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Wednesday, December 25, 2019





Book Reviews

‘Floating Towel and a dozen Short Stories’
SK Sagir Ali

FLOATING TOWEL AND A DOZEN SHORT STORIES:
A roller-coaster ride of storms and dreams |
Short Fiction | Gautam Maitra
 | Xpress Publishing (An imprint of Notion Press), July 2019 |
ISBN 978-1-64650-109-0 | pp 102  110
Voices of socially disempowered hegemonic positions

Gautam Maitra, a bilingual writer is a prolific storyteller in weaving stories that are a kaleidoscope to life with objective experiences only to give us a myriad vision of the Indianness that strives for existence. Set in the turmoils of South Asia, Floating Towel and a dozen Short Stories visualizes the trajectory of family relationships, disenchantment, violence, greed, the changing lifetimes and abject senselessness of fanaticism. It is a fabric of a middle-class person namely Budhu, an archetype, an epitome of normalcy – a person so deeply rooted in the attitudes, customs and feelings of a native Bengali middle-class man that it could essentially be an alter-ego of any Indian Joe. Maitra’s Floating Towel and a dozen Short Stories, a compilation of various short stories that were written across the span of two decades, is divided into twelve chapters with the life and times of the protagonist Budhu in the depiction of existential predicament, realistic treatment of socio-cultural complexities.         

The titular Chapter One ‘Floating Towel’ is the story of a Samaritan who bets his life at the crossroads of the turmoil of life. Floating towel is a symbol of smiling, dancing Shark in the watery uncertainty of destiny. It represents fragility of life and humanity. The smallest ripple in the water would send it floating one way. A ripple from another side would sway it another way. It's a metaphor for the frivolous nature of humanity's need to justify violence based on whichever ripple they lean on, religion, background, social status or anything else. And as a result, the state of a floating towel captures the state of humanity in a constant way of flux and dissent. Sachin and Budhu’s pranks in swimming pool take an ugly turn when Sachin drowned in the pool of water and stands on the verge of life to live in. This picture gives us the impression of lynchings, a form of violence in Indian socio-political scenario. 

Chapter Two ‘The Two Strings’ showcases social hierarchy where love-liaison between Budhu, a refugee and Meena, an archetype of beauty—the pari in affluent Seth family on the backdrop of Naxalite movement in Bengal gets affected. It is not the consciousness of Budhu that determines his being, but, on the contrary, his posh social being determines his consciousness. Wallowing in a godless world and inhabiting a realm of nothingness, Budhu falls between the idea and the reality only to culminate in a plaintive whimper. The story webs around love-romance genre experimenting with two parallel social lines of inequities where the protagonist loses the war and a fatalist acceptance of injustice but the life moves on. 

Chapter Three Question Paper’  makes us believe that ‘life always begins after the exam only’ and essence of securing modest marks to live life in the rat race of this mundane world. Mugging books rather than practicability of answers in terms of creativity in this time-bound reality is threatening one for students. The story has portrayed the typical examination hall with fun and fear in full glory as the time catches up and the demand for 'nouns' grow geometrically high replacing 'complete sentences' on the approaching of the final bell - the death bell.

All four fluid sub-conscious minds — Budhu, his cousin brother Tony, Hary and his own brother Roberto in Chapter Four A Date with the Lost World’ bring to us the images of divinity, Madonna, Michel Jackson and Charlie Chaplin, ‘Hitler and Napoleon playing on war on Chess Board’, Gandhi’s non-violence, colonial clutches and ‘Subhas Chandra Bose during World War II’, Victor Hugo accompanied by Cleopatra, Einstein and ‘Beethoven on music’ that bodies forth a real than reality in their figments of imagination. Observations on science and fiction testify to their perspective in the surreal world through the construction of cognitive images characterized by excessive yearning for these famous personalities in the history of social science. 

Chapter Five  ‘A Bizarre Talking Competition provides us with the celebration of human speech in the event of Talk- Fair in Kanjio, a city of greed, envy and amorality. Such talking competition is arranged to make the community more cohesive; unfortunately it leads to unprecedented murkier situation ‘haunted by the terror of talk’ that gripped the city. People jitter and stay away from the incident lest they fail into the lurking swamp of vices, greed and ego.  

