Food That's Out There

So, I’ve been away for a while because of semesters and the whole burning the  midnight oil and the old saga of covering six months worth of syllabus in six days. However I am back and I missed you guys.

Yesterday evening I had an experience that the inner foodie in me will remember for a long time. My mom is undergoing physiotherapy for arthritis and her physiotherapist is a smiling, happy-go-lucky guy who eats with a passion. This person took me for a ride on his bike to an obscure roadside joint in Asansol.

There was nothing remarkable about the place we were at. A steel counter, a small kitchen cum storeroom and two people inside cooking food.  What caught my eye was a metal pronged collection of kebabs which was slow roasting on an open coal spit. The smoky, charcoal laced aroma on a winter’s night was something that tantalized my nostrils seductively. The next step was lacing this roasted preparation of kebabs with a coriander chutney, in which there was a hint of chilli.

I know the inner foodie in you wants to slaughter me right now, and I do not blame you. However the story isn’t over yet.  The aforementioned kebabs, dipped in chutney were then rolled up in a paratha and handed over to us. It was the most unusual roll I’ve ever eaten and it was better than rolls I’ve eaten in good restaurants.

The funny thing is, there are eateries like this hiding in obscure alleys in big cities too. Sometimes, you need to get on a bus, get off on a location and take a left turn into a dim alley, where you can smell cooking oil being heated and hear the sizzling of onions.  

I found a unique roll yesterday. Who knows what else is out there waiting to be found? Go look!

The Bilge Master

Songs of Experience- A Guest Post by Kiki Ayang

This post is written by a friend of mine called Kiki Ayang. She and I met on the site Campus Diaries. Other poems written by Kiki can be found on Campus Diaries. Please welcome Kiki Ayang to the blog people!

The Bilge Master

Songs of Experience

I

Little Girl

Beautifully larded and scraped by him,

Lyca was skinned alive

But much as she wanted, nothing happened

II

Little Girl Lost

She cried and she cried and she cried,

With the rain, in the storm

Inside her haven,

She longed to sleep and sleep and sleep

In the calming darkness

Away from reality,

Little girl was lost and lost and lost,

She sang a sad tune of a love lost,

She tried to think and think and think

But was lost,

Waiting to be found

Ode to Stingy Jack of the Lantern

On a happy Tuesday, I asked the Devil if he'd like a drink,

He chose to have a rare wine, colored salmon pink,

When time came to pay, I turned to him for coin,

And trapped him in my pocket because I was a swine,

The Devil remembered me deception and he in turn,

Banished me from his kingdom where the Hellfire burns

Wandering the Earth, I came upon our good Lord,

Who refused me the time of day, let alone the Word,

And so I wander the earth today, going door to door,

In the company of witches, warlocks and the Horsemen 4,

They called me Stingy Jack and I am the Pumpkin King,

Beware tonight; I might your bell ring

The Bilge Master

Katie

I had an imaginary friend called Katie,

Who helped me make Earl Grey tea,

Which we drank out of plastic cups,

On the drawing room settee,

She was a quirky girl, was Katie,

And she believed aliens existed,

And told me of worlds where green men and red women,

Mutually co-existed,

Then they told me,

There’s no such thing as Katie,

And I wept for I missed my oldest friend,

Until they made me read of stars and galaxies,

And quasars in Physics and Chemistry,

And I set out to explore Mars, on a craft with astronauts three,

Me, my co-worker and my dearest friend Katie

The Bilge Master 

Goodbye 20!

This is the last day I’ll be twenty. This is the same feeling as last year when I was kissing my teenage years goodbye. But, if I might share a little secret with you, I am glad that this year is over.

This year has seen my family relocate to Asansol. It’s been a year that we’ve been here but the town has grown on us. In spite of that, sometimes it’s difficult being away from home in a shoddy flat in Dum Dum. That being said I have two amazing roomies who make sure I study and party with the same enthusiasm.

