Angshuman Kar

The friend is dead.
The cook has taken her sari, bangles, spectacles, salwar
The maid has taken the colourful bag—a gem purchased from Rajasthan—and Avon lipstick
Knowing fully well that these won't suit her.
My friend's husband has hidden inside the drawer
Books, notebooks, pencil and pen
As these are causing him pain.
No sign.
There is no sign of the friend in her house.

Just
Won't be of any use
Still
I can't delete
9831580259
—Ten meaningless digits
from my phone!
...

Some persons just by staying alive cause us discomfort. Such a man does not harm us, does not threaten us, shows us no hidden knife, does not snatch the gold-locket off a wife's neck. He just keeps living. Year after year, through winter-summer-rain, he survives people's apathy, pelting of brickbats and hot water. We think—it would be better if he died! May we not have to see his face again after tomorrow! But alas! The next day, too, we see him at the bend of the road, by the side of the Shiva temple, close to the railway-platform—just by staying alive, like a sleeping landmine, causing us discomfort!
...

Seeing somebody's head fall, dangle, drop, hang, reminds me of my Papa. At the time of his death, his hand too dropped, hung, fell, dangled. While walking along Adra town, crossing a familiar spot by bus—I remember I remember things about Papa. As he walked along trying hard to control his asthma, after having disposed of Vellore matters, and as he stood by the side of people's suspicion and abhorrence, Papa told me: let's go away . . . where should we go Papa? How far is the world of the moon from our rented house, how many nautical miles, how many furlongs stand between the starting point and the end of our journey—who could say for certain! Just before his death Papa whimpered—Help! Help! Then, was it that oxygen fell short even where you were going, Papa? And did you feel severe pain as you drew your breath, very severe? I have never seen any death before my very eyes—I just saw you die, saw you dying out! You died, and as you fell dead, your hand fell dangling, your neck drooped, totally, you didn't talk, didn't stand up, just died out . . . and quite sometime after you had died, seeing an old nut-seller, one day, on the train, I remembered you, just you! He too had his hand dangling, he too had asthma, had children to look after. Hearing the sounds of his asthma, and the soft hawking of "nuts, nuts", I remembered you, I really missed you very much, Papa.
...

1986
To see Maradona we purchased for the first time a Konark black-n-white, large, television for our home. The first day the TV came, fifteen-to-twenty neighbours were invited, milk-payesh was served along with luchi—all huddling together in a semi circle goggled at ‘Pallikatha'*—they all got to know the Saswati-Chaitali duo; Pramanik auntie explained, "You know, they are two sisters". For quite a long time, all in the neighborhood believed that duo to be two sisters.


1995
Papa and Mamma, and we two brothers were in Purulia. Every one of our friends had a colour TV. So for our home also was purchased a colour TV, though a portable one. Our home was filled up with colour. Our frequenting the cinema-halls lessened. And shortly the Saswati-Chaitali duo dropped off our memory and we grew familiar with Annu Kapoor and Renuka Shahane. The first time I saw Baywatch, my eyes were glazed blind. But I don't remember the name of that TV company, since that set was sold in a short time.

1996
BPL. Large. Colour. When purchased for our home, for the first time I began thinking we're also getting rich-men-like. Sourav's century I saw, Anaida's album, films on STAR-Movies. Mom became an addict, a movie-worm of various serials, but Dad only of cricket and old films on Zee-cinema—of sixties-seventies—the Hindi films with dishoom-dishoom.

2000
Dad passed away.

2003
Even today that self-same BPL set of 1996. Forty-nine channels. Brother says, "This model has gone out of fashion now. Do you know how many channels we're deprived of seeing?" For the last seven days, brother, Tinni and Soma are away—only me, Mom and our maid Asha are at home. Returning home at midday I find—Mom is busy with her needlework but the TV is on. "When you are not watching it, can't you switch it off?" "Actually, you know, in the empty house, none of you are at home—that is my sole friend—when it's on, I feel someone's near about, talking to me—at least I'm not alone".
...

When
Just for a while
I stand on the over-bridge
It seems as if
I'll fall down.
The train runs, runs fast.
The bridge is shaken.
You think—you'll fall down
I think—I'll fall down
If we reach a small measure of height
It seems
We'll fall down
Any moment!
...

Without informing us
Sometimes our friends change their numbers

With however much force we press the green button then
And dial the old number
It does not ring

Sometimes, however, it rings
And a grave unknown voice says
"Wrong number".

Sometimes
It rings and I hear "Hello" . . .
I think I am talking to my old friend
I keep talking.
Ten seconds elapse, twenty seconds
The line does not get disconnected.
Then, after a while,
The person who, in a slightly melancholic voice, says
"Wrong number",
Is also a beggar of words.
Without informing him
His friends too
Have changed their numbers!
...