Chapter Six The Land of the Blue River is all about the longing to return to Sundarbans, the native land of Samrat. He lives on to survive on stringent means on a land of different culture, habits and dialects as an ‘imagined community’ having a  collective communitarian adherence only with a dream to return one day to the land of the blue river at this point in history. 

Chapter Seven The Search for Oasis highlights the obscurity and prominence in getting a modest job in the oasis of hope. Budhu suffers in the hands of the corridors of powers since ‘Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely’. He also projects a moral dilemma of fighting with the system and structures of nepotism in securing a job or to show some sort of malleability in the long run to live life in a syndicate. 

Reflections that constitutes Chapter Eight gives us the impression of the ‘metaphysics of presence’ through the life of Budhu and his family. 

Economy Class Traveller— Chapter Nine befits the class hierarchy of Indian social system where the march of capitalism towards a market-oriented way of life bereft of values that bind humanity together in a mutually benefitting order brought about conditions of disarray and destruction and became a threat to the planet Earth. It also explains how economic inequality in India is not pure but graded inequality that follows a caste hierarchy. According to Dr. Ambedkar, glaring inequalities are a threat to democracy as well as to the liberty of the individual. 

Chapter Ten Just Two Days, More!’ is soaked in pathos as the unending human saga of human desires haunt the life till death. The vividness of presentation of Budhu’s afterlife through Hindu mythology takes the reader in confidence to see their wishes in mundane life. Time-bound life of the protagonist is consummated through the device of magic realism that adds glory to it in fantastical terms. 

Next Chapter ‘A Ghettos Cab’ deciphers the fact that these days we can see a movement ‘from an uncritical acceptance of the category of “religion”, towards a critical interrogation of “religion” as a category’. The complexity of the conflation between religious and faith-based identifications can be understood by means of the way identity is itself subject to stereotyping and monologic representation. It explores ‘Fundamentalism is not about religion, it is about power’ through the conversation of Budhu and Chugumu. 

The last Chapter Revelation prefixes the idea that brittleness and fragility is the quintessence upon which our familial ties are cemented on and a person's sense of identity is under utter uncertainty in expected aims in society.

Gautam Maitra in his book Floating Towel and a dozen Short Stories imbibes progressive ideas and investigates new genres, language, narrative techniques, psychological portrayal of characters, details of subalternity, depiction of existential predicament, realistic treatment of socio-cultural and historical issues, incorporation of western theoretical insights into native social complexities could be seen as both modernity’s proximity to regional writings that incorporates the broader concept of sectional differences. The book is beautifully woven with an introduction that brings out the multiple facets of traditional, parochial impressions, regional genealogy, gradual march towards modernity, interface between modernism and regional writings and the politics of representation as we witnessed today. Through the panoramic view with novel style and technique, Maitra writes under the discourse-dominated complicit social ideology. The central argument traces an alternative interpretation of the relationship between regional issues such as village vignettes and collective communitarian life with the preoccupation of developing life and times as witnessed in his sensitive depiction of emerging labyrinth of human relationships’. His voices are the voice of socially disempowered hegemonic positions. It emphasizes the creation of active and conscious agents who could call for whatever was advantageous in tradition and modernization and focuses on subaltern agency with the theory and praxis of social realities with a re-vision under the structural conditions outdated the figures of silence. His oeuvre suggests a radical humanist approach with legacies of realism about indigenous modernity under the influence of cultural amnesia. Embedded in the respective local cultures and world-views, Maitra attests to the developing a consciousness critical modernity. Floating Towel and a dozen Short Stories is a wide spectrum of issues evocative of theories and insights and wonderfully stimulating essays bring out the multiple layers and intersection of non-ethnocentric and diverse strands of cultural and social influence ingrained in Indian literature. What emerges from this book is a unique vantage point that deciphers the layered, nuanced, and complex phenomenon and pluralities of life.