But, see the thing is. The thing is, my twentieth year has brought with it a lot of darkness. It’s pushed me into depression twice. It’s made me move houses twice. It’s also made me lose two of my well wishers; one of whom loved me as if I were her own son. I’ve also lost both my cousins. Somehow we don’t communicate anymore.  All the damage seems to have been done 2.0 times this year.

I end this post with a firm look at what’s ahead. I bid my twentieth year bye bye with a song in my heart.

Hello 21!

The Bilge Master

PS. Two good things did happen to come out of this year. One I met my cousins in Bombay and two I have epic juniors in college!

Time and Linkin Park

Sometimes I need reminding that I am a nineties kid. Unfortunately I don't have too many nineties things left with me to remind me of that. My Pokemon card and tazo collection has been given to a kid somewhere down the line. My shorts from that era have been outgrown. My milk teeth fell out and my Batman figures are lost.

However, fast forward a decade and we hit the 00’s. Things start to look up and suddenly I start to listen to Linkin Park. I discover Batman and Robin. I make friends with a kid (literally) who has a guitar.

And the party begins. No stress about marks or college or jobs and CV’s. We are just a bunch of idiotically pimpled kids hanging out on the stairs, despite being told not to loiter in the corridors or stairs.

Alcohol is almost a light year away,  girlfriends are a vague mystery and unity is in our diversity. He comes from Howrah, she from Behala and that duo from Rajarhat. But who cares? The only thing we cared about was whose mom made the best tiffin.

It’s funny how listening to “In the End” by Linkin Park sent me far back to my schooldays. It’s funny how much I miss being told to get out of the class. It’s funny that all my school friends are either in college or worse, jobs!

It’s funny how Time can fly, but then again if there were no Time, there would be no memories or dreams would there?

The Bilge Master

Moving Forward

It has been a long time since I wrote anything. To be honest it is because I was sort of living in the past. I was re living moments that had passed a long time ago and as a result, I was getting nightmares and feeling like crap.

Until I had a talk with my father today and he pointed out the very simple truth that these things are behind me. They cannot hurt me ever again; unless I let them. That’s the key see? What I do to myself is what affects how my condition and my mood stay.

It’s kind of like Green Day’s song 21 Guns. The part where Billie Joe says

“One, 21 guns

Throw up your arms into the sky”

I need to lay my past to rest. I need to move on. I will. From right this moment.

Okay so dad might have snapped at me in anger once. He has been my anchor for the past twenty one years.

The important things in my life are my friends. My happiness and my future.

The important things in my life are not my past, my bygones and who said what to me when.

I think it’s about time I stopped being a royal ass and started to laugh again!

The Bilge Master

The Phoenix

The little boy had gone to the old story teller on the hill again. He loved the stories the old man had to say. Sometimes he would tell of wars fought, sometimes he would speak of the adventures of the Greeks.

But, the boy’s favourite story was the one about the Phoenix

The Phoenix was a bird of splendid beauty, and it was also magical. It had the power to heal people with its tears. It could transport you easily across time and space. The phoenix was the bird of the nobles and the aristocrats. People were in awe of the bird. It’s most important trait was that it was immortal and would burn in a bright flame when the time for it’s death came; and be reborn from the ashes.

Thus, spoke the old man of the Phoenix.

Here below, I have constructed a diorama of what the boy thought the story actually meant. It is the boy’s opinion that the Phoenix teaches us something. It burns up in flame, but always rises from it’s ashes. Maybe the burning is synonymous with the hardships life has thrown at us and the rising from the ashes in nothing but our strength egging us on to master the difficulties. Perhaps what the phoenix means is “never give up, no matter what happens”.

I liked what the boy said. And you, dear reader?  

The Bilge Master

On the Edge of a Rainbow

There was once a girl. She was in her teens. She liked to draw. She also liked graffiti a lot. She always had doodles in her mind and in her notebook. She’d draw Disney characters or comic book characters. Sometimes she would draw herself, either standing or sitting, surrounded by graffiti lettering.

