The House Where I was Born

“I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn...”

Wherever life takes you, a magnetic pull always exists, drawing you back to the familiar embrace of your hometown. For me, that haven is a small, enchanting town named Kulti. Originally a quaint village, it blossomed into a township around the IISCO plant, boasting a century of historical achievements.

The roots of the plant run deep, witnessing India's industrial milestones. The first blast furnace roared to life in 1870, and steel was born here in 1904. The centrifugal casting process gave birth to spun pipes in 1945. Figures like James Erskine, Sir Acquin Martin, and Sir Rajendranath Mookherjee once steered the helm of this industrial giant.

As I stroll down memory lane, the echoes of British influence resonate through the architecture, especially the majestic bungalows from that era. The Golf Ground, where every evening turned into a playground of joy, and the tree-lined streets, where my father and I would amble, complete the canvas of my childhood.

Kulti Club

Kulti, to me, was a dreamlike sanctuary. Fields, parks, and shaded lanes felt like excerpts from a fairy tale. Sunday afternoons were devoted to my favorite pastime — reading under the comforting branches of a laburnum tree near my home.

Golf Ground

Vacations were a magical escape. No textbooks, just an immersion in handicrafts, music, and badminton with sisters and friends. While my father's schedule limited our travels, our garden became my universe. Behind our home, cornfields whispered tales, leading to small hills that beckoned like a distant chorus.

I would spend hours gazing at those hills, enchanted by the dance of peacocks at their foothills, as the wind whispered through the trees and the sun painted a soft winter glow.

My love for mountains germinated from those distant hills. In my garden, lilies and cacti thrived alongside money plants forming a lush arch. A pair of tailor birds made it their home, a nightly retreat after a day's song.

Amidst this, the discipline of daily riyaz, singing accompanied by the harmonium, became a ritual. In Bengal, cultural and extracurricular pursuits are as integral as academics. A rich tapestry of art, culture, travel, and delectable food defines Bengali ethos, a heritage instilled from birth.

Being a non-vegetarian, I relished the culinary symphonies orchestrated by my mother. Magur Mach, prawns, and chicken dishes were a culinary journey with each dish offering something new.

Kulti Stadium

The magic of English literature enchanted me, transforming me into a bookworm from childhood. Fairytales like Cinderella and Snow White transported me to realms of fantasy.

Durga Puja was an annual spectacle awaited with bated breath. Pandals adorned the town, but the Central Puja held a special place. Mornings were spent attending puja with grandma, while evenings unfolded at the fair with dad – riding the giant wheel, savoring golgappas, and wandering through the magic shows and circuses.

Thus, my upbringing unfolded amidst the bounty of nature and a rich cultural tapestry. It is this tapestry that continues to propel me forward, a nostalgic yearning for the roots that shaped my identity.

Kulti Station

Nainital - May 2015

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn."

In the enchanting embrace of the Kumaon region lies the captivating Hill Station of Nainital, a haven that beckons tired souls seeking respite from the monotony of daily life.

With a spontaneous decision to break free from routine, we packed our bags and embarked on a midnight train journey from Lucknow to Kathgodam, the gateway to our weekend getaway.

As dawn painted the sky, we hired a cab for the winding roads that led us to Nainital, the city of lakes. The journey, approximately an hour long, unveiled breathtaking mountainous vistas that left us spellbound, promising an adventure beyond imagination.

Perched at an altitude of 1,938 meters above sea level, Nainital sparkles like a precious gem, offering solace to weary travelers.

Bird’s Eye View of Naini Lake

Lake Naini, the heart of Nainital, is a shimmering centerpiece, believed to be one of the emerald green eyes of Shiva's wife, Sati.

Boating on the Naini Lake

Legend has it that this eye, known as 'naina' in Sanskrit, fell to Earth after her self-immolation, marking the spot where the Naina Devi Temple now stands.

The Jama Masjid is right across it.

