Hope

Another blank page stares at me

Waiting

It is waiting to be stained with words

Written in digital ink

I wonder if I will tell a story this time

My first ballad maybe?

I do not feel like writing

But nevertheless the idea

The idea won't be denied

Therefore

I am writing of the present

As the clock ticks on

And rain lashes the windowpanes

I wipe sweat from my brow

And try to differentiate a function

With music, my ally and dear friend

And darkness, my old one

As witnesses

While all around me the silent house

Slumbers in peace

It is now 5 AM

And we are on our way into the light

I close the books and try to sleep

In the growing light that fills me with hope

The Bilge Master

Coffee

Halloween 2011 was progressing just like an ordinary day would, until the evening came. It brought with it a group of kids out trick or treating. They rang our doorbell and screamed trick or treat into my face. I of course handed them an entire box of sweets from the fridge. I mean who wants to get in trouble with a group of kids?

That same evening, I met the group coming out of another building in the complex. I'd gone to fetch something for my mother. This time, having already tricked and treated me, they stopped and chatted. There was this dark girl with shining black eyes who was clearly the leader of this ragtag bunch and she made an impression on me. She told me she loved Halloween. I told her I did too, principally because I could use my sixth sense well on Halloween to smell out ghosts.

Her eyes widened and she blurted out "How can you do that?" I told her I was born with it. She immediately asked me if there were any ghosts in Sherwood (Sherwood Estate, Narendrapur where we stay) and was very disappointed when I said no.

I saw her in the compound the next day or rather she saw me and introduced herself as "Coffee". I told her that was the name of a beverage. She replied that it was also her name. A friendship was struck up and maintained. Coffee refused to tell me her real name, but she had a brain like a razor blade. We would discuss Harry Potter, Porcupine Tree and The Beatles on walks around the Sherwood compound. She could walk almost as fast as me despite being eight inches shorter.

We became good friends very fast. I think I was drawn to her intellect. She would give me life advice that actually made sense, she would pry into my life but do it in such a way as to not give offense. She told me when her dog passed away, but I never saw her cry.

She was one of the strangest, quirkiest and rewarding friendships I had ever had.

And then, one day she vanished into thin air. She had just mentioned that she was headed for London. That was all the information I got out of her.

We had shifted to Asansol and this flat in Sherwood remained empty for three years, until we came back to Kolkata and moved in here again. I take a walk daily around the campus and I take the route Coffee and me used to take- starting out in front of the clubhouse and circling the entire complex from that epicenter. 

Coming back here has brought back memories of the friendship.

I wonder where Coffee is now. I wonder what she's doing. I wonder if she is ever going to read this and I hope someday I'll see her again. I might be sounding naive but there it is. Let us see what happens next,and if at all this friendship resumes.

The Bilge Master

Replacement - A Guest Post by Arunima Prakash

The post below is written by my friend Arunima Prakash. Welcome her to the blog people!

The Bilge Master

Replacement is a lie,
You can never really be replaced.
No one has the same hues you do,
Or the same smile.
No one else can wrinkle their eyes,
The way you do when you laugh
And even the sun bathes each person,
in a different shade of gold.
The pores on your skin
Are like no other,
And no one smells the way you do,
After a long day at work,
When all you want is to close your eyes
But instead you look at yourself in the mirror,
And wonder if someone similar exists and you go to bed smiling,
Cuz you know they don't.
Replacement is a lie told by world's poorest liars

The City

He had seen many things in the city- slums, nightclubs, bookstores hidden in dilapidated buildings. He had friends there and his college as well. He knew quite a few people, handpicked from various places such as Facebook or his school and college and sometimes just by saying hello on the street.

He remembered the time when he went shopping at Gariahat for the first time, how the crowd had seemed immense and had frightened him. He remembered walks down College Street and the Esplanade area, looking for something unusual to add to his collection of knick knacks. He remembered meeting his sister in law at Cafe Coffee Day and how proud his brother had looked while making the introduction. He also remembered the bookstore a friend took him to and how there were books there on every surface. Memories filled the city, such as meeting his junior’s girlfriend and hitting it off with her, or the first time a senior had said hello to him in college.

He remembered his student’s father, whom he had introduced to Coldplay. He remembered the look in the man’s eyes when the song Fix You finished. He remembered getting on the wrong bus just to go somewhere else for a change or stepping out of a crowded metro train because he saw a friend on the platform.

The city never failed to surprise him. He knew the city and the city knew him. It was a bond forged in his infancy. As he grew, the city smiled down on him, beckoning him to explore. He remembered wandering its alleyways and shopping malls with people who had become his close friends. He remembered the phone call that brought back a friend he had known since class 4, and the surprise meeting with another one at Mani Square.