The girl lived in a small town on the outskirts of New Jersey. The town boasted a library, a medicine shop, a small cafe and a bookstore. The girl used to go to the local community school there. Whenever she got a chance, she would graffiti in her school. She used felt tip markers to doodle, so they were removable. The entire building was her canvas, and bit by bit, her art got better and better.

She started to move out of the school building and paint on the walls of the bookstore. She would draw Hemingway, or a scene from a Batman comic or she would use bright colors to initial the walls.

Our artist had soon painted the entire town with some graffiti or the other. Her drawings ranged from lettering, to pictures of the President and scenes from movies were also thrown in for good measure.

In this way, the teenaged girl passed out of high school and went on to study art in Chicago. Seven years passed. Four years of college and three years at an art gallery. She didn’t think of going back. Until one day, her father sent her an email saying that her mother had fallen sick. She took the first train out.

Upon seeing her, her mother was overwhelmed and insisted on talking with her about her new life and how college was. Slowly bit by bit and brick by brick, her mother got better.

Meanwhile, the girl carried on doodling in an exercise book. One day she went out. She went to the bookstore. On her way out, she saw the graffiti she had painted still on the wall she had painted it on. It seemed to have been cared for. It had not faded or been blemished. It had lasted seven years.

The girl felt immensely happy that the town had kept these graffiti decoration she had drawn so well. She also felt at home again in her little town. It was like a trip down memory lane. She was the girl standing on the edge of the rainbow once again; just as she had drawn herself seven years ago.

The Bilge Master

Sandstorm

It was huge. Well over ninety feet in height and spinning around it’s own axis like a vehement top. The noise it made could be heard across two cities. In the center of this wind was a man.

The man had been swept up, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz and was now at the exact center of the sandstorm. He was being lashed about left and right. He had slowly made his way, spiralling with the wind to the center. Now that he was here, where the circles originated from, it was agony.

His muscles screamed in pain and it was quite obvious that his left arm was broken.  He looked up, at the light at the top of the wind and he prayed he would get out of this alive.

They had been going for miles now. He could see a few trees and sometimes a building or two through the swirling sand. The strange thing was that this sandstorm was travelling on the asphalt of a highway and yet was made of sand.

The man closed his eyes and he went on praying. He could not open his mouth in prayer because the sand would get into it and suffocate him. So he had to resort to praying with his mind. He recited the verses of the Koran he had been taught as a child. He remembered what his guru had told him. He could change any situation for the worse or for the good. He had not understood the words of the guru at the time.

As he prayed, he asked for power. He asked for the ability to regain control or the strength to get out of the sandstorm. He saw a white light in his mind’s eye. He concentrated on it. He invited it in and he let it fill him.

The man woke up. His mother had just opened the curtains and his room was flooded with white light. The man shook his head to clear the sleep away.

“Everything okay son?” asked his mother.

“Just a bad dream mother”, he replied.

The man walked out into the rising sun. It was a brand new day. A day that demanded to be enjoyed.

The man began to laugh. He had not laughed in a long time. It felt amazing.

The Bilge Master

Along Came a Spider

Inspired from Neil Gaiman’s novel “Anansi Boys”

In the era of animals, before the homo sapiens had come to exist; there existed a spider. This spider was large and black, and used to make the most geometrically accurate webs. Legend has it that the webs he spun could even capture mammoths and dinosaurs. But, nobody knew when the spider spun his webs. Nobody saw the spider in person. All they did see was the effect; viz. the webs he spun.

The animals realised they could do nothing about the spider and so they began to tell stories of the spider around their dens and their lakes and trees. The legend of the spider grew, almost like a web. 

Time passed. Nobody saw the spider, yet the webs showed up.

Then came the era of man. The discovery of fire. The wheel’s construction. The webs that the spider had spun seemed to have vanished. The men did not fear the spider. They were not even aware of its existence because they did not understand the language of the birds and the beasts. To them, the animals were food. It was not necessary to talk to them. Had they listened, perhaps they would also be able to appreciate the legend of the spider.

