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.

A Real Life H(Z)ero?

Do you know when you feel a real hero, a gallant? When you are able to comply the demand of a woman. You can talk big. Stand in front of them with head high. Otherwise you feel like a servant, a thief or a crook. Even you can notice your language changed.

“Can’t find it ma’am.”
What a stare he received? A hysterical look mixed with harsh chiding.
“Couldn’t find?”
“No.”
“where you gone?”
“Almost every store here.”
“Now what?”
“It’s almost 12. Turn off the light and go to sleep.”
“What ‘bout this milk? This huge lot of milk?”

It’s 12 at night. There is a pan of milk in front of them. At one side the husband is scratching his neck. On the other, his wife standing like a kuchipudi dancer with hands resting on her waist. At last she gives the 11th Commandment.
“Drink it.”
“Drink it?”
“Yes drink. Drink all through the night. you want to spoil the money? D’ya know what’s the rate of milk per liter? How difficult it is to manage the budget?”
“that’s right. I’m not at all involved. Only you are.”
“O.K. now drink it.”
“You know the price per liter of milk. Do you know my rate per kilo.If I drink it, I’m ready to give up the ghost. You cannot find me anywhere. You can buy milk—bottle after bottle, packet after packet.But I’m just only one piece. Can’t find a second one after me.”

They know that husband is much more cheaper than the regular necessary things. He is a many-in-one type commodity.

It’s 2 at night....

“Hey, you hear me?”
“Hmm...Tell me? See ghosts somewhere? Trying to seduce you outside the window? What a shameless crook?”
“Stop it! How could I think of a ghost when you are around?”
“Then what?”
“Brought tea-leaf?”
“My God! Remember tea at 2.30 A.M.?”
“Oh yes. Why should you think? It’s my family after all...... You got it or what?”
“No. Forgotten completely.”
“O.K. Get boiled water in the morning. Can’t do anything. Lost everything just for thinking for this family and nothing else.”

This earth keeps on revolving in the space at this hour of midnight. The space has got some problems. Many pairs of sleepless eyes in several places searching space objects over telescopes. People in the lab trying to invent a panacea. Jawans are all awake in the snow-infested fronts in Leh, Ladakh. And here in a 12/12 room a man sitting like an owl, lamenting over not bringing tea-leaf that his wife had commanded !!

Tell me what you can say?

For a piece of peace

After a prolong searching for an apartment in a quiet and peaceful atmosphere to lead the rest of his life Mr. Lahiri got it at last. Though the price of the flat was quite a pincher, he, a heart patient, gave the serenity of the place his priority. Within a month it was all settled. He got the first floor South facing one with a li’l porch where he could place an armchair in sultry summer nights and enjoy the breeze caressing him while watch the star-studded sky up there for hours together. The stillness was so complete as if he could hear the crickets clearing their throats with cough syrup. For the first seven days he was almost on cloud nine for having such a coveted place to live in that he consider to be staying just on the edge of heaven.

It was the eighth day that ‘jaywalker’ Janardan (that moniker appropriately given by Mr. Lahiri himself) put his feet right into the apartment rather to say into the heart of Mr. Lahiri. He stayed in the second floor just next up to Mr. Lahiri’s. A wealthy businessman directly proportionate to his body width, Janardan usually came late at night. He opened the collapsible main gate with all his power resulting a huge screeching sound that tore apart the entire apartment. Then he stomping his feet on the stairs in a bid to reach his flat. That shuddering sound of boots with the dolby stereophonic effect almost hit Mr. Lahiri in his heart like a bullet. There were 37 steps. There were 37 nightmares to Mr. Lahiri.

And that was not the end. After reaching his flat Janardan threw his boots in different directions in his room that also produced an equal sound of a bomb exploded right next to the ears of Mr. Lahiri. Through the entire process he squatted on his bed clutching his chest and prayed to god when that would end.

Sooner it became a day’s ordeal. But one night the thing took a bizarre turn. It was all the same. Janardan opened the gate. Then he thumped his boots 37 times. Went into the room. Closed the door. A little after there came the sound of throwing of his one boot. But there was a silence. No sound of the second one. One...two...five minutes gone. Mr. Lahiri waited still clutching his chest. Ten...eleven...fifteen. It was too much to bear. Mr. Lahiri’s patience ended. Somehow he managed to get up, went upstairs still clutching his chest. Heavily gasping he rang the bell of Janardan’s flat. No one responded. He stayed there and kept on ringing just to see the end of it. After five minutes or so the door was opened. Mr. Lahiri saw Janardan drowsily looking at him.

Giving no chance to speak any word Mr. Lahiri said, “What’s the matter? Have you worn one boot today?”

“What do you mean uncle?” Janardan couldn’t figure out anything.

“For how long I have to stay awake clutching my heart in anticipation that here come the moment I could hear the heart-wrecking sound of your another boot? Please throw it right now and let me sleep peacefully.” He groaned.

Janardan looked at his own feet. The boot on his right leg was still there. Being felt dog-tired he could only manage to unfasten one boot and then he dozed off.

Man in the mirror

The other day I chanced upon a man. The incident was so bizarre that I still could not brush it off from my memory. After some shopping I was returning home. It was almost half past eleven in the morning and the sun was about to start frying everything down here (including the little something that I still have under my scalp). I got a tremendous urge to place myself in a cool corner of my room without losing a second. As I was about to kick-start my bike I saw a man coming frantically towards me waving his hand as if he recognized me to be his old pal. I was blank. Could not figure out such a profile to be any of my known ones. His clothing showing some different signals though, his face (two of his extremely yellowish teeth lost their places) with hairs almost stood vertical on his head was beaming with a frightful happiness. Before I could utter a sound he exploded, “Got married at last! What else to do? They (probably family members) forced me. Couldn’t escape this time. Believe me, I had requested them with folded hands. But...........”

I was in a limbo. I asked vaguely, “Aren’t you enjoying the story?”

“What story?” he groaned, “It’s soap without any recess! It all started with a mellow family drama giving me a feeling that the world is a chocolate factory. But of late I’ve discovered who the worker is. See this?” He raised his shirt to show some wound marks on his left arm.

“How many times you have been vaccinated?” I astonished.

“Vaccination my foot! I got plenty of this all over,” He gasped, “She termed it ‘ broom-treatment’.”

“Why are you waiting for then? Leave her now?” exhaustedly I enquired.

“Have I told you that I want to leave her? Those are the wounds of love.” he grinned.

I couldn’t understand what he was—a nut? a philosopher? or what? I started my bike and quipped, “O.K. Go to a medical store now, get a tetvac and buy a bottle of insecticide. Then tell your wife to soak the broom with that every time she’ll use it on you.”

I throttled the bike to its utmost to leave the scene as if there’ll be no tomorrow.

Have I rediscovered myself?