ago :

“You are such a grandmother!”, Niraj was satirical.

Adhira was still observing every movements of him, while she was still typing. She started writing another book lately in the last month. Her other books were always been uncanny and astounding, still not been recognised by big publishers due to her inconspicuous name. But, she is ridiculously passionate about story telling and those who knew her writing for a decade, await for a another queer.

“Well, haven’t you heard the saying, there’s no place like home except Grandma’s?”, Adhira replied in a light hearted way. She smiled.

“You know what is your problem Adhira?  You live in dreams, in a shell, impractical, dumb, irrational! Your degrees, your job experience could helped us living a better lifestyle. You rejected the best opportunity to be in a top position of learning and development. But, you and your never ending write ups, that too also writing in this tortuous, damn old typewriter. Who else in this generation of e-book, writes up in typewriter like a sloth? Don’t you think we could have afforded more luxuries than this?”, Niraj was highly hostile.

“Don’t you think it’s luxurious itself, when you do the things that you love?”, Adhira looked for an answer.

“This is not just about you and your crazy dreams”, Niraj was croaky.

She was aphonic for a moment.

“That why I am different, am I not?”, Adhira replied again with a smile. “Three years ago, these were the qualities for which you adored me to be into this marriage.”

“That was a different from now. I had a good support of my family. Today,  I could be the director of my Dad’s oil and lubricant farm.” Niraj’s juvenile was uncovered clearly.  Finally he announced about the divorce he wanted from her.

3 years ago :

He fell in love with Adhira on their first meeting at a mountain trekking camp at Solan valley. Her simplicity and concordance drawn him towards her. Her observant mind, capturing every tiny particles, which would have been ignored by any other normal person made her most unique amongst the group.

“Many secreats are tresureed in your diary, isn’t it?”, Adhira was appalled by Niraj’s voice from the back.

“Every twist has it’s greatest secreat. Don’t you have any twists in your life yet not twisted? Well, I am sure you have many twists and turns in your body.”, and both of them laughed at their own jest.

After several months of their courtship,  Niraj finally proposed her to marry him. The marriage was followed by simple ceremony in the presence of both of theirs friends, as Niraj’s parent’s were against this marriage because of Ahira’s identity crisis; being from a broken family.

15 years later :

Adhira Goswami is at her 50’s. Wrinkles around her face and neck, losing her eyesight gradually, bit shaky while writing on her typewriter. But, still not shaky of her passion, for which she lived in 15 years of isolation without grumbling. Neighbours call her crazy old typewriter lady. Kids from the nearby apartment knocks at her door and disappear to tease her, to annoy her. Old Adhira pretented to be annoyed by the kids and shouts, “hey you, all monkeys”. They giggle and do the act repeatedly. Secreatly,  she enjoys this activities by the kids. At least by doing this,  she finds some companies from the children. She deliberately keeps the door open for sometime and few kids enter into her room and touch her clothes, sit in the half torned out sofa, touch the books around the room and giggle. She pretends as if she is not aware of it and suddenly comes in front of them and they run away immediately. This became a daily fun for both the kids and Adhira. Only time she gets seriously annoyed was, when they try to touch her typewriter. She immediately closes the door if they try to touch it. She has been protecting this typewriter, for more than 30 years now.

Sometimes,  she makes the newspaper delivery boy Zafar, to sit for a while,  makes tea for him and asks about his studies. Whenever he comes with a news of her article publishing in the newspaper,  she makes special feast for him. Sometimes,  pudding, or cake, or kheer, or gajar halwa. Zafar, a calm boy, in his 7th standard, belongs to a poor Muslim family who is very fond of Adhira Goswami Aunty, not just because of her pudding and cake but also they have the similiar passion for writing. Zafar often comes to study at her place after his school.

Few months later :

A knock at the door in the early hour of morning. Adhira was little surprised. Thought, how come the kids came to bully her at the dawn!