The humans evolved. They started to compile histories. In those histories, webs were mentioned. Fossils of animals that had been trapped in the webs surfaced. A group of humans calling themselves archaeologists and chemists studied these webs. The webs were strong, spun like gossamer and able to withstand pressure.

And, just like that our spider was back. People wrote poems about spiders. They wrote about a young group of boys going into a forest and meeting spiders. People also introduced giant spiders, who cocooned their enemies and hung them up as bait. Stories of mutations from spider bites surfaced.

In the coming era, the archaeologists and chemists were called programmers. They connected and interconnected large devices called computers. They created something called the World Wide Web.

And so, at night when the children want to hear a story, often their parents look it up on this World Wide Web.

At the centre of this web, sits a large spider

The Bilge Master

Haunted

The little boy walked towards the figure he saw in the distance. The five foot ten man inside whom he resided seemed afraid of the figure and kept glancing over his shoulder at more of these strange figures which had suddenly appeared all around him.

The man closed his eyes. He saw a large figure, waggling a finger at him and shouting something. He cringed. The figure wouldn’t stop shouting. He tried to attack the figure. But he was overpowered and pinned to a bed.

The little boy was confused. His host wasn’t listening to him. They could not communicate. He felt the host’s pain. He wanted to help but he could not.

Behind the curtain of his eyes, the five foot ten man shuddered and cowered. Now there was another figure in the room, also indiscernible; but shorter than the figure that had pinned him down. 

The man screamed “Don’t shout at me”.

Over and over, he screamed the same thing.

Suddenly, the figure pinning him down was whispering. A few seconds later he was made to lie down and told to close his eyes. 

The large figure spoke to him softly, but once again the words were indiscernible.

The little boy wished his host would listen. He felt chained. Wanting to help, but not being allowed to.

Meanwhile in the real world, the one of wakefulness; the man walks on towards the horizon. He sees indiscernible shapes to his left, his right and his front and rear. They form a sort of wall and cordon him in.

Internally, the boy screams. The man merely opens his mouth. No words come out.

The Bilge Master

Two Girls

 The post below is written by a pen pal of mine and her friend Jenny. Kestrel van der Mark and I met on Omegle of all places from where we swapped email ID’s and have been in touch since. In this world of technological marvels, people like me sitting in India can connect with someone like Kestrel in America.

So please welcome Kestrel and Jenny to the blog everyone!

The Bilge Master

The Girl Everyone Hated

I was the girl that everyone hated. They were jealous of me, and I knew it. Perfect grades, loving family, nicer calculator, you name it. But I was untouchable, both in the caste system karma type of way and like a god. Maybe that's why they never showed how much they despised me to my face. I didn't give them a single reason to justify their hate, so they couldn't call me out on it. But I wish they had. I wish they had said hateful things like I never belonged, or I should kill myself. I wish I were the target of blatantly hateful comments. Because if I had been, I would laugh. I would see the confusion and fear on their face when their "victim" couldn't stop laughing like a full blown maniac at their insults, and they would just stand there wondering why. 

But I would have thought it was funny that THEY thought they were the most hateful ones. They gave it their best effort to be hateful and they still didn't come close to the person who hated me most. Myself. I would have thought it hilarious that while they were building themselves up by tearing me down, it would never come close to how each passing second, my mind tore itself apart bit by bit until all that was left was the shell everyone saw on the outside. I would have thought it ironic that while they saw the beautiful facade, I couldn't find a single redeemable quality about myself. But they didn't indulge me. Instead they gave their fake smiles and were friendly without being friends. That was way worse than any hurtful words. Because that allowed my mind to do what it does best. Twist reality. I could imagine what they were thinking as I walked away. I could almost hear their mental conversations. I knew what they thought about me, and that just fed the cycle of destruction ripping through my mind. I was the girl everyone hated. They were jealous of me, but they shouldn't have been.