Recently his family had moved to Asansol. For three years he had taken a bus down the highway to meet them on weekends. He had lived, but without his parents it had seemed a half life- with one foot on the ground in the city and the other miles away in Asansol.

But, his parents were moving back to the city. Soon, he would reside in it with them. He had missed them. He need miss them no longer. The city was waiting for them. All would be as before. There was always hope in the city.

The Bilge Master   

Until We Meet Again

They say everything has an end

So other things may begin

They say the sun will burn out

And there will be no moon to take its place

Things have a way of reaching a climax

And then slowly fading away,

Memories are nothing but fistfuls of sand

Slipping through arthritic fingers,

One grain at a time

And so we turn to photos and videos

To remember what it was that ended

And what began in its place

As did my student life

In six months no more

All my classes, professors and friends

Sped by in a daze of color and sound

While I sat and looked out from a balcony on the fourth floor

However, since all comes to an end, I suppose I’m being naive

Because life is beckoning me onto the next stage

And the memories I spoke of earlier

Will remain wrapped in polythene

Somewhere in the corners of my mind

And so I do not say farewell

But prefer to state it thus

Until we meet again, before we turn to dust

Remember me, and wish me luck

The Bilge Master

Sparda- A Guest Post by Udayan Das

DISCLAIMER- The following writeup is a piece of fan fiction about the video game, manga and anime series Devil May Cry. It is set in a time before the games have taken place. All rights reserved by the  companies involved with the series.

The sun was setting in Paradise city. With its dying time, it had taken on a scarlet hue, bathing the horizon in red. As the day bled into night, a solitary figure stood at the docks watching. If one looked closely enough, one would notice the ghost of a smile on his face. If one looked even closer, one would see his eyes just a little wide, like a child who has seen the most wondrous thing in existence. Of course, the lonely figure staring at the sunset was no child. Tall and wiry, he was dressed in a slightly crinkled white shirt and dark trousers, holding a flamboyant jacket he had evidently taken off over his shoulder. His white hair was swept backwards, although a few strands stubbornly hung in front of his face. He looked to be in his thirties, but there was something in his eyes that made him look younger.

“That’s the last of it” he murmured. “Good riddance.” Without a backward glance, he walked away. He was new in these parts, and was liking them more and more with each passing day. They had a curious drink here that they called “Coffee”. It was, in his honest opinion, the best thing he had ever tasted. To this end, he found his footsteps carrying him to Elysium, the extravagantly named but charming cafe where he seemed to be spending most of his time these days.

By the time he had arrived, so had evening. He walked in through the door and headed for his favourite window booth. To his intense surprise, he found it occupied. Very quickly, he had a mental debate about whether he should take the issue up with the occupant.
Before he could come to a decision, he took his first real look at said occupant, and audibly heard his jaw drop.

It was a woman, and what a woman she was. Hair red like fire, and eyes cool as the deep. He felt his breath catch. This was not his first time seeing her. A long time ago, in a place far far away, they had met before. They had even spoken, though he doubted she would recognize him. A lot had changed with him since then.

Despite this, he found himself making his way over to her. The voice of reason in his head said something that sounded like, “She’s out of your league”.
I’m in a fine league, he argued back, with perfect accuracy.

Before he could formulate anything vaguely resembling a plan, he was already standing in front of her. She happened to be reading a book. The cover was dark purple, with gilt lettering for the title: A Devil Who Cried. She looked up when she noticed him, a questioning expression on her face.

“You’re in my booth”, said the man, before he could think. Good work, genius. Foot in mouth again. He internally shook his head at his own clumsiness.

“Your booth?” asked the woman. “That’s interesting. I can’t seem to find a name written anywhere here.”

“This is where I take my coffee every evening.” For some reason, he found himself ploughing on although he knew he was in the wrong here.

“Not this evening”, replied the scarlet haired woman suavely.

“Oh really?” said the man, not one to back away. It was at that exact moment that he felt a force about to collide with him. Years of training kicked in, and he braced himself. It was a subtle shift, and most people wouldn’t even notice what he did. Instead of standing with both feet next to each other, he put one foot back, using that leg as a support. When the force hit him, he felt his hair swept back, as though by wind, but he didn’t flinch.

It was the woman’s turn to be surprised now. How did he know? Her eyes widened when she realised that the man was emanating demonic power. Just a small amount of it, hardly enough to sense, but it was still there. She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. Someone with that little demonic power shouldn’t be able to block her spell. Then it hit her. He didn’t use magic. He blocked it with sheer physical strength.

