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Friday Journals 19.4.19

Three wishes

She looked at him; he was lying on his bed, snoring loudly. His mouth was open wide, bare gums were visible. He looked like a small baby.

His false teeth and specs were waiting for him on the bedside table. The night lamp was creating a blue circle on his sleeping face.

The curtain on the window was softly stirring in the light breeze. She sat up and opened her hand bag.

After fumbling for a while she brought out a small box in her shaky hands. It was a old ivory made box, she pushed a small button after quite a few futile attempts; the box sprang open.

A thick fume came out of the box and filled up the room.

“What’s going on dear?” Jay asked from his bed.

The smoke vanished before she could answer and a strange creature was standing in the middle of the room.

He was barely four feet tall but his face was old, shriveled and white hair and beard hung low down to his knees.

“Thanks for liberating me creatures.” He said with a smile. Rita noted that he too had too little number of teeth in his mouth.

“Ask me for any three wishes, I will grant them, but be careful about what you ask.”

“I want to live again.” Jay blurted out.

“OK!” the creature nodded.

“I want to die in peace.” Rita said.

“Granted.” the creature said.

She looked at her husband’s bed but could not see him.

“What did you do to him?” she asked in panic.

“He is right there. Sleeping.” The creature said.

She got up on her wobbly knees and made her way to his bed. A small infant was sleeping on the bed.

She gulped hard and then uttered her third wish, “Take care of him when I am dead.” The creature nodded and vanished.

Rita thought that she noted a naughty twinkle in his eyes.

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Thursday Fun n Frolics 18.4.19

have a great day!
Love.

Sharmishtha Basu
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Friday Journals 12.4.19

The tree
11.8.11

The ocean could hear his mournful sigh, carried to him by wind.

“Why me God!” he softly sobbed as calmer winds softly played with his limbs. It was full moon that night, the bridge from moon to earth was formed, fairies came down to earth, they scattered all around.

None came to him, ever.

Why will they? The powerful gusts ripped off the leaves at bud, forget about fruits and flowers. They have tried to decorate him in the first few years but now they have given up.

Someone walked his way this night, she was not a fairy; she was made of pure light, a soothing calm light.

“Tell me, what’s in your heart my dear? What’s tormenting you?” she sat down underneath him, her soft light made him glow like a magic tree.

“Why me?” he moaned.

No bird built their nests on his branches; they knew the violent winds will rip them away. But they sat down on his branches to recover their breath, to ease their tiredness and talked with him. They told him stories of the inland, where thousands of trees lived together, full of leaves, flowers, fruits; they gave home to the birds and other creatures.

“It was not God that ripped you away from your mother and placed you here. We thought you will not germinate, but you did. You became a symbol of courage to us.”

“We watched you every day, the way you braved all the storms in their full fury; the way you gave a resting place to tired birds that just could not fly any more- they may not have been able to build home in your arms but you were the harbor for their battered bodies when they could not take it anymore.”

“How can you tell your life is a waste? It’s lesser than those fruit-bearing, blooming trees of inland?”

The tree fell silent. A sweet light started to glow inside him. The angel returned to moon after giving him a loving embrace.

A young man with dreamy eyes submitted his canvas to his gallery- a lonely tree without a single leaf, right on the shore of an ocean, titled “courage”.

Sharmishtha Basu
11.8.11

Friday Journals 5.4.19

The thing
11.12.11

She stared at the crib. A thin ray of moonlight was playing on it; right now it looked like the pale finger of some unseen monster reaching out to its own kind.

Yes, own kind.

She shuddered as a chill ran down her spine.

“Don’t be a jerk! It must be the effect of the drugs and lack of sleep. You must have been half asleep and half drugged!” she scolded herself.

The occupant of the crib, her new born son was absolutely silent, like he was supposed to be. He was only a week old; he was not supposed to recite poems right now, was he?

Well, that’s what he was doing, or at least she thought she heard him doing.

That’s what snapped her out of her sleep, the strange sound in room. She heard it as her senses struggled to come out of the haze created by tiredness and drugs.

It was not the voice of a baby, it was an ominous voice, it sounded cruel, cold and centuries old- hollow. It was babbling something in an unknown language. But that was talking, not senseless cooing of a small baby. She could feel the sentences forming and the punctuations used.

She sat up on her bed, trying to grasp what was going on.

The sound was coming from her son’s crib. The nurse was not in the room, she quickly went to the crib, as quickly as her groggy senses allowed her to go; she has been drugged heavily by the doctor because the pregnancy and the delivery was a hellish experience. \

“It will let you recuperate.” She has smiled warmly. “Poor girl! Sometimes it gets nasty during late pregnancy but I have never seen a case like yours.”

“Monalisa will take care of both of you in the meantime.” The young nurse has smiled at her softly.

She stood over the crib, holding its railing for support. The room was still swimming in front of her wide eyes,

The thing in the crib turned towards her like an adult being, it was not her son! Its face was white as chalk; two red eyes were glowing like embers in that drawn face; it snarled baring razor sharp fangs. She jumped backward in reflex and crumpled on the floor.

She lied there huddled in the cold floor too weak and scared to get up.

Then she felt a touch on her body.

“What happened? Why are you out of bed didi?” Monalisa held her arms to softly pull her back to her feet and then lead her to bed; her tone was full of compassion and worry.

She expertly laid her down on the bed and pulled the blanket to her neck. “I was in the toilet. You both were sleeping peacefully when I went in…” she said a bit apologetically.

Something is wrong with the baby.” She babbled.

Monalisa rushed to the crib, looked down and reached out to the baby.

“Don’t!” she whimpered.

“He is alright didi, sleeping as an angel.” Monalisa turned towards her.