******

The Girl Everyone Loved

I was the girl everyone loved. The looked up to me, and I knew it. Perfect grades, good advice, supportive parents, you name it. But I was untouchable, in the way people don't know if they're allowed to touch a ancient artifact or expensive painting. For fear they might mess it up...or worse, be yelled at. Maybe that's why no one ever was close to me. I presented myself as an open book, but so many of the pages were stuck together and therefore illegible, that no one bothered trying to read them. 

I wish they had touched, though. I wish they had messed me up. I wish they had pried the pages apart and tried to translate the language that floated in my words. Because maybe then they would have understood how imperfect everything I am was. Because if they had, I would not have been their leader, their role model. I would not have the one they turned to. I would have instead been looked at with pity and I would have smiled. Because had I been closed and replaced on my shelf, I would have become dusty. I would have become static. Had people understood the literature of my being, and been revolted as they would, reviling me in my disgusting thoughts and morbid curiosities and broken suicidal distortions, perhaps then I would not have been held to the same high expectations. I would have gleefully succumbed to the dark shroud that would accompany failure. 

I would have gracefully closed my eyes and relished the disgrace of mediocrity. I would thoroughly enjoy my stream of easy contentment and low achievement while others, those who strived to be like me, instead strived for their own low level dreams. 

But they didn't read me. While I climbed to the top of the stairway to heaven, I artfully used illusion to distract those around me from the pieces of myself that I tore from within and placed under my feet as steps. What they didn't know, but would have, was the way I bottled my tears and drank them instead of water, the way I forced my own blood into the ink of my pen, and the way I held my breath for fear of disturbing the universe. As I suffocated, my cheeks gleamed, and their words crashed in waves of delight at the porcelain statue in their presence. They smiled glittering shards of admiration and I drank it in as one does a poison, with knowledge enough that it would kill me, but with ignorance enough to proceed. And as they applauded me and my efforts and my elegance, I beatifically accepted their praise with open arms, silently begging someone to take my hand. I brushed mistakes under a mountain-like carpet and smiled with my mouth closed to avoid letting the secrets of my self-terrorism reveal the cipher that my pages depicted. I was the girl everyone loved. They looked up to me, but they shouldn't have

*****

 K (@Kestrel_LAOD) and J (@Jenny_LAOD) 

Eulogy

In Memory of my Grandmothers Nilima Mitra and Reba Dam, whom I miss.

There is a house somewhere in this town,

Where two ladies and a family used to live,

The family lives there now,

And the ladies are gone,

One of them was an exceptional cook,

The other had a wonderful collection of stories,

The cook also liked to read and had

A grandson who loved her,

The other lady ran out of stories in 2014,

Now, the family lives on,

And so does the grandson,

But,

The house isn’t the same

Without these two ladies of quality

To save it’s heart and soul

Of Friendships

I had a friend in high school, or what we call the XI-XII in this part of the world. This friend went on to get nineties and now studies his Masters in English at a reputed university in Kolkata.

We were at one point of time, inseparable and it used to be me spending half  of the week at his house and him spending half of  the week at mine. Mom always cooked dinner for him whenever he’d come irrespective of whether he ate it or not. I was extended the same courtesy when I went to his house.

Yet somehow by the time both of us went to college our   friendship broke off. It took it’s time. Three years of it in fact, but it broke, with an audible snap. The last time we talked on the phone, we spoke like strangers and this is a month ago. I’d called him after maybe over six or eight months.

On the other hand, the other day I met up with a girl I had last seen in class IV. I’m talking about the year 2005. Ten years. It was as if those ten years had just not happened. Sure, I was a little taller and she was prettier than I remembered her, but she was still the same old girl I knew in school.

So, I have one friend whom I used to hang out with daily, who became a stranger. I have another friend who should be a stranger but is in fact still a very close and very dear friend.

Hmm. Life thou art most puzzling and thy mood swings doth leave me a-wonderin’

But then again as Poets of the Fall say

“Life doesn't run a clear course
It flows through from within
It's supposed to take you places and leave markings on your skin"

The Bilge Master

Blank Pages

I always feel refreshed at the sight of a blank page. It doesn’t smell. It has no lines. It’s just blank, and it’s waiting patiently for someone to do something and fill it up with words.  It can’t read the words either. They are all ones and zeros to it. But, nevertheless, there it is. A blank page that is waiting.