Naini Devi Temple

Naini Devi Temple

But Nainital is more than just a blend of myth and spirituality; it's a playground for nature enthusiasts and adventure seekers. The Eco Cave Garden, nestled in Sukhatal or Mallital, beckons both kids and grown-ups alike.

Inside Eco Cave Garden

 Inside Eco Cave Garden

A mesmerizing labyrinth of interconnected rocky caves and hanging gardens offers a glimpse into a mysterious and ancient dream-world, showcasing the untamed beauty of the hill region.

Inside the Caves

Our cab effortlessly ascended to the garden's entrance, a short flight of steps carved into the hillside, leading us to the hidden wonders within. 

 Inside the Caves

The weekend escapade not only revitalized our spirits but also left us yearning for more of Nainital's charm.
As we returned with a renewed zest and a lingering desire to explore Nainital again, we carried with us the echoes of its mountains, the serenity of its lakes, and the timeless tales woven into its scenic landscapes. Nainital, a destination where nature's poetry unfolds at every turn, is not just a place but an experience waiting to be embraced anew.

Mishori Banerjee

Tale Of My Soul

"Love isn't a silent bystander; rather, it possesses a keen vision that extends beyond words. It's not blind, deaf, or mute—it sees, hears, and speaks volumes without uttering a single word. Love transcends the self, urging us to stretch beyond our boundaries for someone special. While being in love may paint a picture of idealized perfection, true love is the ability to see someone as they are and care for them unconditionally.

Love, however, isn't a bed of roses; it comes with its share of thorns, and sacrifice is its defining currency. Being in love often starts with a romantic encounter, transforming ordinary connections into profound ones, leaving little room for others.

Trust is the cornerstone of love, accompanied by an unwavering willingness to do anything for the one you love, especially during challenging times.

"There are no shortcuts through the way of life," and life's trials, despite their heartbreak, are inevitable. We may feel lost and shattered, but it's ultimately our choice whether we let others dictate our path.

I was once among those who allowed external influences to shape my destiny, costing me five precious years of my life. As a mediocre student, securing admission to a reputable college for my Graduation was no easy feat. However, luck favoured me, and I found myself in Kolkata, away from home, pursuing my studies.

College life unfolded with its promised freedom, fun, and love. Rishi, my classmate, became the special man in my life, and our days were filled with discovery and joy. As time passed, our love deepened, and plans for marriage began to take shape. We were on the verge of tying the knot when an unexpected twist altered the course of my life.

I fell seriously ill, requiring surgery for gallbladder stones. My health declined, and Rishi, citing my changed appearance, called off our plans. Shocked and devastated, I begged for

mercy, but it was in vain. Hospitalized and battling depression, I found myself

jobless and abandoned.

A dear friend stood by me during this dark period. Eventually, he proposed, and I accepted. However, familial opposition led to another heartbreak as he withdrew his offer. Despair lingered for a day, but I resolved to move forward. I pledged not to be a victim any longer. I realized that self-love was the most potent companion I could have.

With determination, I rebuilt my life. Working out, facing the world, and pursuing my dreams, I landed a position as an Executive Officer in a prestigious company. Freelance reporting and News-Reading also became part of my repertoire. I returned to studies, balancing a busy and fulfilling life. I learned to relish my own company and found joy in being self-sufficient.

In this journey, I encountered a sweet boy named Sid who saw me as a beautiful book, each page radiating beauty.

It was a stark contrast to the self-conscious woman who had avoided her reflection. Looking into the mirror that day, I discovered a newfound glow—proof that the most powerful love is the one we give ourselves."

An Unsolved Mystery

There was a gunshot. All eyes turned in its direction. I also turned back and saw a beautiful white pigeon lying in a pool of blood. 