“Oh Zafar! What happened?”,  Zafar was with a man, must be around 40 yeas of age.

“Mrs. Adhira Goswami! My name is Anirban Dè! I came to know from Zafar about your writing. I am in a search of rare typewriting literature from India, which is for collection of “Literature of Innocence and Experience” in Stockholm library of manuscripts and illustrations. Would you mind….”, before Mr. Anirban Dè finishes,  Adhira tells both of them to sit and make themselves comfortable.

She makes tea for all of them. In the meantime,  Anirban comes near her writing area,  the space full of her thousands of writings. It is flurry! He is in shock.

“How could a woman dedicated her whole life in her writing and protected her typewriter like her own child? And, how could people abandoned her for following her passion?

“You have to keep your passport ready to travel to Stockholm library soon ma’am! Thank you Zafar!”, Anirban stands still for while, with a intensed face.

“Well Zafar will follow the same passion after me. Never lose the hope my boy! Your passion may be your luxury itself. And, after me, you will take care of the typewriter, Zafar!”,  both Zafar and Anirban kept looking her poised and calm pains pouring through the teapot.

Today,  Adhira Goswami’s writings are considered one amongst the rare collections of typewriting books and manuscripts worldwide as an Indian author. Zafar, still visits her old room which has still the same fresh smells of the papers, ink refills and echoes of the typewriter.

Advertisements

“Her last Lust” – A short thriller by Keya Dutta

Screenshot_2017-04-26-21-14-38_1493222025947

Joel, the only brat son of the house owner tried luring her ever since Rumi, her mother and her step father shifted to their new place, on rent. Rumi was 19 then, looks vulnerable and sultry that any men would have liked to hunt her to satisfy releasing aches of their hormonal rushes. Her voluptuous and curvy frame enhancing to the subject of attention. Joel winked her many times with a luring intention. Though hesitated,  she liked to see his bare chest uptil his bellybutton frame secreatly. But, she had to disappoint him by her constant fear of being valunerbal.

One month later:

Rumi got up expeditiously with rumult and ran to the spot of gathering near the main gate. It was her mother’s dead body. She shooked her cold logged body,  tried to wake her up. Immediately ambulance arrived followed by her call. Doctor announced about body’s lamentation.

One month Before :

Joel is turning 28 today bashing his birthday. Three of them Rumi, her mother and step father is the part of the party. Joel winks at her again.  She kept her eyes immeiately and pretented scrutinising her sandle straps, though seduced by the thought of being copulated with him.

Joel came with glasses of mojitos towards three of them. He kissed Rumi’s mother’s hand in an anticipation of gratitude. Rumi’s mother was in her late forties. She got carried away by Joel’s charm. A passionate dance followed by in between Rumi’s mother and Joel. Rumi’s step father was busy seeing the fine imported wine bottles with his intellectual vista. Rumi left the party out of discontent and with the green eyed monster.

Very soon Rumi found both Joel and her mother in a coitus state on her bed. This has been a hunky dory between them now for several months in Rumi’s step father’s absence. Rumi just had a thought about Joel that of his being flirtatious with her few months ago, not even worthed a damn! Mother f*uker!

Rumi and her step dad were on the way back to home after the creamation. He asked her, “Do you know how this incident took place? How she fell down from the second floor balcony? ”

Rumi looked at him in a hopelessness way.

Her step dad said,  “last night your mother was at Joel’s room. Joel’s parents hammered the door with pique when they came to know their courtship through their old servant Joseph. They violently shouted and heralded by his father that Joel would be disowned from their heritaged property. 28 year old Joel got very much penitent and patrified that he forcefully slammed your mother to the narrow strip of his balcony. It was dark and she could not able control her next step on that slim strip. She fell down on her head. Doctor found it was internal bleeding too. ”

Today:

“Uh ha ha. .Joel. .that’s naughty of you”……

Rumi heard her mother gigling. She opened her eyes softly. She was drowned in her sweats waking up. She realised it was a dream. Rumi came and sat beside her mother on the couch. She was still busy talking over the phone with Joel. She again giggled over the phone in flirtatious way.

