A Metro Menu (Part II)—The Amazing Amiyo

I can easily remember Amiyo, our class-mate( a one of his kind boy who deserved himself to be a real know-all). A rather plump figure with a pair of specs having glasses made from the base of two tea-glasses . Sitting usually on the front rows he tried to give an impression to the teachers that whenever they would search for an answer from the students he must be the first choice to ask. And then the scene. When a question being asked, he stood up like a confident looking one. At first his body language showed he was ready to deliver the most appropriate answer. He swayed his hands frantically with words coming out like waterfalls from his mouth. But the teacher could not realize a single point. Then he helplessly started scratching his head (which almost reminded us of a perfect nest of a bird) as if Einstein was trying to describe his E=MC2 in front of a bunch of hollow brains. Obviously the teacher could not realize this and finally we saw him standing on the bench or kneeling down outside the classroom. But that never deterred him from doing the same act in the very next class.

Last year in Durga Puja (Durga Festival) he took a bet with his group that emptying a 750 ml. of McDowell alone would take a seven and half minute spell to him and that too without taking anything. In reality, everyone in the vicinity heard a shrilling voice tearing apart the area that night at 3 a.m. telling someone “It’s not fair that you three attacking a helpless guy like me at a time. Come one by one.” It was heard that after consuming a quarter of it Amiyo went k.o. Some times later when others were busy in playing cards he wanted to stand up but failed. Seeing this, Bhoja, a stoically-built- partially-crack, who was sitting next to him getting some fellow-feeling oozing out just like volcanic eruption and therefore tried to help him. So Amiyo stood like the Leaning Tower of Pisa over Bhoja's shoulder and moments later he showed his gratitude to Bhoja by gushing out everything from his stomach to all over him. Every one was ready to watch a live bull fight as Bhoja was now gradually marching towards Amiyo like a raging bull. Then came that utmost cry of him as he still seeing one into three. However, at the end he was saved by all of the others present there.

A Metro Menu (Part I)—Pota the pathetic

If you mix chilli powder with gun powder in equal proportion and then add a handful of RDX in it; after that stir the mixture into 500 ml. of Hydrochloric acid and finally put two drops (though a drop is enough) of Potassium Cyanide in it, you get the perfect blend of a rare human species who is otherwise called Sumit. Now, if you become very excited to meet such sublime soul (inside an x-ray body with a pair of spooky eyes always in search of something interesting!!) and ask anyone in the housing complex for redirecting you to Sumit’s place, none you can find to get the help from in this regard. Because he is renowned by the name POTA (originated from the word Potassium Cyanide!!!). Such a feeling one could have when he would like to meet him or accidentally get in touch with him. Hats off to that man who after judging his real potentiality of making other people nuts within few seconds (if that man could survive) awarded him that state-of-the-art name which could only fit for him.
The younger between the two, that enfant terrible(!) lived with his parents on the third floor. It was always a scary but adventurous one to step into their apartment. In 90% of the cases, within 10 seconds from opening up the door and putting foot into the room anyone would definitely be struck hard either by any part of a plaything or by any other utensils that could come rushing like a missile either from the drawing room or from kitchen. Those who had acquainted with it got into the room scrawling and took guard behind the showcase or bookshelf before his parents could appear. But if someone would think it safe to call them from the lounge lifting his head, he would be playing with his fate. He could have observed a swarm of UFOs might have come crushing in a break-neck speed towards him and would have been bombarded upon him before he could finish recalling his own father’s name.
When outside, he was the nightmare to many—from the branded lunatic Jogai to the stray dogs of the locality, to the beggers on the street. That mad man Jogai who otherwise turned violent with the temperature got soared up looked very restless when in a faintest sign he could realize that Pota was around. It all happened in Deewali (Festival of light) night when Jogai sitting under a lamp post was busy writing his autobiography in some old newspaper with some 14 pens he collected from the local vat. Suddenly he noticed that Pota was chuckling at him. Within seconds he was the sole player of a game called ‘dancing to the tune of light and sound of crackers’. A packet of crackers was placed in the side pocket of the cloak he started wearing most probably dated back to Sepoy Mutiny. The dance was really a feast to the eyes. It ended when he finally ran like a triggered bullet to the nearby tank and jumped into it.