“What am I doing, bursting into paint? I am a writer; I ought to stick to ink. I have found my medium of expression; why at the age of forty, should I want to try another?” D H Lawrence, contrary to what he says here, had taken to painting much earlier in life, when he was at the fringe of adolescence.
The writer and I met at Victoria Memorial during a lit-fest. I waited till he finished with the autograph hunters. He’s a coffee-man. We sneaked into Flurys.
You often speak to ruins and they speak back. Is that true?
Along the once-much-too-familiar
But now skidding-into-oblivion route,
That reeked of scenes
Emblazoned on the gateway of my heart,
I beat on my hooves,
After eons of time, it seemed.
A little patch of red white and pink plant fronting a shanty made me stop in my tracks.
Do you tend to this plant? I asked the shack-dweller, a recluse.
Do you always record your dream as soon as you wake up, even if it’s at dead of night? I ask my writer-friend.
Yes, otherwise they vanish never to return. The unresolved ideas I hit the sack with often get sorted out in my dreams.
Alone on the lonely bridge
Where the river chortles under eternally
I ran into a Scottish lady.
She was recording
The gurgling sound
Of the running water.
A good hour into the interview
She was still not in a mood
To let the audience have
A peep into her heart.
Then took the Rendezvous
The longed-for turn
With this shot from the talk show host:
“What’s the secret
Of graduating from rustic Rekha
To where you stand now
Oozing confidence through every fibre—
A complete transformation?”
It’s small hours when the phone rings.
“Hi Mo, Mi here. Get to the roof. Quick! I know you’re fond of moonrise. Watch the moon set!”
From the Grant Trunk Road side, there is an access way to Sheoraphuli Railway Station (Kolkata Suburban). If you enter the compound from this side, you first come across a stagnant pool fenced by iron railings. It is also an auto and rickshaw stand close to a fruit market
In a few corners hugging the banks of this foul waterbody, rarely seen by the commuters, and absolutely untended, spreads out a bunch of round floating leaves, and through them peep out a variety of lotus flowers and water lilies.
I take my relative to a Psychiatrist.
Doc, I say, all night she remains stark awake. She drifts off to sleep only when a dove starts cooing outside her bedroom window at dawn. She’s just landed a good job that’ll require her to do morning-shift soon.