Waiting for what? Is this the blank page that will see a new work of art unfold? Is it the blank page that will see a short story written? 

Will this blank page be the start of a legal document? Can some words scribbled on a blank page be enough to spark an international incident?

I wonder.

Or, will the page remain forever blank, forever waiting for someone to come and etch some meaningful words into it?

I wonder how many such pages are written on, torn out, re-written on and left to gather dust in corners of drawers or the linings of dustbins. I wonder how many blank pages shed their blankness and become that love letter she wrote to you. I wonder how blank pages came together and told a writer to write on them, so you now have a book in front of you.

And I wonder, is the pen mightier than the sword, because like the sword has its hilt, the pen has its blank page?

The Bilge Master

Bad Dreams

My mind is confused and in pain. I am seeing things in my dreams that I know to be untrue. I am seeing myself die. I am waking up from these dreams with screams on my lips.

Sometimes, the dreams are worse, and more vivid. I see myself shove a dagger into my friend or strangle my cousin with my bare hands.

What these dreams are, where they have come from I do not know. 

I am told they will haunt me for a while.

I hope I can exorcise the demon that causes these dreams, for in his realm even the Dream King bows low.

The Bilge Master

The Little Things Give You A Way

Sometimes, the little things matter.

Sometimes, all you need is a tweet to change your entire day.

Sometimes, it’s that old blues singer your mom listened to when you were in diapers.

Other times, it can be a new pair of glasses, or a drink with your father.

The little things that give us a way out from the blues are so often overlooked; that I sometimes feel sorry for them. I’m dog tired, after having spent fourteen hours on the road, but then again, it’s been a good day.

The little thing that made my day today was having a coffee flavoured candy purchased from a highway side ramshackle shop.

After all, a lot does happen over coffee, isn’t it?

PS after seeing this, how can you not agree?

The Bilge Master

The Tunnel

I’m in a tunnel, somewhere in between the entry and the exit.  I forget which is which. That’s why, I’ve spent a long time in this tunnel. Almost a year infact.

In that time here, I’ve not been idle. On some days, I’ve explored it. Inside the tunnel there is an underground pool. I swim there sometimes, lost in my thoughts, which float above me like charged electron pi-clouds.

You can tell, by an odd noise when it’s day time in here, though most of the time it’s dark. I don’t have very good vision, which is why I have trouble seeing sometimes.

One thing is very clear though. I will have to find a way out of this tunnel. But, the thing is, I like the tunnel too. It’s interiors appeal to me, though I wouldn’t call them safe. Aside from the pool, there are creatures here- huge spiders and bats and some sort of carnivore that even these animals fear.

The stalagmites and stalactites are sharp, and fall continuously. I suspect them to be made of acid, because when I took one and dropped it in water, the water started to fizz and bubble.

The tunnel is scary. It is not friendly. I get the feeling it has tricked me into being in it, by its appealing interior.

But, no matter what, I shall leave this tunnel, and hopefully I shall leave it soon.

The Bilge Master

Autumn Leaves

“Leaves are on the ground,

Fall has come,

Blue skies, turning grey,

Like my love’

Alter Bridge, Watch Over You

Otum was in a hurry. He had stayed a little too late at office and as a result, there was a chance he would miss the train home. He started to jog towards Central station, brushing past the occasional pedestrian and leaping over a few puddles.

Yes, it was raining and he had forgotten an umbrella. He hated London.

Otum managed to make it to Charring Cross station and onto the platform just in time for the train. It was pulling in when he arrived, panting from having jogged his way there and cursing under his breath, because he was soaked to the skin.  He heard someone approach and felt a tap on the shoulder.

He turned around.

“Don’t scream”, said the figure facing him. “Board the train, we can talk on the way”

-------------

“What are you?”, was the first question out of Otum’s mouth.

