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.
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.
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