“Girl,  I am going for a day out. .ummm with Joel. Don’t worry about my dinner. Tell Dad too”.  Her mother said.

Rumi fumbled for a moment and said, “take care mother! “

Her Supressing Passion

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
H. Jackson Brown Jr., P.S. I Love You

She awaited,  awaited for more than a decade, awaited for the right person to understand her emotionally and physically, a dream of indulging into a lifetime mating. Years and years passed by,  she never came across any man who could touched her core,  who had the same amount of passion,  who had the same belief of spiritual intimacy!

“And then, as if written by the hand of a bad novelist, an incredible thing happened.”
Jonathan Stroud, The Amulet of Samarkand

A very quite man, a writer and a thinker **(at least she beliefs) have been observing her for many months, written poems on her without her knowledge. And several months later that engrossed her.  She started believing his passion, passion towards her. As if her bridles going to be released,  going to be sprouted. As if she her buried passion going to get a new life. Alas!

He was not just into her completely, not even periodically. He had been carrying many other pride moments with other women from his  past. She sighed!

No, she will never believe in her dream again. And she allowed herself to surrender her physical body to entertained by a man whom she couldn’t associated with dream of emotional polarities (a divine sexual energy of men and women). She didn’t wait for the right person anymore,  but she created that dream by her own.

My touch to Vitiligo

It was just few days ago . I rushed to my client ensuring needful to carry along  (Yoga mat ,  bottle of water, props and a towel for myself). This was a last moment deal about the timing ,  fees and place. So ,  he asked me to come to a 5 star hotel gym and provided transport nothing less than an Audi .

I asked for him at the reception; a concierge lead me to the gym area . He waved me quite unbothered way . It’s very difficult for me to make his face out . His skin  was full of patches,  white, pink and little brown. I was little nervous thinking that he shouldn’t make out what thoughts were going in my mind. I was nervous and trying hide it, trying to show how normal and composed I was. When I came near to him he stood up, his one leg was stooped . He was shorter than me but not hesitant about it at all.

I gave him some Yoga Therapies for his legs ,  then Pranayama and half an hour of Guided meditation & Yog Nidra. Ending the session , he asked gym instructor to provide Cranberry Mint juice for both of us. I figured out he was only 25, much younger than me. He said, “I had a different childhood.” “Only few months ago I isolated myself in a room playing only Game of Thrones and *(few other names).”  His hands and feet were completely white and few patches of brown skin. As I finished the drink I immediately asked him my willingness to leave. He offered me the fees in an envelope and as forwarded his hand, I was quite hesitant for a handshake . But , I didn’t want to refuse it and I left with a smile.

Though I knew Vitiligo was not at all contagious but I was more concious about dealing with him. I might have little more in ease if it was a female. Was he concious about his look in front of a woman? Was he feeling pity on himself? Does he curse his life? Then I thought if he was, he would have been sulking instead of pampering himself in a luxurious way. He is definitely  very strong than I thought. Very positive about his future. May be more than anyone of us without Vitiligo, without any scars or other physical adequacy.

How She made Her thoughts Flow into Fluidity -Anais Nin

Dear Leo

I see myself and my life each day differently. What can I say? The facts lie. I have been Don Quixote, always creating a world of my own. I am all the women in the novels, yet still another not in the novels. It took me more than sixty diary volumes until now to tell about my life. Like Oscar Wilde I put only my art into my work and my genius into my life. My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure. I create a myth and a legend, a lie, a fairy tale, a magical world, and one that collapses every day and makes me feel like going the way of Virginia Woolf. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.

It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write. I am gifted in relationship above all things. I have no confidence in myself and great confidence in others. I need love more than food. I stumble and make errors, and often want to die. When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire. I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive. All of which is not for Harper’s Bazaar.