♣♣♣END♣♣♣

Question Paper


Floating Towel and a Dozen Short Stories by Gautam Maitra

Question Paper



Twenty-six alphabets of civilization dress up in various permutations to test the new kid on the lawn”


The bell rang in monosyllables. One shrill, threatening tone to announce: “Beware – Exam time is….On.” Soon, there is hustle on the front desk where the gloomy-faced teacher is sitting with a large sealed envelope containing the question papers. My dad had, just before leaving home, told me to look down at the writing desk and gave a tough advise – asking me to concentrate on the Textbook and try to figure out the pages in my mind – slowly one page after another, then another, yet another and finally I could just pick up lines from the book verbatim and beautifully place (almost regurgitate) in the answer book. But how could I tell dad that the only thing that comes to my blunt, dark, damn memory right now is the glittering image of mangos hanging from the ripe summer trees - illustrations from the hardbound cover of my textbook? And in between, a few thoughts – incoherent but insistent, are bouncing back and forth– of Tolkein's twelve dwarves dancing and singing in Bilbo Baggin's home – looking at me from  the virgin cover of 'The Hobbit' –unused and unread, waiting and asking – when will your exam be over, little boy?

Soon I kicked that thought out, to hover back through the questions of history and geography – fifty marks each. This paper is notorious for being lengthy – a sweat paper we call it, a lot of perspiration on the temples, wet palms fidgeting, tired fingers that are cold like a soldier after a day's fight. And in the end result – gloom, gloom and gloom – no expectations for a shower of marks from the examiner. Teachers' pens always dry up for mugging papers like History of mankind or for that matter -Geography- twins in distress that make the students' life hell.
Anyway, as I was thinking all these things, there was a poke from the back – it was a sharp pencil- head. I first looked in the front, trying to locate the gloomy miserable face of the examiner strutting amidst the rows of desks inside the classroom. As she was turned away towards the door, I quickly looked back – what?
Nervous Mocha made me more nervous with conspicuously hissing voice – Question five. Humayun is the father of Babar or someone else? Mocha made me confused – I always have the problem with dates and lineages.
 I made a head gesture sideways towards Mocha as I watched that gloomy face turning back again to have another round of her strut.
 I try to focus at my page – I am yet to finish my first page while two boys in the front appear to be in a hundred meters sprint – a rush of adrenalin and the whole bench is making queer murmurs following their speed of answer.
The examiner now sat down in the distant chair near the board. She had finished her quota of strutting. Now she would watch each and every bench and enjoy a few real-time movies together. For her, each boy is a story – a floating island of home, dream and despair.
 Her gaze, like a Tower-guard, searched each face – to find out anything happening that is beyond school rules. Here rules are all the more important.
As I look at the paper, dad's face flashed and I pushed it back to concentrate on what I have. Twenty-six letters of Civilization dress up in various permutations. These dressed-up letters asking a kid of the modern civilization a civilized question and civilized life is expected to have a reply in his mind – that's the progress of civilization. A civilization of letters that got stuck in the books and books in shelves and shelves in mankind's shelters of iron, bricks or wood - and now… now with technology, even with a changing medium in a small electronic storage disk.
The civilized pupils expected to be just another storage disk – the muggers. This passing thought ruptured my concentration, as I tussled with my dilemma of the twin answers – the wrong one ever clung with the correct and moved like a made-for-each-other couple to destroy my answer-sheet with answers that would suit more law of probability than an essay.
The bell rang in mono-syllables, one shrill, threatening tone to announce: Beware – Exam time half an hour remains ….pull up your socks ….Finish off quickly and keep time for revision.
 Suddenly there is a flurry – sound of flipping pages, song of pens as they fought with the pages and tried to move just a bit faster, as if the God of death is waiting at the other end of the exam time to pick them up – its like clinging to the last few moments of life with a celebration of sound and colour on paper. The teacher's face now looks gloomier. A few good boys are running down to teacher's table, asking for extra papers and returning back in a hurry.
Pens are moving. Thoughts are moving faster. The pen often failing to meet the speed of these thoughts and creating perpendicular letters bow in a procession out of nerve-racking fear – a few dots are getting missed, a few verbs of action vanishing: Put the nouns, put the nouns – that's enough for getting marks – there is NO TIME, NO TIME - Put the nouns, put the nouns, put the nouns.
The final bell rang in mono-syllables, one shrill, threatening tone to announce:– Exam time is OVER. Hand over the paper and leave
Now the teacher is in a haste picking the answer paper on each one's table with the utmost contempt for any pupil's plea for “one sentence more!” and “ One word more, ma'am, please”. Now the fight is over. Answer sheets no more with me. How was the exam? – a few would ask as I would come out of the room. What would be my reply?
Should I say excellent or say just okay or should I say, I would like to read in this class of the civilization for one more year, to capture the nuisances of scoring.