“I am a man, Otum. I just have a scary face. I’ve come here to your world in order to have a little fun.

“Fun? What fun?”

 “Am I the only one that can see you?  I don’t  see anyone else looking in our direction.”

“Others can see me, but they see just a man in a Homburg hat chatting with you. I can’t broadcast my existence like this to everyone. There would be anarchy! I have to obey certain rules. But all that later. The train has started and so has the game!”

“Now, to the business at hand.  I told you I was bored. I am. I want to play a game with you. I have jumbled up the names of the train stations on this route. You mean to get off at Piccadilly. You’re going to have to get off at Piccadilly station.

Understand the game. Piccadilly station is still Piccadilly station, but the name of the station is different. It looks the same, it goes the same way. But it’s name isn’t Piccadilly. I won’t tell you what the name is. That would be cheating.”

Otum smirked. He knew what Piccadilly looked like and he knew it would take twelve minutes to get to Piccadlly. Of those twelve minutes nine had passed, and so Otum got up from his seat and headed to the door.

The train began to slow. The djinn was behind Otum. He whispered “You’re sure about this?”

Otum replied “Oh yes. I know Piccadilly”, and stepped off the train.

----------

The stranger and Otum got off the train. The stranger was laughing heartily. He came up to Otum and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well done boy! Well played. Now, you get a prize from me. You got the month of October as a prize.”

“October?  The month? What will I do with October? “, asked a bewildered Otum.

“That’s upto you, my boy. Meanwhile, I need to rush.”

The man vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving Otum with a legal deed to October in his hands.

------

Dinner was quiet. His wife, Lena had made pot roast, spiced with cinnamon, his favourite dish. But, Otum ate without tasting. He was preoccupied with the deed to October in his pocket.

After dinner, over coffee his wife asked im if everything was okay.

“You seem a little off tonight dear. Long day at office?”, she asked

“Yes. That new plant project manager called. He wasted my entire lunch hour.”

“Take a valium and try to sleep Otum.”, advised Lena

Otum had trouble sleeping that night. He had a very strange dream. In his dream, he saw a tree with yellow leaves, under a blue sky. Slowly, clouds appeared in the sky and the tree’s leaves started becoming tinted with red.

After some time, the tree had bloody orange leaves and the sky was grey.

Otum woke up, with a scream. Lena who was next to him switched on the light.

Her husband was shaking and covered in sweat. He groped frantically for his glasses. Lena found them for him and put them on him. She helped him out of bed, told him to splash water on his face and then went downstairs to make tea.

Otum told her what he had seen in his dream. He told her about the tree with yellow leaves. He told her how the leaves took on an orange hue, which seemed bloody orange, as if a person’s blood were being mixed with the leaves.

“Does this mean you need to take a life, Otum?” asked Lena.

“The contract merely states that I own October and that it is mine to keep or change as I see fit. No mention is there of taking lives in October.”, said Otum.

It was morning by then and so Otum started to get ready to go to office.

Office was a normal day. No strangers jumping out of corners and giving him months of the year. He got home around six and showered. He couldn’t get the dream out of his head. What did it mean? Did the tree exist? Was he supposed to find the tree? These questions and more kept whirling around his head.

Over dinner, he told the rest of the family about what had happened. His children aged 3 and 6 both demanded that the Oktoberfest parade be done every day. His father immediately sprinkled holy water on him, scared that he was possessed by some spirit. He also asked Otum to destroy the document.

Otum said, “I tried. I cannot burn it, cut it, or shred it.”

That night, Otum dreamt again. Once again, he saw a tree. The tree was green this time, and the sky above it was forget-me-not blue. Slowly as Otum watched, the sky changed colour. It became greyish. At the same time, the green leaves of the tree became tinted with red.

Otum looked around. He was in a grove. All the trees in the grove had leaves in full bloom, which were all slowly turning red, one tint at a time.

He walked in the grove for a while. He walked up to one of the trees and asked, “What is happening to you?”