“Are you sure?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes didi!” she smiled as she lifted the baby and carried him to her. “They sometimes look unconscious when they are sleeping, but actually they are just sleeping deeply.” She said in a reassuring tone.

She cringed as Monalisa placed the baby on her bed and switched on the light.

Of course it was absolutely normal! A week old infant bundled in a pink Johnson and Johnson’s baby blanket with Mickey Mouse printed all over it.

She stared at him for a long time then reached out with apprehension to feel his pink skin, it was warm and soft. He gurgled sweetly baring its puckered mouth to display his gums.

Monalisa laughed fondly. “He did not acknowledge me when I touched him. They can feel their mother’s touch even when they are fast asleep.”

She smiled wanly.

Days started to roll, the memory of that night was fading away, Monalisa never left her bedside after that night; that is, whenever she woke up she always found her on the small bed placed near the crib.

“I will be back on 10th of next month.” His warm voice spilled down the chord of the telephone.

Her husband was away from the country for last eight months, they both were heartbroken that he could not be there when Resham was born, but his promotion was announced right on the day doctor announced Resham’s upcoming entrance in their lives.

That will be the day when Resham will become a month old. She smiled softly as she watched him playing, wriggling his tiny limbs, exploring his own pink toes and making cute sounds.

She was sleeping deeply when she felt something was choking her. She gasped for breath and opened her eyes.

The room was dark, the night lamp was either out or electricity was out. The light of full moon was swimming in the room, making visibility quite possible.

That thing was sitting on her chest, something dark was oozing out of its mouth, then she felt a sharp pain in her neck, her hand automatically reached out to the spot and she felt something warm, wet. Her palm was smeared with her own blood. She pushed the thing from her chest rudely it slithered away in a lightning speed to a dark corner of the room.

She screamed and fainted.

Sharmishtha Basu
11.12.11

Friday Journals 29.3.19

the terrorist

26.7.11

Sometimes ugliest faces hide sweetest souls, sometimes it’s not that way. Faces rarely tell the story of the heart hidden behind. A rare flicker of emotion may expose the soul but there are crafty minds that hide poisonous soul behind a calm, sometimes lovely face and behaviour.

He was an ugly man, with a very calm, poised manner; very educated and knew how to talk and present himself.

He mixed with dozens of people; mostly more, rarely less yet only hand-counted people knew that he was a hardcore terrorist.

A crooked mind, spewing with hatred was hidden behind all that intellectual gab. That gab was used for two purposes, conning and hiding. He used that slithery tongue to brainwash his recruits and fool others.

Such was his expertise with his tongue that none got a whiff of what is going on inside him.

He squeezed out money from fanatics using that gab, and used it to fool his root level workers. His organization was multilayered. The lowest rung was truly fanatic, do or die type. The higher they grew the viler they became.

He had to play this pretense because the money he squeezed out from fanatics was not that little, and that money helped him to build the rest of his ladder in initial stage and now it works as his defense mechanism. If he knew someone knows too much, he tracked him out, tricked his terrorist outfit to blow out his office building or shop as another “operation”- enemy gone! His terrorist outfit of-course took the blame.

Outside world knew he was a publisher; those who knew him from this side believed he had strong connections in the world of journalism and publishing. He was a very powerful man, it was smart not to displease him, forget about angering him.
.
This avatar was used to the utmost excellence.

He used it to crush and create “stars” and of course ordinary people.

If he tried to suck in someone in his trap it was better that he or she gave in; if they resisted that meant the end of their career.

He had a special division that kept excelling itself on spying techniques; name any gadget, software it was with them.
This division had its arms full; it tracked, spied on preys meant for absolution, destruction or character assassination.

If someone truly annoyed him he used to spy on that person using modern gadgets, and sometimes he did it for money, if someone irked some big honcho and that guy offered him money he used to do it for them.

Now, suppose an army officer freaked him out, he used to utilize his spying skills and publishing house to paint him as a traitor. If he did not found any weakness in him, he creates some; siphoned out information from his laptop, cell phone or computer and passed it on to unworthy hands.

If a budding writer freaked him out he used to steal his unpublished stories, works and ideas and give it to his own writers as a generous gesture. “Try this theme” or “Work on this piece, I was writing it but I could not finish it.”

His spiteful nature urged him to use his spying technique as spiteful technique, mocking his “enemies” in his works, works of his writers, of course the idea used to reach them through him directly or indirectly.

His enemy used to feel the sting but could not do anything; after all, he could not tell anyone that the employees of an entire newspaper (almost) were snooping in his personal computer.

His advantage was satiation of his malicious heart and it kept his newspaper from becoming monotonous, he stole these ideas and churned out pretty good stories by his writers with expertise in writing.

He had quite a handful of houses all over the country, houses bought in methodical way, clustered together. These houses were managed by members of his family.

“It keeps the secrets limited to one house.”

Then something happened, one of his best looking boys fell for a girl. A girl who was by no means a terrorist and there was no chance that she will join his murky world.

There was another problem too, his sister, who accidentally was a female version of him, by looks and every other means had her eyes on that boy for years. She was trying to manipulate him to her life.

So, she feigned to play the cupid, lured the boy to appoint the girl into one of his white-washed offices and gathered all her details.

In the short span of time the girl stayed with her she tried to black-wash her image to everyone in the gang and partially succeeded.

The boy got the whiff and absconded, she used his cell phone and email address to lure the girl into one of their housings, the housing which she managed.
“She knows too much! So we will have to screw her reputation so badly that no one believes her.” She cooed to her boys and girls and displayed fake evidences to convince them.

They unleashed all their murk on her.

He settled his and her score by almost ruining the organization.

Sharmishtha Basu
26.7.11