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A Different Puja

“Ma, today I will be late to come back from office. I have to go to New Market with Animesh to start our Puja Shopping”, Hiya giggles and her mother and her grandmother looked at each other, smiling.Ashima, Hiya’s mother, hurriedly went into the kitchen to prepare her own breakfast as she already got late for her office. But still she went into their room, and again walked back briskly towards the dining hall. “Keep this little cash with you. Please buy a nice shirt for Animesh and keep the rest for you. And listen! Buy a Louis Philippe shirt only. Your father always used to prefer that brand.” Ashima smiled softly looking at her daughter. Ashima felt relaxed. She was not able to start the Puja shopping and was feeling guilty for last few weeks. Now Hiya taking this up, make her feel relieved. Hiya was almost done with her breakfast. “Don’t worry at all, Ma. I will take care of your Puja shopping. Should I also buy for Mashi and Mesho?” she took the last spoon of corn-flexed milk
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yajJa

  “Your name?” “Rohit S Chatterjee.” "What does 'S' stand for? "Samar." “What's your father’s name?” “Samar Chatterjee.” “Where do you live, Mr. Chatterjee?” “Park Street.”  “When did you get married to Anusua Chatterjee?” “Three years back.”  “Do you have kids?” “We have a daughter, Hiya.”  “How do you know Aparesh Datta?” “I met him in a pub, in the Park Street, long back." “Are you sure, you only knew him through your association in the pub?” “Yes and also he was my father’s friend’s son. This, I came to know later.” “So, you go to the pub every day?” “No, just on the Fridays and some of the Saturdays” “You are quite rich Mr. Chatterjee. You live in a posh locality of Park Street, go to the pub every week, you spend money on your friends, you own a Mercedes. Well, I can’t think about all these. What do you do for your living Mr. Chatterjee?” “You know everything about me, I am sure. And still, you are harassing me
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Love

“I saw “Rajat-da” first time in a small tea stall owned by “Bhola-da”. Rajat is a teacher at a small school in an unknown town. Every day Rajat used to come to have a cup of tea in that tea stall. Bit tall, and lean, with glasses and bright eyes, Rajat had an intellectual look; and I got attracted instantly. Normally he used to have tea, with a sandwich or a piece of cake. Whenever I met him he used to smile and offered me too and sometimes with a pat on my head. An affectionate one. I am also a girl from a small town and always traveling through the city, know men, their “eyes” and their attitude, and got used to those. But Rajat was different. He used to get a book out from his old side bag, and then a refreshing sip of tea from the white cup. I used to watch him sometimes from far, from near, his salt and pepper hair, the spectacles, and sometimes his fingers tapping the table. I used to love every bit of him. Slowly I felt, I love Rajat, a lot. Every day I used to anxiously wait
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Matsarya

“I am extremely hungry Mamma;  it was a long day in office”,  Anita, threw her bag on the corner sofa and jumped to bed taking the MacBook from her study table.  “Please no laptop now Ani, have your dinner and take some rest. It's 9:35 PM already”, Sheetal in her mid-50s, softly scold her Ani; and looking at her she dotingly asked,  “Ani, did you meet your Di? She is still waiting for you to do dinner together”.  “Sorry, Mamma. Extremely sorry” Anita walked quickly to the bathroom to get changed. “What you do so long at the office? Didn’t Papa tell you to start going to his firm for last so many months? He is getting old. And at least you can come back home, early”, Sheetal continues the quotidian conversation. And Anita replied, as usual,  “No Mamma. Tell Papa to wait for some more time. Let me master little more of corporate law. This firm is the best for that. And working under Parag Sir is such a privilege to learn so much”. The 19th century Black Forest cuckoo clock loudl
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Pride

Rupsa is all set and ready to go to the airport. Her father, Dhiman Banerjee, tensed yet excited and still thoughtful, walking inside the rooms, bit fast, a bit slow, and somewhat hesitant if his decision after three months of thinking is right or wrong. Her mother Mitali, with tearful eyes, was all set to bid goodbye and good luck to her dearest. The seventy-seven years old, the two-storied house at one corner of the crowded Kalipado Dutta Lane next to Amherst Street, Kolkata is suddenly, momentarily vibrant on a Sunday afternoon;  but they were missing their son Souvik, who promised to come back from his electronics repairing shop where he had to go suddenly to pick up legal papers for the new shop he will be renting, next day morning. They were also missing Dhiman’s mother and elder brother who lives on the ground floor since they had to ‘suddenly’ go to Dakhisnwhwar Kali temple for a long-pending ‘puja’. “Baba, I am getting late…Will dada come back? Do you want to call him up onc
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