We were a team of five. We were at Bonokanthi, a small village in Burdwan, West Bengal. The oldest Durga Puja of Bengal is held here deep inside the Gar forest. It was thrilling. It was Ashtami and we were taking a stroll in the forest when we heard the gunshot. We were taken aback as it was quite unnatural for someone to come hunting there. Immediately, a man dressed in a black dhoti with a sacred thread round his neck came running towards the pigeon. He picked it up without acknowledging our presence at all and vanished into the thicket. 

He had red vermilion on his forehead and blood-shot bulging eyes. A chill ran through my spine. 

My friends decided to follow him. I was reluctant, but had to accompany them. As we tip-toed through the thick forest, the forest grew denser and darker. Suddenly, we started sweating profusely and heard a loud chanting of mantras. We followed the sound and came to a clearing, where stood an idol carved out of black stone. The mouth was red and seemed to be oozing blood. Five white pigeons lay at its feet and the man in black dhoti sat in front of the idol, a dagger in hand. He chanted aloud some mantras. 

    After sometime he got up and stood still in front of the idol for sometime. Next, he took a bowl and sat down. He caught hold of a dead pigeon and slit its neck with the dagger and flung its head away. He held the pigeon with its neck near the bowl and collected the blood. The process continued till he had cut the necks of all the pigeons and collected the blood in the bowl. 

    I almost collapsed when the man started drinking thirstily out of the bowl. We ran from there as fast as our feet could take us, until we reached our cottage. That night none of us could eat properly. The caretaker of the cottage told us that it was the God of the tribal people living in that forest. On the eve of every Durga Ashtami, the priest performs certain rites for the well-being of the tribe. 

    We stayed up till late that night. Suddenly Akash, from one of us, came up with the weirdest idea. He had a love for antiques. He decided to take home that idol. We tried reasoning with him, but he was adamant. 

    Next morning, we got up to find that Akash had left. He had written a note that said he was leaving in our jeep. With the idol. He requested us to hire a car for ourselves. We were upset at his hypocrisy. 

    We took breakfast and went for a walk avoiding that part of the forest we had visited last evening. After returning to the cottage, we sat down to have lunch. Suddenly, news flashed on the screen of the TV set. It left us speechless. Our jeep had met with an accident. It was badly damaged. But Akash’s body was nowhere to be found. 

    We packed our belongings and hired a car to leave immediately. We had no option but to pass through the weird spot in the forest. As we were passing by, we glanced at the direction where we had seen the idol last evening. And what we saw left us speechless! The idol stood where it was, with fresh blood tickling down its mouth and patches of blood on its body. 

Akash's body was never found...


Published in The Times of India, Sep 14, 2009.
http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/getFiles.asp?Style=OliveXLib:LowLevelEntityToPrint_TOINEW&Type=text/html&Locale=english-skin-custom&Path=TOIKM/2009/09/14&ID=Ar03400

Trust Me, My Love

The car screeched to a halt, and in the eerie glow of the streetlights, Sushmita's eyes widened as she recognized the shirt worn by the beggar on the roadside. It wasn't just any shirt; it was the same white shirt she had once gifted her ex-boyfriend on a passionate Valentine's Day. The red rose embroidered on the pocket still radiated a vivid hue, a stark contrast to the dark, stormy night.

Their love story had once been a masterpiece, but tragedy struck when Sushmita's father was brutally murdered. The blame quickly fell on Akash, the keeper of her father's accounts. Convicted of the crime, Akash was sentenced to a life behind bars. The love that once bound them crumbled, as trust shattered like fragile glass.

Months passed, and Sushmita found solace in the arms of Anand, an employee from her father's company. Little did she know that her new love harbored dark secrets.

On this desolate, rain-soaked night, memories flooded back as she spotted the beggar clad in Akash's shirt. The world seemed to blur as the beggar rose and approached her car. Fear gripped her, and she hastily started the engine, ready to escape the specter of her past. Yet, before she sped away, she stole a lingering glance, only to realize that the beggar was none other than Akash himself.