I am always nervous about my exams. And exam days have always been my worst days in life. But no teacher put up a test to measure the student's skill by asking which are your worst days in school – if that had been, I could surely outshine the toppers and the muggers of the class. Anyways, bad days need to be tolerated in life like tolerating a flying mosquito too eager to touch any parts of my body as I retire to my cosy bed with my favourite, Bibhutibhusan's book 'Aranyaak'.

Life always begins after the exam only.


An extract from Floating Towel and a Dozen Short Stories by Gautam Maitra, (c) 2019

The TWINs welcome you

TWIN-BOOKS



Floating Towel and a dozen short stories

by Gautam Maitra

E-book (ISBN 9780463647974) 

Paperback (ISBN  9789353824655)


At the crossroad of turmoil, the Samaritan bets his lifeTwenty-six alphabets of civilization dress up in various permutations to test the new kid on the lawn, a series of bizarre events began to unravel testing the thin line between science and fiction, a celebration of human speech and will the judges weigh  the outcome  to finally pull the curtain and declare the results.  When casual chats turn disastrous and explored survival of the fittest while timeless Moon-landers and sun-worshippers busy in stoking a fresh fire in the centuries-old social enmity.  “Oh, Chitragupta! Accountant of Life and Death! I would really wish to shake hands with Time...” Continue Reading 



Mirror of Time – an anthology of poems

By Gautam Maitra

E-book (ASIN B07VNHB7M2

Paperback (ISBN  9781647608958)



A pedestrian righteous man walks on one of the planets of the universe and collects sea-shells of events on the beaches of life. This collection is a poetic expression of minuscule emotions scattered and introspection into mannerism and habits of human society. One sings a lunatic song as one housewife loses her almirah’s key.; while in an open field, a giant Wall replaces an empty piece of land meant for lovers and grazing of the cows. At another time and place, Mister Sunday enjoys a break from office duty and embrace the hours only for him. A kid in a village asks the sparrow where to find water in this summer where water is everywhere yet not a drop to drink. At last the rain come. Bring the storms with it. Wash away the sins of civilization. continue reading
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THE SPACE-WALKER


THE SPACE-WALKER
Copyright @ 2019, Gautam Maitra


Floating away into the unknown,
Towards the kingdom of the lord,
A comet lights up its infinite tail,
A few stray stars drop dead,
Into the vacuum of a fathomless sea
Here thou art, singing swan-songs of life.
Explorers of life on a space mission,
Hunting for life, breaking barriers of space,
Carrying those earthly memories.
Now, that feels like distant dreams, emitting
The fragrance of earthy smell.
Mind clouds with a sense of disbelief -
That they  ever lived on that gorgeous planet,
So full of life and splendour, called earth!
Those wars and fights for changing boundaries,
The greed for a piece of earth space,
Appear so funny, sitting here on the lap of infinity!
Explorers of life on a space mission
Hunting for a drop of life in the ocean,
Stare at the infinity
Where time never moved.
In this hysteria of the frozen time,
Neither Life nor death makes any sense.
Here thou art, singing swan-songs of life,
Floating away into the fathomless time,
Towards the kingdom of God.

Extract from Mirror of Time - An Anthology of Poems by Gautam Maitra (C) 


