Debipokkho

Mr Mookerjee dimly heard the cellphone alarm go off on the far side of his bed. Within a few seconds his little bedside clock began to sound its own alarm as well. He fumbled around for the clock first. A firm pound on its little button shut the alarm off but the cellphone required the bedside lamp and some sleep-dazed reading of buttons. Not for the first time he wondered why these phone makers had to complicate life.

The letter

Mrs Singha sat down heavily on her bed. The girls were both in school, their father on his way to work and the maid was not due for another hour. This was her time to plan her day, maybe watch a little TV or catch up on her sewing. She was a large-boned woman with heavy hands but her stitching was remarkably fine. When she embroidered each stitch was tiny and perfectly set, lost in what felt like a garden of other, equally tiny and impossibly perfect stitches. Even her hemming was note-worthy, so fine as to be nearly invisible.

The Laundry

(There is no episode of the serial this week. As an apology I offer you a recently written poem that will perhaps give you some idea of the whirlwind that is my life.)


The Laundry

The perfect lines for a poem
Around my head do run
I can’t stop to write them down, you see,
The laundry has to be done

Poetry and prose

Sona stared at the page. The words didn’t change. Nor did they make any more sense to her than they had yesterday.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.