The tree replied, “The year ended. I am growing old. Just as you grow old. This is the season trees grow old.”

“When does this happen?” asked Otum

“It happens just before the winter comes and all is cold, and our leaves are covered with frost. During this time when the trees age, the animals who hibernate search for food. It has always happened in the months before winter. Humans haven’t noticed. They do not know to listen and see things. They do not know the many faces of Nature. They are like babies, shielded in their wombs”

“And when winter passes?”

“The new trees, younger trees grow. The green trees. Flowers bloom. Butterflies can be seen. Robins chirp. You see friend, people tend to see only three seasons- spring, summer and winter. Seasons are not three, but four. Do you understand now?”

Otum looked at the tree, and slowly he smiled.

“Yes, I do.”

--------

“A new season? You want to make a new season?” asked Otum’s wife

“Yes. I know what the dreams mean now.” Said Otum. He explained the dream he had to his wife. His wife, like him was initially surprised but then she understood.

“I can’t believe that I didn’t notice the trees before. Look, there’s a yellow one outside!”

Otum looked up and saw the tree from his dream. He smiled. He knew that he was doing the right thing.

On the deed he had for October, there was a small space. In that space, Otum wrote that October would have a new season, one called Autumn, In autumn the trees would grow old and their leaves would change colour. Autumn would welcome winter and would last till November, when the cold and snow came. The skies would be greyish. Occasionally there would be a little rain. The leaves would turn orange-ish or reddish, and they would fall from the trees after the first few weeks.

He signed the deed and then went to have dinner.

------------

That night, Otum dreamt of the tree again and how it changed colour. The red colour seemed a little familiar. He turned around and saw the man who had given him the deed.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“Me” the man smiled. “You’ve done well with the deed I gave you. You figured out what October needed. I forgot to mention who I am. I am a djinn. You call us genie in your language. Not all that we do, but part of our function is to cause some form of mischief. “

“What? Why did you pick me to do what you could have done yourself? “

“That’s just it, I can’t change anything. It has to be a human who sees something different and changes it. After all, you are made in 

God’s image are you not? We are merely mischief makers.

“I forgot to mention another thing. In order for the change to work, you must die. That red color seems familiar to you, because it is your blood that is staining the leaves thus.”

“What you mean is, said Otum, I must die for this to happen.”

“Yes Otum.”

“People will see this beauty unfold each year, but my family, they will grieve!”

“Why do you think it that way? Every time you children see an autumn leaf, they will remember their father. Whenever the monsoons pass, your family will remember you, through this season. Why think the negative? Look at what your mind has created here!”

Otum smiled at these words. He drank it all in. The trees, the winds from the west. The sky.

He smiled and closed his eyes.

---------

“My husband died in his sleep last night. I am told he felt no pain. He didn’t have much of an estate but it’s to be divided as we see fit. My husband was a kind man; he used to do things for people. This eulogy barely does him justice. I wish I could tell you what he was like.”

As Otum’s wife read this from the church dais, a small, reddish yellow leaf fluttered onto her palm.

The Bilge Master

Demons

I have been diagnosed with bipolar depression type II. It hurts. It hurts like hell. Some days it's ike a knife in your chest. Other days are gloomy.

This is what I want to say to this disease.

And, when I close my eyes, I see mother

I see friends, I see family
I see all that you cannot have
And I pity you Darkness
For all your wisdom, I stand wiser

And this tale will end, within my mind

Come, let us dance!

There is a funny story mother told me,
About anger turned sideways, turned inwards and turned out
She told me about you, and what it is you do

I may not have faced you in all of your glory before
But face you I did

Chases and games of cat and mouse

How long till dinner is served?

You think the pill will save you ?

It will bleed you dry,

Kneel boy, and cry

And I will be a merciful Lord

Top of Form

Run.

Run away boy. I'm coming for you.

Look at me. Face me!

Your friend is back boy.

Come to me, let me in

Don't resist

It's okay boy

You shall not pass demon!

ASHESH MITRA