Budhu


Mirror of Time - an anthology of poems
 by Gautam Maitra



BUDHU


 Mirror of Time - An Anthology of Poem
 Copyright@2019,  Gautam Maitra

The folks call him insane, Budhu knows not what's sane,
          Strolling in his own lane.
And when the evening comes and the gossip mills start churning,
He sits there at his desk, his eyes transfixed on the pink sky
                        That the sun seems to be burning.
The song of sparrows, the dances of mynas 
                           Hold his heart more than his
Paycheck due nigh the month-end.
And when the sweet-faced devils of the office arrive with their silver tongues
And hidden agendas for bosses too blinded by faint appraise,
Budhu has lost himself in the eternal questions of life and the Universe.
Stranded on a lonely Island surrounded by an eternal sea of thoughts and
Musings and questions and feelings. Pristine beaches of the sands of truth,
Where waves upon waves of ideas crash. They crash and smash, questions
Surfing on the back of more questions. They come in the balls of gas the stars
Hold like glittering pearls a zillion miles away. They hide in the darkest of
Clouds, floating across the sunlit sky on the brightest of days.
The giant tides of history that bring about the 
                              Smallest bits of the past with
Them, pasts forgotten eons ago;
And as the smallest fractions of time expand and blow up to form eternities
Uncountable, unfathomable the body shrinks and rots, the spirit callow and we
Become only a grain of sand, one is all and all is one, a grain of sand
Surrounded by an endless sea of thoughts and feelings, of nights and dawns.
And Budhu loses himself.
Budhu loses himself.
Loses his sense of self in the unthinkable vastness of the Universe's shelf.
A mere shell with no shape, no form, no quirks, no norms, no doubts, 
                 No harms, no desires, no envy, no ambitions, no qualms.
A timeless island where the past and the futures are one and the same.
All is one and one is all.


Extract from Mirror of Time - An Anthology of Poems by Gautam Maitra (C) 


Introduction - MIRROR OF TIME - an anthology of poems


MIRROR OF TIME
- an anthology of poems

By

Gautam Maitra





INTRODUCTION



A  pedestrian, a righteous man, walks on one of the planets of the universe and collects sea-shells of events on the beaches of life. This collection is a poetic expression of minuscule emotions scattered and introspection into mannerism and habits of human society. A Giant Wall replaces an empty piece of land meant for lovers and grazing cows. At another time and place, Mister Sunday enjoys a break from office duty and embraces the hours that belong to him. A kid in a village asks the sparrow where to find water in this summer where water is everywhere yet not a drop to drink. At last the rains come. Bring the storms with it. Wash away the sins of civilization. Someone smiles as she looks at the dead man on the beautiful beach as the death of a freeze-moment. At a distance, the debris of the World Trade Center falling from the sky and a clash of civilization looms large – the morality of a race usurped by the anaconda of merchandised sponsors who may tempt the basic instinct of the masses to catch the consumer honey-bees in their flying nets and make Aladdin lamp a laughing stock. Later when the Trojan liberals raise their heads from the dead ashes like a Phoenix and ask for restoration of the basic needs of the cavemen enjoyed since the dawn of the human race. Not everybody is able to be 'smart' yet the enthusiastic today’s smart boy throws a gala birthday party while   hungry people starve  of want  for a few grains. They have to live to die as the rich engage in war and strife. And the balloons of wistful dreams begin to float. The faces begin to smile. Smile of joy spreads a distinct line on the moustache of surrendered soul. Love thy nature.



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SAMPLE POEM 1https://sunderbandelta.blogspot.com/2019/12/budhu-of-time-anthology-of-poem-gautam.html

SAMPLE POEM 2
https://sunderbandelta.blogspot.com/2019/12/the-space-walker-floating-away-into.html


Mirror of Time – An Anthology of Poems


Gautam Maitra


This maiden collection is a poetic expression of minuscule emotions scattered and introspection into mannerism and habits of human society. Through the South Asian looking glass, these alphabets of life were written over a period of one and a half decades and were gathering dust. One fine morning, while the family were celebrating my birthday and an approaching old age, it was decided to declassify and from a pool of poems written in English and Bengali, twenty-odd were selected. Half a dozen of them is a translation of poems written in native Bengali. Some of the poems fall in the genre of romanticism, a few on civilizational crisis and modernity. Man and nature – chicken first or egg first dichotomy may find an answer through this swan song of a pedestrian’s journey and an enthusiast collects sea-shells of events on the beaches of life. A giant Wall replaces an empty piece of land meant for lovers and grazing cows. At another time and place, Mister Sunday enjoys a break from punishing office duty and embrace the free hours that belong to him. A kid in a village asks the sparrow where to find water in this summer where water is everywhere yet not a drop to drink. At last, the rain comes. Bring the storms with it, washing away the sins of civilization. Yet the morality of a race usurped by the anaconda of merchandised sponsors who may tempt the basic instinct of the masses to catch the consumer honey-bees in their flying nets and make Aladdin lamp, a laughing stock.

