Arunabha Ghosh

        A   R  U  N  A  B  H  A     G   H   O   S   H

Arunabha Ghosh is an interpreter by profession and an occasional writer and translator, he has contributed to and co-edited Culture, Society and Development in India (Orient Blackswan, 2009) and edited Withered Leaves, a fiction by Jayanta Ray (Frog Books, 2011). He has also published in The Telegraph, Economic and Political Weekly (EPW) and Sahitya Akademi journal as well as in Bengali magazines..

                             Housing

The storm had started late in the afternoon. With every passing hour it gained in strength. The rain that accompanied the wind kept a steady beat and then accelerated the downpour matching the rising wind speed. As the evening rolled into the night the road below was inundated, water rushing through the gutter as if chased by a ghost. The sound of traffic having died, the sound of the cyclone swirled all around. The sound of rain added whiplash to the turbulence. Windows, bill boards, roadside shanties rattled with a disturbing monotony. It was close to midnight when the lights went out. Either a line had snapped somewhere or the electricity board had switched off for safety’s sake. The pitch dark felt eerie as windows all around were firmly shut. Somani looked out of his window to the boundaried compound across the road. He could vaguely figure out the huge bo-tree in the middle of the clearing swaying furiously.

The morning was cool and calm, the storm having blown away. Signs of last night’s mayhem lay strewn all around. A butter coloured streak of the young sun lay resting on the wall. Somani threw open the window. He drew the binoculars to his eyes focusing them on the bo-tree. There it lay uprooted like a huge giant slain in a battle. The corners of his mouth curled into a smile. He would not have to seek the environment department’s permission to build the commercial-cum-housing complex.

Meanwhile the little birds, the squirrels, the ants were looking for alternative accommodation.

                            Switched off

Amit had rung up Sweta.

Hi!

Hi!

Silence.

You don’t want to talk to me?

Silence.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I mean, it was not an assault. Believe me.

Silence.

I lost control at the party. I wanted you badly. Believe me.

Silence.

Can you forgive me? Please. I’m terribly sorry.

Silence.

You are ravishing. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.

Silence.

Can we meet tomorrow? Please.

I’m going away to Delhi tomorrow morning.

Back to the university?

Yes.

When is your flight? Which airline?

Silence.

I would come and see you at your place early tomorrow morning.

Silence.

I need to apologise in person. I need to see that you have forgiven me.

Silence.

Please, I can’t live with my shame.

Do as you please.

It was rather early. When Amit’s car was nearing the traffic roundabout at Golpark, he realised with sudden shock that he had left his cell phone at home. It was switched off. It was charging. No public call office was open this early. He needed to confirm if Sweta had left for the airport.

Sweta was trying Amit’s number. Switched off. She smiled bitterly. Amit perhaps was tipsy last evening. He didn’t mean what he said. She stepped into the cab. Airport, she said.

Their cars crossed each other at Southern Avenue.

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