Nandini, a love story,
“Nandini your phone is ringing,” Ripa yelled.
I rushed from the bathroom. It might be Dipesh, but he never calls me at this odd hour. OK, no more assumptions. It is Mom.
“Nandu are you off for office?”
“Nope, just preparing to leave.”
“Nandu…,” Mom started whimpering.
I felt terrible. Something is wrong.
“What is the matter?”
“Samir is seriously wounded, and your father becomes ill suddenly. Please come, I cannot manage all these.”
How? When? Why? So many questions struck me, and I decided to find the answer of my own.
“Ok, I am coming. Where are you now? Take care of father and Samir.”
Mom never allowed us to play video games. I had no aspiration to play video games, it is boring and time-wasting for me. But Samir always eked the opportunity to peep into the world of the game where one could easily bullshit the enemy with his gun or weapon and score the highest.
Samir, who always wanted to be the highest scorer in defeating opponents joined college politics on the very first day. He never realized politics was not a fair game to play. Here the highest scorer not only shoots his foes but also his friends to be the supreme. Here the participants must stake their brains erasing all the reasoning power and free thoughts living just like a marionette scratching each other pawing their lives, futures, and families to secure the throne for someone else. That ‘someone’ never sheds a drop of blood, never faces a crisis from the comfort of life. He only collects, chooses, and arranges his scapegoats who will fight for him till death.
I said all this to make him realize that Samir is Samir – the power hacker, the foolish leader. But at one point I was sure about him that he never bragged the story of idealism. Our young generation never bothers with such backdated words. What they seek is opportunity, power, leadership, a flashlight and all the support to enjoy life to the brim. They do not need such bogus sentiment. Politicians and opportunists are the same.
I, as his elder sister, was somehow certain that my dear young brother would not die for sowing the seeds of new ideals, but I was not aware that he might die for his stubborn party crunch, the vulnerable desire to be the winner.
So, there he was lying all wrapped in white bandage except the right eye which the hired goons of the opponent college party left undamaged with their kindness, to let him see the world that was shrunk in a small white occasionally dabbed with red spittle and the smell of something obnoxious.
Hey, I am Munmun, the phoenix fabulist who wants to tell you stories. I love to read stories and I love to weave stories. I feel life is an amalgamation of multiple stories, colourful threads, and threads of pain, pleasure, hope, and hopelessness. We just need to pick those hues and arrange them, knitting them with our own emotions and perception. So let’s celebrate the stories of life.