I think life tragic, not comic, because I have no detachment. I have been guilty of idealization, guilty of everything except detachment. I am guilty of fabricating a world in which I can live and invite others to live in, but outside of that I cannot breathe. I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths. My first tragedy sent me to the bottom of the sea; I live in a submarine, and hardly ever come to the surface. I love costumes, the foam of aesthetics, noblesse oblige, and poetic writers. At fifteen I wanted to be Joan of Arc, and later, Don Quixote. I never awakened from my familiarity with mirages, and I will end probably in an opium den. None of that is suitable for Harper’s Bazaar.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.

The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

Anais Nin (1903-1977), faithfully detailed the specifics of her daily movements, including her adjustment to New York, her adolescence, her courtship and marriage, her explorations into sensuality and sexuality, her activities as an aspiring writer and psychoanalyst, her travels between Europe and America, the homes she occupied, the people with whom she associated, the publication of her books, her movements in later life, and the rewards and difficulties of celebrity and wealth. Her skills as a writer are evident in the descriptions of her life’s settings and the sketches of her friends and colleagues. Many prominent individuals are sharply drawn, including Henry Miller, his wife June, Lawrence Durrell, Gonzalo More, Eduardo Sanchez, Otto Rank, John Erskine, and others.

Her Painful Abortion :

Anais Nin (1903-1977) woman who rejected the options handed down to her by life and instead lived by her own rules. She was also modern history’s most dedicated diarist, beginning at the age of eleven and writing until her death, for a total of sixteen volumes of published journals exploring everything from love to self-publishing to why emotional excess is essential to creativity to the meaning of life.

In 1923, when Nin was only twenty, she married the Swiss banker-turned-artist Hugh Parker Guiler. They decided on an open marriage, of which both took ample advantage over the decades. But the biological cards aren’t stacked evenly for men and women in such arrangements, especially two decades before the invention of the birth control pill: In the summer of 1940, while in a highly involved relationship with one of her lovers, Nin found herself pregnant — by her husband. The circumstances were less than ideal: Not only were Nin and her husband already in dire financial straits, but World War II had just broken out, engulfing the world in hopelessness and destruction. Meanwhile, Gonzalo, Nin’s lover, was a highly temperamental and explosive man intensely jealous of Nin’s relationship with her husband, particularly their physical intimacy. Amid these circumstances, Nin and Guiler decided on an abortion.

She recounts the day of the abortion procedure, performed on August 21, 1940, by a doctor who operated on her without anesthesia despite first assuring her otherwise:

From Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1939–1947 (public library) I arrived at nine-thirty and was strapped like an insane person, wrists tied, arms, waist, legs — a strange sensation of utter helplessness. Then the doctor came in. As he began to work, he found the womb dilating so easily that he continued the operation in spite of the terrific pain. And so in six minutes of torture, I had done what is usually done with ether! But it was over. I couldn’t believe it.

The only wonderful moment in all this was when I was lying on a little cot in the doctor’s office and another woman came in. The nurse pulled the curtain so that I could not see her. She was made to undress and lie down, to relax. The nurse left us.

Soon I heard a whisper to me: “How was it?” I reassured her — told her how I had been able to bear it without ether, so it would be nothing with ether.

She said: “How long were you pregnant?”

“Three months.”

“I only two — but I’m scared. My husband is away. He doesn’t know. He must never know.”

