Basket Full Of Happiness.

Did you know that every man standing on every street tucked into a nondescript part of every city of every country in this delightful world has an extra-ordinary story to tell?

Did you know that that rundown building with its mossy cloak of crusty, slimy green was once a magnificient building redolent with the aroma of luxury? Did you know that that little sturdy oak table that sits pretty in your parlor with its inlaid work of twinkling gems and murals of twittering birds was carved by an old lady from Bhutan? That pretty little lass with her flaxen hair tied with a dupatta drenching herself in the honey warm sunshine is actually a woman who has fought valiantly a battle of cancer? Those halogen lamps that cast those luminious pools of light on the street was erected by a twelve year old electrician? That stranger who bumped into you with his oversized satchel? Well, he's a budding photographer. The waiter who handed you the steaming, roasted plate of wok..he? He studies at the night school. But would you ever know that? Did you glance at him twice, that pimple prickled lad with his greasy apron and oil tinctured scalp and dark circles under his eyes? You sip the cup of tea, sprinkled with just the perfect dash of crinkly pepper. It was made by a woman who can spell the alphabet backwards! And that man sitting inside the purple coven of a Cafe Coffee Day outlet, lifting his cappuchino which had left the rings of foamy brown coffee on the translucent glass? See his tiny tiny smile? Well he has just recieved a text from that girl he was wooing saying that she loved him? Did you know?

Sunshine, a pocket full of sunshine falls like softened butter every morning on a landscape woven of interwining, intermingling stories. Appolonian stories burbling a happy song with the tiny twist of a pain stained tale. Stories of love, tales riddled with hate, memoirs of a war, wanderings of the wanderlust.Everywhere, flying everywhere with their minisicule wings are stories.

Me and Kyra? This summer? We are out to collect these stories that fly around and hover like teasing butterflies everywhere. Bottle them, pin them and share them. What are we if nothing but our stories?

The pellucid waters with their crowns of foamy waves, those amber sands that twinkle shy in the yellow sun. That breeze that bullies our rubber bands into giving up and the tresses fall loose, wet and fragrant. Me and Kyra, dressed in the colors of a demure palette printed with whimsical burgeonings of lilies and primroses. Our feet clad in Osho's, the sand playing peek-a-boo with our toes. Colorful flowers tucked behind ourr ears. And in our hands? A tiny goblet. To collect stories. Because what are we, if nothing but our stories?

Approach that man sitting under a shack. Ask him, just one simple question and show him one tiny gesture. "What makes you happy?" and tell him that you have all the time to listen to his tale. We will tell it to the man who takes us banana boat riding, we shall smile our smiles and whisper it to the lady who sells those pretty trinkets by the street. We will coax and cajole a smile out of the most mutinous man, the hotel keeper, the ticket seller at the movie hall. "What makes you happy".

And oh the tales, those delightful tales!  Some will talk about a song, that makes them traipse down the memory altar, some will talk about that scribble on a tissue paper that started generations of stories. Some will talk about the gummy taste of chocolate, some will go on in lengths about the heady feeling of wine. Some will talk about a cold water bath on a hot summer's day, some will talk about the thud the father's briefcase made when he reached home. Some will talk about sitting by mother's side and giggling at the serials, some will talk about scandalous secrets shared with a sibling. Some will talk about a cafe bar decked with the most parroty colors and how it made her heart sing with delight. Some will talk about that cute stranger whose smile just settled a bad hair day. Some will talk about those counter strike nights, some will talk about morning chais by the tapori the day of an exam. We shall give each man we ask a little purple badge that says " I am happy struck! " for what man can remain mawkish if he recalls what once made his lips show his 32 teeth?

Me and Kyra, we are the sun bleached, floppy hat wearing and red nail paint flaunting messiah's of happiness. 

We will take along with us a little basket- out own big pocket. Ask them to pen down their names and in a single line conch down that happy moment that they forever cherish. We will give them a badge, and we will leave them with a smile eclipsing on their faces. Me and Kyra? Yeah. Summer project? Make this world, a happier place to be. Go collect, some extra-ordinary stories.

Don't be in a hurry, lest you miss a pretty pretty story. 

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The Alternate Love Story of an Old Man( Part 5)

 The tea cup sat woebegone at his side, the creamy milk having condensed to a flaky, coarse brown. He was slouched on the wooden chair,listless- a bag of bones assembled untidily. Vacuous eyes, supported by dunes of withered ancient skin. A rancid stench; of hair oil, vomit, stale daal and June's dried, pasty sweat emanated from him. The jowls were more prominent, the skin papery,decaying with more of black, livery spots. Like an old,crusty yellowing parchment. His eyes were vacuous in a face bleached of all emotions save one. Grief. Growing, glowing, stabbing grief. Like a dove being tormented, its button pink eyes ravaged with fear screeching and yawking; blood curling cries and a final pain stained cry before falling limp. His silence reeked of wails; of hair raising mourns of agony. Even the sky weeped, a diahrrea of water. 

It was now five days.She was dead.

A white morning, the sun rays plasticky; turning even the juicest green into a fake neon color. June summer sky at its best. They had put her body in a stretcher- a bored young man and an equally drugged wife. They had cast a white shroud on her and shelled peanuts while hired men with their black skin hoisted the stretcher on their firm shoulders. Even in death she looked beaitiful, in the somnolent heat, she looked placid, almost in bliss. At first, he wasnt worried, when the curtains dint fall open in the morning, infact, an adoring smile creeped on his face at the thought of her sleeping in late. When the dimunitive orange had washed over the skyline and her familiar pacing wasnt visible, he wasnt worried again. Maybe she had a cold, she often caught a cold in the summers. On the those days, she would tie a towel across her head and sniff some concotion from a bowl. But when night time dawned and the veil of sputtering pinpricks fell over one half of the world, a small fire of terror started brimming in his heart. It turned into a full fledged forest fire by the next day and when at 9am he saw a sudden flurry of people breaking in her door- a vulpine faced man, the excited milkman, he knew that his chapter was over. She was dead.

A clap of thunder shook him out of his grief stained torpor. Slowly he lifted an ancient hand and fished the newspaper from the stand. Let his colorless eyes wash over the headlines before flipping slowly to the obituary section, a habit ingrained without the need of a thought. The newspaper crackled. The thunder boomed again. 

" My Mother, Miss Anamika Basumatary expired of a heart attack in the evening of June 26th, in her apartment at G7, Chowringee street. She led a peaceful, graceful life and we hope God carves a little place for her in his sublime palace called Heaven.

                                                                      Ma, we shall miss you. Rest in beautiful peace.

                                                                                                                                               Your son and daughter-in-law,

                                                                                                                                                                Sonnu and Shweta"

Th fake words scrawled across the paper in black- jolted him, jarred him. A sudden wave of nausea, a sudden spasm, another clap of thunder.Cataract eyes pooling with water and shamelessly, they traveled down the length of his withered face. Shaking his head in irony, at the quixotic ways of life, his lips parted at the faintest hint of a smile; showing yellowed, broken teeth.

Anamika. Her name was Anamika. The nameless. His nameless wisp of hope, his nameless garland of happiness. She had woven herself, into his dull dreary life, flushing it with trembling, innocent Shakespearean love. She hovered, a nameless seraph in his dreams in his daily life. Anamika.

In death,she was finally his. His tongue, spittled with saliva, his eyes limpid with love, his hand on his heart, for the first time, he whispered the name of his wife ,now dead.. Anamika.