FLOATING TOWEL




 FLOATING TOWEL

“At the crossroad of turmoil, the Samaritan bets his life.” 



Are you a swimmer?
No.
 Then came, the little push on his back and a splash ….Jhooooppppp!!!!! and a shriek “Ohhhhhhhhh!!!” A floating towel with the striped quote: Swim Like a Shark, and an image of a smiling, dancing Shark in the swimming pool.

Where is that boy! Where is that boy? Questions and shouts from nearby. He is a novice, boy! You shouldn't! Two Life Scouts raced to the spot and dived deep…. Time passes….in seconds inside the water …but above, feels like hours… Are they coming up? Why are they taking so long? He doesn't know how to swim! You shouldn't! This spot is too deep for a novice to move up! Fourteen is not a joke!    Why have people like you become insane? You know-? Don't know!?! Okay, I'll tell. Fool! Listen, …Yooooou doesn't know what you've done…! If he dies, you are ….Wissssp…inside for a life!?!

There was a crowd near the pool … the leisurely retired Ram, a couple of bored wives, half a dozen young swimmers - yet to pass the test and the Bekar roadside chokras.. fed up with the system …..all are here.  Looking at that corner of the pool, some looking over the edge, trying to focus inside the blue waters …watching minutely for any movement…and others' lips busy opening and closing as bitter, fiery words are fired at that teen - Budhu, the name given by the local neighbours - standing now with chin locked to his chest as if trying to hide his face in shame… only yesterday he celebrated his fourteenth birthday with his Pagla reckless group in Mainland China. Sachin – the boy he pushed for a game, was there too. Sachin and Budhu regularly used to stalk each other for fun and create a ruckus.  Budhu's thoughts get distracted with surrounding shouts and jeers. His thoughts; a floating towel in the pool, with the striped quote: Swim Like a Shark, and an image of a smiling, dancing Shark.  Then ….suddenly, a few bubbles appear over the water…..not exactly where all were zooming, but a few feet away……Then a few more bubbles ….numbers jumped…..  Onlookers look at each other …bordering on hope, despair and the thrill …if it comes out true…. Time passes….in seconds inside the water …but above, feels like hours…Now there is a strong disturbance on the surface of the water  Onlookers look at each other …bordering on hope, despair and the thrill …if it comes out true…. At last, after two minutes the Life Scouts come up with Sachin - the boy's hand tugged within theirs – they drop him on the floor just like the fishermen drop their catch – but Oh God! The boy lies as a limp fish…eyes closed He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! This boy, this boy  - the culprit! Beat him! Kick him! Don't let him flee! As Budhu is being thrashed by the angry mob, ever eager to take law in their hands, there were a few of the elderly along with the Life scouts who were stooping over the boy that lay dead … that leisurely retired old fella - Ram strode over to Sachin and blew in his mouth, as he pushed frantically on his chest…..phhhoooohhhhh…Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp…. .as if the one standing at the border of death was composing such delicate music that would awaken anyone from his death bed….  phhhoooohhhhh …Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp…phhhoooohhhh ……Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp…phhhoooohhhh…Oooooh hhhhhhhpppp… Time passes….in minutes above the water …but those beside it, feel like they're hours….   A floating towel with the striped quote: Swim Like a Shark, and an image of a smiling, dancing Shark in the pool.  The mob around Budhu bursts into slurs! You're an F#?!!*  Refugee!!!! Why are you here? Huh? Why are you here? Speak up!! Haaa? Go to your locality Its for US , Only US…You scumbag refugees! The mob is now wearing veils of their religion! Blood oozing from Budhu's nose, the deep cut appears on his dishevelled forehead …all energy getting sucked out as he tries to move away in vain…..Budhu feels lifeless….Hi! It was my best friend! I didn't want to kill him! You know we had a great dinner only last Sunday!! …Budhu wants to say that…but he is too weak…his eyes are closing as he is falling down….…someone from nowhere came rushing towards him with a rod and pushed it straight through his skull “Jai Hingal ! Jai Moi!” …. that push and the blood oozing fatally….as his body is falling down into the pool ....but the boy's body too weak to swim...  The water is still and the body drops .... a splash ….Jhooooppppp!!!!! and a shriek “Ohhhhhhhhh!!!”      A floating towel with the striped quote: Swim Like a Shark, and an image of a smiling, dancing Shark.  That leisurely retired old Ram clambered over Sachin and blew through his Lips drawing and pushing air…..phhhoooohhhhh ……Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp…..as if the one standing at the border of death composing so delicately music that would awaken anyone from his deathbed…. phhhoooohhhhh ……Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp…phhhoooohhhhh ……Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp… phhhoooohhhhh ……Ooooohhhhhhhhpppp…And the boy Sachin suddenly opens his eyes and coughs out water ….more water…..Ram sits up …job over, boy!  and looking back at the crowd chanting God's name as another boy goes limp and kisses the fathoms of the pool. The old man stands up in a great hurry and dives into the pool while the standing Life Guards shout …. Sir, don't jump with feeble heart! We are coming!