I couldn’t explain to her that my husband knew, but that my lover had to be deceived and made to believe I had no relations with Hugh. Lying there whispering about the pain, I had never felt such a strong kinship with woman — woman — this one I could not see, or identify, the one who was also lying on a cot, filled with primitive fear and an obscure sense of murder, or guilt, and of an unfair struggle against nature — an unequal struggle with all the man-made laws against us, endangering our lives, exposing us to inexperienced maneuvers, to being economically cheated and morally condemned — woman is truly the victim now, beyond the help of her courage and aliveness. How much there is to be said against the ban on abortion. What a tragedy this incident becomes for the woman. At this moment she is hunted down, really. The doctor is ashamed, deep down, but falsely so. Society condemns him. Everything goes on in an atmosphere of crime and trickery. And the poor woman who was whispering to me, afterwards, I heard her say to the doctor: “Oh, doctor, I’m so grateful to you, so grateful!” That woman moved me so much. I wanted to know her. I wanted to pull the curtain and see her. But I realized she was all women — the humility, the thoughtfulness, the fear and the childlike moment of utter defenselessness. A pregnant woman is already a being in anguish. Each pregnancy is an obscure conflict. The break is not simple. You are tearing away a fragment of flesh and blood. Added to this deeper conflict is the anguish, the quest for the doctor, the fight against exploitation, the atmosphere of underworld bootlegging, a racket. The abortion is made a humiliation and a crime. Why should it be? Motherhood is a vocation like any other. It should be freely chosen, not imposed upon woman.

Meet Durga – From Singing in train to Bollywood

The songChi Cha Leather of Bollywood movie “Gags of Wasseypur” sung by 12-year-old (that time)Durga grabbed a lot of attention with its unusual lyrics. Hailing from a humble family, Durga has lived in slums all her life. With a passion for singing, she can often be spotted in local trains singing to earn money.

This girl who hails from Andhra Pradesh made a living by singing songs on the Mumbai local trains. She sang on both the suburban sections of the Central and Western rail. She supported her family of 2 sisters by earning meagre amounts of money by singing on the locals.

Anurag Kashyap’s love for the unconventional isn’t restricted to the scripts of his films. The filmmaker, with a good ear for music, had given a break to Band Masters Rangila and Raseela to sing the popular track Emotional Atyaachar in the Abhay Deol, Kalki Koechlin and Mahie Gill starrer Dev.D. And now, he has roped in a train singer, for his latest flick Gangs Of Wasseypur 2.

While Travelling by local train Mumbai film music composer Sneh Khanwalkar, heard the young girl singing. She was struck by the rustic quality of the voice of Durga and promptly auditioned her for a song for the film “Gang s of Wasseypur” where she sang ‘Dil Chi Cha Ledar’. The song was an instant hit and set the sales charts afire. The rest is history as Durga has become a national icon.

The 16 year old is now launching her debut album under the guidance of Bollywood film maker Anand Surapur on which she is working for the past 2 years. Surely there can be no tale more exciting than that of Durga who sang songs on the Mumbai local trains for a living and now is rising as a popular singer on the national circuit. The girl was singing on Mumbai locals since she was 9 till god smiled on her and turned her life from rags to riches. Surely Durga will rise further in Mumbai films .This is a tale that has an element of romance and the girl deserves our support. Her photo can be accessed at.

My next Book -“A Bowl of Salt”

My next Book -“A Bowl of Salt”“A Bowl Salt ” – A teenage girl who never lived with her family,  was disparate to have her own home with her lover. She wanted to feel home-life,  a living room,  bedroom furniture, small corner for prayer to the Deities.  She and her lover took vows in a Hindu Temple and self proclaimed as married.

Very soon,  she realised that her lover was feeling a sense of burden. He couldn’t able to find any work for 3 months. His money which he borrowed from his cousin brother started shrinking.

There is only 5 to 6 kilos of rice remained. Since last week, she couldn’t even able to make him convince to buy a packet of salt which was 9 rupees a kilo. She has become pale,  weak and eyes went into deep pit. She experienced a tremor, sweating and low blood pressure.

Finally bowl of salt she borrowed from her neighbour, which she thought to be the last option. She thought to cook pilaf(pulao) for evening whatever least resources were left 1/3 of cooking oil, few cardamom seeds and Jeera seeds.

She tasted few spoon of it and tears drops on her plate,  she sensed something is not right about her life. She will wait for him to have their dinner together. Time went on,  he never came back. ..

**(Inspired by a true story)