The air crackled with tension as Akash spoke, his voice a haunting echo from beyond. He revealed the shocking truth – Anand, her current husband, was the real murderer. Consumed by greed and jealousy, Anand had orchestrated the murder of Sushmita's father, coercing Akash to leave her life under dire threats.

Details of the murder flowed like a chilling narrative, and Akash spoke of a tangible clue – a knife, resting beneath the mango tree in their garden, still holding Anand's damning fingerprints.

As abruptly as he appeared, Akash vanished into thin air, leaving Sushmita bewildered and breathless. The revelation echoed in her mind as she navigated the rain-soaked roads back home.

Sleep eluded her that night. At dawn's first light, she took matters into her own hands, instructing the gardener to unearth the truth beneath the mango tree. The garden's secrets were laid bare, and the unearthed knife stood as a silent witness to the twisted tale of betrayal and deceit.

In a heartbeat, Sushmita's world had spun from the darkness of conviction to the blinding light of truth. The storm had passed, leaving in its wake a surreal mix of emotions – relief, disbelief, and the unsettling realization that the lines between love and betrayal could be as thin as the mist evaporating from rain-soaked streets.

Torn between shock and disbelief, she couldn't fathom the depth of deception she had been living. The man she had married and entrusted with her heart was the architect of her father's murder. The realization left her shattered and betrayed.

Determined to bring justice to her father's memory and to face the consequences of her choices, Sushmita gathered the evidence, including the knife, and took it to the authorities. Anand was arrested, and the legal proceedings began.

As the truth emerged in the court, Sushmita struggled to reconcile the conflicting emotions within her. The revelation of Akash's death and his ghostly appearance had added an eerie layer to the story, leaving her grappling with the supernatural element intertwined with the harsh realities of her life.

In the end, justice prevailed, and Anand was sentenced for his crimes. Sushmita, now free from the shackles of deception, found solace in the truth. The scars of her past, however, lingered, a haunting reminder of the fragility of trust and the unforeseen twists life could take.

Revenge of the Spirit

In the shadowy world of tangled emotions and sinister secrets, Jaya found herself ensnared in a web of her own making. Just a week ago, driven by love for another man, she had orchestrated a nefarious plan to rid herself of her husband. Their scheme involved a meticulously executed murder, the disposal of the body off a cliff, and a hasty getaway. Little did she know that the fickle hand of fate would intervene.

As Jaya grappled with the shock of seeing her supposedly deceased husband, Amal, she questioned the reality of the situation. The poison had been potent, the cliff perilously high – yet there he was, standing in the garden, a malevolent gaze fixed on her window. Was it a hallucination, a figment of guilt-laden imagination? Uncertainty gripped her, but the haunting intensity of Amal's stare lingered.

Desperate for answers, Jaya rushed to the garden, only to find it bereft of any trace of Amal. The enigma persisted, unsettling her to the core. Seeking solace, she confided in her lover, who attempted to assuage her fears. Determined to carry on with normalcy, she ventured into the kitchen to prepare dinner, unaware that an ominous presence lurked in the corner.

A hidden handy-cam silently documented every move in the kitchen and dining room, capturing the unfolding drama. Jaya's wicked smile betrayed a darker intent as she served the ill-fated meal to her unsuspecting lover. As he consumed the poisoned dish, writhing in agony, Jaya's countenance transformed into one of grim satisfaction.

The revelation of her lover's demise marked a chilling climax, but the twisted tale didn't end there. In a surprising turn of events, Jaya dialled the police, reporting the murder with an air of detached innocence. The camera became a silent witness, exposing her as the architect of her lover's demise.

As the authorities arrived, Jaya, now seemingly innocent, pleaded her case. However, the damning evidence left no room for escape. The mysterious cameraperson and the anonymous caller remained elusive, adding a layer of intrigue to the unfolding drama.

As the police departed with Jaya, she cast a final glance at her house, only to discover Amal standing in the garden, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. The story, a tapestry of deception and unforeseen twists, left lingering questions about the true orchestrator of this macabre dance of fate.