 But who cares! As the old man's body arches, crossing the air to meet the inviting crimson waters of the pool, he hears the chanting from the poolside …Another refugee! Kill him! One more gone, one tension less! Time passes….in seconds inside the water …but above, feels like hours…  …. A floating towel with the striped quote: Swim Like a Shark, and an image of a smiling, dancing Shark.

*****


TO BE CONTINUED

An extract from Floating Towel and a dozen short stories by Gautam Maitra (c ) 2019

Friday, August 02, 2019

Floating Towel and a Dozen Short Stories - sample chapters

Floating Towel and a Dozen Short Stories 

A roller-coaster ride of storms and dreams 

Gautam Maitra




FOREWORD 

 It is, in a way, difficult to write about a book that is, in essence, a compilation of various short stories that my father had written across the span of two decades. It makes it more challenging that each and every story differs so vastly from the other - in terms of whether it be the scale, the settings or the tone. So when people ask me what ‘Floating Towel’ is really about, I find it imperative to say that it is about life itself. To be more precise, a middle-class person’s intensely-personal view of life. Life as it is and life as it should be. .......

INTRODUCTION 

These dozen stories were bred in the turmoils of South Asia. These insignificant tales of humble people have lived for centuries and died their natural deaths. As I sit in my lonely chair awaiting the call of eternity, my young son - much to my surprise - came upon the weary manuscripts of these stories. All of them lying incoherently, insignificantly in the pile of useless papers. He took all the pains to edit them just to see me published in a life where I struggled with the orderliness and micro-managing of publishers. Something that I presume is every storyteller's nightmare. I hope the readers will bear the same patience that my son showed while hopping on this quick rollercoaster of a dozen short stories.  The current times are so vastly different from the one I grew up in as a kid. We witnessed the moon-landing. My aunt who lived in Canada had sent me the best thing I could've imagined then. A small book on mankind's first adventures onto the moon. Television sets came much later. At the time, they were a box of many wonders, puzzlement and pleasant surprises. Of course, they brought with them their addictive zaniness and sloth. But times were different. We had a joint family as big as they would come in those days. A humdrum of aunts and uncles, cousins and nephews with a smattering of continuous noise, laughter and bickering used to make our day. Kids in such households had lots of freedom; an open sky and endless fields full of adventure. Those were the times.  And that time moved. That time moved and we did not. That time that brought with it change. Brought with it the human rights movements. That brought with it a steady rise of envy, insufficiency and violence on the streets. A fulfilment of the Cavemen's ascension to rule the earth with vengeance and greed. And despite all that time brought with it, some things remained the same. There still ran the quiet little river of reverence, camaraderie and love in the cultural mosaic of an ancient land and an ancient people. As I look back at these dozen stories blinking from a past of my time that is long dead, I only pause and wonder about the transformational journey that it has been. A journey that had me as a witness to major upheavals in a society that is yet to relent, often it's vices kneeling down the virtues to reign in the present. Unchecked, unchallenged. It's honesty and simplicity being sold at subsidies, while it's acquired traits of hypocrisy easily run the markets at a premium. Time's have changed. And it's running out. Tick. Tock... Tick. Tock. 

                                                              
                                                              SAMPLE CHAPTER 1

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SAMPLE CHAPTER 2