Agantuk's Desk – Explore, Implore, Reverberate

Explore, Implore and Reverberate

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A young writer and editor with an old heart. A resident of City Joy and wanderer of eccentric ways
  • Flowers

    Flowers

    Sound of water coming from a clogged tap, the cricking ceiling fan, an old radio set playing a forlorn song – amidst all this she woke up. She went out through the back door and drew some water from the well. Thereafter, stealthily entered into her world. Undressed the tiring of the long night and proceeded towards the inner sanctum. Quietly took a long bath and draped herself in a red sari , applied vermilion in the by-lanes of her hair.

    The child observed the white morose floret blossoming into a vibrant red flower every Thursday. Enchanted, she put on those red into her own. A red liquid on her feet, vermilion on her forehead and red bangles on her hand.
    The dying flower passed on her traits to the budding one.

  • Death is like mother earth

    Death is like mother earth

  • When

    when a year seem too long and starts to haunt –

    think of the falling leaf month,

    the chilly winter january,

    the bright leaves of spring.
    when a month seem too long and the future dreary –

    think of the floating clouds on a blissful day,

    the morning cuckoo singing a hymn to thee,

    the afternoon moon peeping behind the pepul tree.
    when a day seem too long and starts to wither –

    think of the minutes of darkness breaking into daylight,

    the wee hours after the twilight colours linger,

    the silence of midnight.


    when a minute seem too long and gathers dust –

    think of the passing seconds of the hour hand,

    the whistle of a train far out,

    the dying breath.


    when a second seem too long and unimportant –

    think of the moment you looked lovingly towards each other,

    the vision of the past and future together.


    when at last the moment comes-

    think of the time you had

    in between giving in and giving out.

  • The Voice of Rain

    The Voice of Rain

    “Be careful, don’t kill yourself!” glared the conductor.

    “It’s all right. I am a pro at this”, said the lad hurriedly running off from the moving bus.

    He  was running  late for work. A recurrent problem in his daily life. It has become so mundane that his office colleagues has become impervious. Though it effects his business but not so much as it seems. Ultimately he pacifies everyone with his charm.

    Apart from this, there are certain occupational hazards ailing his business. Most of it concerns with late delivery of products. Sometimes there is a huge loss and he can’t fulfil his target. Some other times there is booming profit but he can’t distribute them well.

    His personal life is riffled with struggles. Though he earns well but he is imprudent in expenditure. often splurging more than required. Due to his naive  and sensitive nature people usually takes advantage of him. He is absent-minded and negligent to a certain extent. Often forgetting deadlines and disappointing clients. The other day someone pick-pocketed his savings while he was busy browsing pictures in his smartphone. All this takes a toll on his health. A young man of 30 looks like a sagging old man at his 50’s.

    Despite all this he is a messiah for all. An whispered family of all. A confirmed bachelor but an universal family man. RAIN , was his name.

    To the young boy, he was a beautiful maiden re-uniting and separating from her forlorn lover. For young girls, he was breath of an old acquaintance often brought to mind. To children, he was the uncomplaining youthful companion. To the farmers, he was the ray of hope. To the poets, he was a mystery to be solved. For the philosophers, he was the elixir of life. Ordinary looked upon him with general irritation and occasional gratification. Making him aware of his existential crisis.

    None understood him yet all loved him equally and claimed to be one of their own. To him, he was a failed businessman struggling to deliver in time. Only the scientists understood him properly. He was nothing but a glorified stem cell differentiating into little droplets. A nomad, a traveller meant to travel throughout the breadth of earth’s body . Then settle down in your inevitable fateful organ.

    This was his life. This was his business. This was RAIN.

    With this he  closed his diary. Signing off with his name. R  A  I  N

     

     

     

  • BED

    2 beds – one wore a veil of red while another had a shield of white. The first one was to start a new beginning while the second one was the beginning of a beautiful end.
    In reality, which was the beginning and which was the end?
    Are they one and the same? Only the flowers knew.
    The funeral bed & the wedding bed both graced her.

    None served the purpose of her blossoming

  • Future

    A 25 year old woman prepared herself for the future.

    Each day she spent hours trying to read the Braille and manoeuvring places with closed eyes. She was enjoying the process, learning with glee.

    On a certain morning, the disease onset was abrupt. Her joy of learning turned into an agony of a lesson.
    Trauma finally did its duty – of catching people off guard & unprepared.

  • The Waiting Room

    A bright sunny spring day, a cuckoo’s call woke her up. It sang to her everyday- from spring to autumn; through morning to afternoon to evening to night. Kind of like a forlorn lover speaking in his leisure time. Today is the second day, after the vernal equinox.

     

    She came out of the waiting room and proceeded towards the ticket counter. The 8 o’clock morning local  just about to arrive.

    “one first class ticket, please”, said the day.

    “where to?” enquired the young lad.

    “Anywhere in 100 rupees, just make sure it is first class”, answered the lady.

    The confused lad looked up at her. Seeing his surprised look, the vendors said “just give her a ticket and you’ll get rid of her. Otherwise she’ll trouble  you for the whole day.”

    Finally, she succeeded in getting a ticket and off she went.

     

    She lived in the waiting room. She abhorred houses, they reminded her of stagnation- of death. She loved waiting rooms. For her, they resembled life.

    45 years ago  her father breathed his last in this waiting room- waiting for her.

  • Kitaabein With Gulzar – Finale At Spring Fever 2016

    Kitaabein With Gulzar – Finale At Spring Fever 2016

    The Ever enchanting Blossom

    The Penguin India Blog's avatarPenguin India Blog

    Blog post - 2 800x200
    “My thoughts were simmering inside me like vapour simmers inside a covered utensil. When that cover was removed, my expressions flowed out from within!” Gulzar remarked on a beautiful evening at India Habitat Centre, New Delhi, beginning with a powerful imagery – a flair that has been the hallmark of his writings.

    It was the last day of the much-loved Spring Fever 2016, and who other than Gulzar could have taken the six-day event to its radiant peak and ended it with a flourish!

    IMG_3325

    “Books trained me to read and be busy. There is nothing like reading books to spend quality time,” the poet and film-maker said.

    Perhaps, it is Gulzar’s great love for books and literature that propelled him forward to pen down some of his own. And at the Spring Fever – the Penguin Random House festival that celebrates the love for books and literature…

    View original post 769 more words

  • Mountains

    A drunken middle-aged soldier and an 11 year old girl; neither knew each other’s language. He spoke in nepali-hindi. She heard in bengali. Neither talked yet both listened. He spoke of a girl who resembled her. She heard of a future – a distant acquaintance she’ll betray.

    The mountains connected them.

  • Kisses

    2 violations, 4 years apart – the difference in them was not that of age but of experience.

    Both were illegitimate- first from a stranger, second from a close one. The former graced from behind, the latter near the front edges. First was coarse and dry while the second was soft and moist. Kisses they were still – of violations.