The Uncommon Write up(Medhashri Mahanty) THE UNCOMMON WRITE UP


It is an usual boring day at the Karol Bagh Area, New Delhi, with its
droning cry of traffic, and we all are hurriedly groping for a car to
take us home. Max says "It seems that heaven can't hold anymore. Need to
hurry." True, but there was not a car in sight. We somehow completed the
Lead and Voice-Over Session of today's story. The boss is a complete jerk but the organization offers fat salary, so everyone has to accept him.

Rain has started in its own soft rhythm and is tearing the great clouds
of black and orange hue away and the occasional sound of thunderclap is
reminding me about the great concert of Mozart, where he used to play his piece on the piano that used to fill the whole room by the magic of
music, and thunderclaps resembling the audience. Mozart does not seem to be so many years before, I feel he is alive right now, playing before us smiling inexplicably at me.

I'm shaken from my deep reverie and Max tells me that he has found a
car. The five of us somehow squeeze into this three seated automobile and they start gossiping about the office where we work, the people we meet
everyday, the problems each one has got to face at home. I look out of the window, the multi-storeyed buildings that has sumptuously risen and stare at the endless grey sky, how mysterious it feels when one thinks about all these. I see the rains splashing the glassy windows of beautiful houses, apartments and shops, and somewhere I find the lost music of my childhood, “Rain drops, rain drops fall upon my window, down the hills and through the lusty apple tree”. I go back to my school days, my friends, our teachers, the way we fooled our gateman, our weird and foolish games.

"Are you going to cover the story?" Rishi speaks. I was completely
riveted by my soft loving childhood but you've got to come back to your
present, to your problems and work. "Yes, I will" I say, not knowing how exactly I am going to finish it by today. It is a mammoth task and I am
devoid of the energy that it requires. I am like a child now, I want to run back to my child hood, my native land, my home, my own small garden where I used to soil my hands and feet. I know I can't go back and that gives me a sharp pang of disappointment, the similar feeling which I felt when I missed getting A grade in my projects.

Every one bids me goodbye as they get down near their apartments, and
Rishi and I get down at the same place. we walk for some minutes and then we reach our consecutive apartments that face each other. At our office, I match only with these four friends of mine and we are a separate lot. The car stops with a cracking noise. We walk for five minutes and speak about our project and then how good I felt about the rain, but veiling my childhood memories, my thought about Mozart and the glassy apartments.

I reach my home, change my wet dress and make myself a cup of coffee,
and finally jarring with myself about what to do now, sit at my desk for
the mammoth task. Our boss has divided us into a group of three where we
have got to cover a unique topic, a write up which will make people wonder and think about it, it must not be any common incident. I understand everything, but where can I find such a story? in our group there are only two because the other one has taken a leave for an operation in the retina section of eye. It was serious and she was compelled to resign. Now only Rishi and me. Uncommon topic.

I remember the days when I used to win every essay competition in my
school by writing something uncommon, not natural for people to think at
once. I stare blank at the computer and memories come flooding me again. I remember I asked my mother once, "Can you tell me something very uncommon to write about?", she answered with her kind lips touching the rim of the tea cup, "Memories".

I call up Rishi and tell him that I have thought of a topic. "What?"
"Memories" I say and disconnect the line. I switch on to the notepad and
start writing. I write about my childhood that had everything perfectly
placed in it. My childhood. I had enjoyed every piece of it. Growing up in a joint family in not-so-modern North Calcutta, how I escaped my every punishment that was meant for my tricks by bribing my sisters with ice
cream. how much fun it was when my grand parents supported me in the
craziest of my ideas. The smell of my garden, the smell of the magnificent ancient house built during the British rule, the smell of pepper and old furniture mixed in our library that was filled with books by Rabindranath Tagore and Bankim Chandra, by Keats and Shelley, Christopher Marlowe and Shakespeare.

I write down how we used to play gilli-danda during the rains and how we
went picking unripe mangoes during the summer, from the tree that had spread its huge branches in our garden. I remember how every afternoon, all the girls would sit centering our grand mother (who chewed betel leaf and her ear lobes used to move up and down as she spoke) and she spoke about the Indian folk lore, the tales of mighty princes and knights, the tales of those brave men who sacrificed their lives, for the freedom of India. She told us about Rabindranath Tagore, Subhas Chandra Bose and Gandhi and sometimes she would also smile and say about her silent love for the then famous actors. We would laugh but we understood her feelings.

I write about the great occasions during Durga Puja and Diwali, during
the Bengali New Year when the entire house was filled with all sorts of
noise, from my weird stories to my cousins to my mothers blowing of the
conch shell at our home. I say how I felt when my mother would just ask me to deliver a packet of sweet meats to my neighbour on the eve of Dashera and I would feel I’ve done the world’s greatest job. I picture my mother who would look so lovely even in the simplest of sarees, her motherly touch in everything she did for us, my father who though he scolded us sometimes would often get scolding from my mother by supporting us in all sorts of pranks.

I then come down to the last cover line, I pose a question about today's children, how frustrated they feel, only school and back at home, either
home work or tutors, and refreshment means either watching the television or maybe posting something in one of the social networking sites. No grand parents, because they must be put as a lot of tired people whose sneezing and body aches disturb the others, and slowly this has led to formation of nuclear families. This has made people so much self-centred, so much shrewd and careless, so less committed in any liaison, where values and humanity is always wrapped up by technology, fast moving world and demands. I apply the law of "diminishing marginal utility" that once my teacher taught me. I say that too much of renovations, so much craving for materialism has led to disgust and look you are frustated. I say that when children get lost in their own world, parents force them to come back and join the rat race, but what happens as a result is the child puts every enjoyment, every paltry want, at a game of pitch and toss and eventually loses the taste, the flavour of childhood and grows up to a group of successful doctors, engineers and teachers who know how to earn money, set up buildings and send their parents to the old age homes when their old bones crumble and disturb. I say, look at whatever you are doing now, because your loving child is going to inherit and return the same to you.

I end my writing asking every parent who reads this to revamp their memory back to their childhood and take time out of their ne'er, leaving behind schedule, to offer time to their children, play games with them, or just ask how was the day at school. This would be much better than gifting the child a toy motor car or a rich doll set.

I implore the parents not to send any more grand parents in the orphan
homes which call themselves, old age homes. Grand parents are needed for
the healthy mental growth of the child, else how will they understand the real meaning of folk tales? who would scare them of ghosts in the wintry evenings (as it is that the discovery of generators have not let any ghosts to stay in the house and small flats are too small for ghosts to live). I tell every one who read this that before they enter into the clumsy and so called friendly world of social networks, to afford some time for their family.

I end the write up. I look at my watch, which shows five in the morning.
The dark grey sky has cleared and a soft but bright sky has come up and the golden rays strike brilliantly on my computer screen. I name my write up "THE ONLY PARADISE FROM WHICH WE CAN NEVER BE EXPELLED" and take the print out. Rishi will wait for me at ten near the gate, and by then I am sure I'll be ready. He is an excellent photographer and he has gathered some pictures, all we need to is to edit and send it to our boss for the final print. I am sure this will create an impression on the minds of our readers, they will be compelled to think, if not take pressing actions, but never mind, conscience can lead to self thinking and that can create an impromptu commotion for actions.

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