five finger exercise

We Don't Make The Papers

The old lady does not want to be helped up. She glares through her thickset glasses and her daughter, now over forty, looks embarrassed. The girl sitting nearest, also embarrassed, springs up and disappears. There is a stray, unaccountable note of reproof in the air, and the bus, like any red-handed child, finds the shortest way to a flamboyant, casual exit.

Bringing up the rear are seven gentlemen, of average height. Their average, that is. One appears to be asleep, even through the frequent and violent sternutations of his companion. The third, also stern, glares at the clearly drugged boy on his left while the two nearest the window giggle at nearly everything, but the man with the briefcase doesn't mind at all.

Having the faculties of perception and imagination rather keen and muddled in her, the girl knows that this, this is how she was to live. Writing these histories of no consequence; warming up to the world's invisible things. The man next to her, also elderly, clutches his yellow bag under the sagging, now asleep, chin. He has on an iron grey suit, black tie and socks, with a vest of a between shade. He may be dreaming of school.

Exchanging frequent winks with most of his female passengers' reflections, hanging by a wrist, is the conductor. An amber traffic light does to him what red purportedly does to decorative bulls in Spain. The driver hurls out abuses at his lustful racking of the bus's haunches, but secretly decides to keep him.

Of the several thousand people one saw everyday, she remembered only the unlikely. The ones she loved, also the most unlikely, were not apt to get along. The girl realised all of this, of course, but thought only of the sun on her left that sped out of sight.

square B

No more excuses. No more, can't draw, can't write - oh no, no time -  I, gender-dubious underweight person, hereby commit myself to publishing Content, What? on a regular basis.

This is to be sandbox, scratch-pad, pilot episode of things to come. Assuming, of course (and now's the scary part) that you shall offer me regular feedback, shoves, reminders, ideas for forthcoming issues, criticism, love and cups of coffee. I'm terrible at self-publicity, and don't yet have the luxury of being blasé about it so consider this as abject a request for your attention as suits your need.

Thank you.

songs of akalpoush - i

PoV is pillion seat of cycle leaving village behind. Not levitation, though I wish. 

Text and Image (C) Deboleena Rakshit =D

experiments with truth; or write as it comes.

Sarfaraz (SR) has on a solid pink shirt, of which the sleeves, elbow downwards, have each a purple stripe. Sarfaraz (SR) has orange, sometimes ochre, hair standing on end; brilliantine now slightly dulled with the day's grime. Sarfaraz (SR)'s white-framed sunglasses hang from the back of his collar while the pink teddy bear trinket dangles from the end of his cellphone, spilling over the right pocket of his ragged jeans. Sarfaraz (SR) has his name tattooed on his pink and grey bag and perhaps unknowingly, has embraced metro-sexuality with just the right balance of indifferent flair. Sarfaraz (SR) stops twitching his gleaming white shoes and jumps up for the Senior Cetizen, who has the greater claim to the seat. Sarfaraz (SR) scans the bus modestly. He knows his chivalry is likely to cull favour with the ladies.

The Marwari in the white Swift speaks into a white cellphone while his left hand dexterously, alone, veers left, right, left, reverse and out of its parked space, only to be halted by the unmoving traffic. Unable to lie inert, the left hand, as dexterously, begins to empty The Marwari's nostrils of redundant pith. A motorcyclist rolls in behind, and smiling through the reflective, rainbow helmet, asks for an inch forward. The Marwari, who is not done talking yet, scowls while the orange tika on his forehead peels off some more. The traffic stolid still, the nose adequately aired, the left hand steers the Swift back along the same and opposite trajectory into Square A. The Marwari gets off, apologising for the goddamn noise.

Mrs. is very flagrantly Bangali. In times of such dubious identities proliferating like blind mice, one must do one's best. Mrs. clutches her handbag to her chest as she rocks gently with the bus over potholes and around circles, sleeping. Mrs. will probably not alight before me, I think, as my heart continues to fall apart in slow, violet petals and Glabicki continues to croon, Won't Be Long, Won't Be Long. Won't Belong.