She felt a grin tugging at her face. “It’d be a shame if we wrecked this place. How about we do this outside?”

The man brushed his hair back into place with casual elegance. His awkwardness from moments ago was gone, replaced by the calm of absolute confidence. It was almost like he was a different person in a fight.
“That’s fine. The docks are empty at this time.”

A few minutes later, they stood facing each other on the docks. The woman tied her hair behind her head and slipped on black gloves with runes on them.
“You showed some heart by agreeing to this encounter, but you should know: with your level of power, you don’t stand a chance. So I’ll give you one last opportunity to back away.” She looked him in the eyes. “Well?”

The man carefully hung his jacket on a post. “I don’t back away from a fight.”
Her eyes gleamed at that. He had heart, she’d concede that much.
“Very well then.”

Without warning, she raised her arm to cast the spell that would slow down time, thereby freezing him in place. Before she could gather her power to do so, however, a blade screamed through the air right at her face. She leapt to the side to avoid certain death.
That speed! He’s no amateur…

Before she could continue that thought, the man had already closed the distance between them.
“Think I don’t know what you are?” He said. “Umbra Witches can manipulate time. But it takes focus… and right now, that’s not something you have!”

He pushed his palm towards her, aiming to stun her with a quick attack. But the witch was no amateur either. With blinding speed, she summoned up a small barrier, stopping his strike before it could reach her. Not missing a beat, he followed up with a knee strike, which she also blocked with a barrier. The man frowned. With almost no wind up motion or tell, he launched into a barrage of strikes. With stunning precision, she blocked each of the attacks with small barrier spells, each of them the size of her palm.

“Peak human strength”, said the woman. “No, you’re actually stronger. Each of those blows would have killed an ordinary human. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to hold back?”

“You’re not an ordinary human”, he deadpanned, not to be taken in by her words.

She laughed at that. “You have some skill. However…” she said, summoning a shining straight sword, “This is where it ends!”

She leapt forward, swinging the enchanted weapon. He dodged, and the slash he avoided left a jagged crack on the wooden platform of the dock.

“I was hoping to avoid this, but you’ve left me no choice”, he said, summoning his katana. My demonic power is all but gone. I’ll put my faith in you, Yamato. I can’t lose here.

He unsheathed the blade, which glowed an eerie, angry blue, as if baring its fangs at any who would threaten its master. 

“That sword…” said the witch. “It can’t be… no, I must be mistaken.”
She charged forward with an attack that channeled her powers into her blade. The man rushed in to meet her head on. As the two swords clashed, a shockwave was unleashed. Around the two fighters, the platform cracked, almost collapsing. Several metres away, the shockwave crashed into a massive signboard, breaking its metal supports. With a horrible noise, gravity tore it free, and it rushed downwards… towards a child.

NO! All thoughts of the fight forgotten, the woman closed her eyes, summoning her power. Her focus was razor sharp, and time ground almost to a halt, slowing the signboard before it could crush the child.

Next to her, she felt a surge of demonic power unlike anything she had ever experienced. A figure, larger than human, rushed past her towards the child.

He’s moving this fast in slowed time?!

The figure reached the child just before the signboard landed on him. With a swing of his arm, he sent it flying through the air till it crashed into a car with a crunch, totalling it.

For an instant, she saw him. Leathery body glowing with the power of demons, insectoid wings stretched wide in all their glory.

Her eyes widened.

Before she knew it, the power faded. His form shrank, becoming once more the white haired man.

He sank to one knee, breathing heavily. “What are you waiting for, kid? Run for it.” The child didn’t need to be told twice. The man struggled to get to his feet. That little stunt had cost him the last remnants of his demonic power. He looked up as the woman approached.

“Well, it seems you win this one”, he said, grinning sheepishly. “As you can see, I’m in no shape to fight right now.”

She shook her head, smiling. “No. Anyone who can give away the last of his power to save a life is a winner in my book.”

That brought a smile to his face as well.
“I never did get your name”, he said.

“Eva. But you already knew that, didn’t you… Sparda?”

The Printing Press

There was a man, who built a printing press,

Out of metal, wood and ink,

He did not realise he had taught it to think,

Every day, when the man falls asleep, the press comes to life,

And prints our histories and our futures,

Our entire destiny exits, one character at a time,

What will you call this, but God speaking to man?

For the press is not a press, but the Holy Grail,

Someone made it come to life and doesn’t know it yet

The Bilge Master