RAYAPOSITORY

If being realistic was a human being, it would be him. His words unravel itself as an advice, or a lesson, even if unintended. The coarse cobweb of life sewed itself in his heart and mind. A thread which he can’t cut off. Sooted feet for miles to his work. Humble beginnings to a superman who gets looked up to by three people whose gilded presence light up his world. In all his sternness, imposing persona and razor sharp truths, he is a person capable of generosity, tepidity, and a lots of laughter. He can laugh. At times, my aunt can make it stop, which is another story. I won’t tell it another day. Aunt is an enigma. A very unfathomable one. She has a bit of Urdu on her, and her siblings have the same eloquence in their exchanges. But I decrypt the meaning quite easily. A balmy spring one, then a blistering summer. The two spectrum of her sentiments. A polarity from her better half. I am cognisant of such differences. And I very well know why when I see them. The tribulations of life ...

  1971 was something different for my uncle.   An adrenaline laden youth of 20s, his hands knew barren browns, machine guns and blood. Unkempt beard and moustache, bullet wounds and a yearning of his mother’s sunshine.   Lots of it. To the extent the rims of his eyes appeared the same.   He had seen his own blood too. But not enough to ink a red carpet and a grim reaper in tow. When the only ink he knew is the one between the pages, which paint a cassette tape and hilt of a cricket bat.   Grandfather didn’t know if to ponder over it.   My reminisce only sketches one picture: his tall silhouette warmed with blankets, uncomfortably bent limbs, and a lisp I never deciphered why. Until the gruesome experience that shadowed his existence unfurled in front of me.   My meagre aged self didn’t view it as extraordinary in the grand scheme of things. But it was, and still is.   I didn’t even inform myself of how my aunt, or his two children felt.   Chi...

  This isn’t something I could stomach writing about until now. Yet the genocide(s) is/are making several nations lose theirs. First it was one. Then two. Three. Now they sit at millions. Millions being starved, millions becoming living remains, a shell of their previous life before the unlit chasm succumbs them entirely. It ricochets a merry tune of heaven, where the sun isn’t unyielding, the fruits tug the branches in its fullness, and the daffodils  mischievously  dare them to come play. I think this is what heaven looks like. Flowers, fruits and a shining star. I think this is what people in Palestine, Sudan, Congo and many other unspoken of, shrouded, unheard of think so. They beseech, their knees greet the ground in an intensity which outcries thunderbolts from hell. All they need is to eat. They don’t want to get eaten. By the demons which crawl their conscience. Dig their tepid, tainted fingers and relishes the crimson which treads down their arms before they grow...

  I’m not sure if idyllic is the right word to say when I was enough to be between two arms.   Or mom was when her own flesh materialised in front of her.   The glacial weather was bearable because her tiny reflection warmed her insides, she said. A winter’s tale started that day.   It still persists. A perennial winter.   The youngest daughter has birthed a girl, in a man’s world. Hence, a gilded cage is a must.   The exception is, mom was in the cage too. And now even more than I am.   I made a gigantic dent, but mom couldn’t fly through it.   The horrors persist, but so does her flailing wings.   

Usually a stoic and intellectually wise figure, many opine my uncle as a rather reclusive wallflower. To anyone’s astonishment, he is conversant when you allow him the space and equal the serene energy. His dialect remains unmatched, and worthy of being heard. It needs a flowery font and sallow hued papers to be inked. A mahogany fireplace, a bordeaux lounger and a velvety pen. Splendid. Temperament is an heirloom among my larger family, yet his has a tenacity to which elephants might swirl their trunks and flutter their ears. The least eligible candidate to sound a bellowing, sky bound thunder. Even my aunt, his only companion. Only calibrated, clarified. No off trailing. Even with the contraries, they are alike. I discovered once that grounded people are reliable. He is too. We have a wide chasm of singularities and ideologies, but the bridge of empathy and goodwill is iron clad. Even more potent when it comes to his elder daughter and my sister.  They are two sides of one coin, ...

Single women in Bangladesh are thought to be miserable without a husband. And through injudicious doctrines and naysayers to catalyse the idea, women do internalise so. But for an abridged time. Or not. Aunt used to too.  Embraced by a hoard of nephews and nieces to build two hockey teams, she used to ponder the absence of her own family. A little angel to protect. Someone who is hers. In being cacophonic, gleeful and prompt, aunt always comes first. Be it home, or an event, her larger-than-life presence is revered and appreciated. She basked in the attention, but more so when it was us, her beloved merry family whom she swore to adore and inspire. It was artless, something very uncomplicated. The reign on our hearts didn’t ink dominance. It was evenhanded. More of a companion than a guardian. Her affection is a spring shower. A renewal for the weary. In irony, her birthday is in April, when the spring showers happen. You’re more important to me than your mom. Enough to permit a be...

All I know for a long time is that my grandpa built it all by himself. The cement, rods, foundation prep, the entire tumultuous, tiresome process. He led a gypsy life, but not in the sense one would opine. It was more of packing up and packing down, trekking, stowing, levering. Everlasting. Until the smell of the soil made him rethink. Wondered if his teaching would need entailing his other eleven members being lugged around? Give a taste of the gravel his footfalls greeted? Thus 174. Previously embraced by a banana grove, a meagre perimeter holding a four storied estate. The ground became a home for twelve, the rest left for strangers to pay in every two moon cycles. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough. For mom. Her six brothers, and three sisters. The lord of the house, not towering, yet with towering intellect tread in pursuit of knowledge. London accepted him, and a medal of honour trailed him on his way home. The grandeur to the simplicity, yet again. The children weren’t diffident...

The heart machine perpetually beeps, a monotone sound tangled with the heavy breaths from the person it’s tethered to . The white walls are cavernous, which make the inhabitants in the room rather small in comparison. The hospital bed in question holds a young woman in her twenties, several white bandages lining her across her body and most part of her head, the shroud that grapples with her death. Except she is at death’s door. She knows it with every sharp spasm in her head, her weary bones, and her life force dimming every minute. She digests every wince that threatens to escape her lips, lest she might worry her family, lest she might give away that she doesn’t have long to live.   Her twin brother sits in silence as he watches her rest. Her eyes are closed, her countenance devoid of the color, which is usually a very earthy brown hue, and she has a feeble body. She has been like this for several days, and he can do nothing but sit and pray to the Almighty that she pushes thro...