Scrambled Tales

01. the tenant

The April summer evening is here. The sun bidding its farewell for the day as the sky turns in hues of orange pink and blue. The beauty of this summer evening and CR Park is buzzing with kids. Holidays started early this year.

A thin sweat covers Sheuli's forehead as she walks through the unknown roads. Delhi summer is irritating to her. She sigh.

The loose white lucknow chikan kurti and ripped faded blue jeans with those silver jhumkas kissing her collar bones and dark black waves pulled back in a low messy bun. Her light brown orbs with a tinch of orange in them are lined with a thin stroke of eyeliner and those thick eyelashes are coated with mascara.

"At least back in the home, it's not humid like this" She whispered irritatedly.

Back in the home.

She smiled even at the thought of that.

Home is where your heart is, that place is certainly not home. But that place holds a piece of her heart, a piece of herself. A sigh.

Kolkata is surely her home after all she is in love with the city of joy, after all, she had spent twenty-two summers there, on those alleys of red painted wall, on those Ganga ghats. A sigh as she comes back to her present.

Sheuli Bakshi, a second-year masters student. JNU was her dream once and now she is living that dream. But certainly, the hostel Life is getting under her nerves. So now she is here, looking for a house for rent. And damn it's hard. And what's Sheuli Bakshi if she gets anything without a fight.

At least here it feels like Kolkata even is a bit. Taking the turn she opens the fence gate and walks through the tiled porch. A similar red wall house welcomes her and suddenly a smile shines upon her nude lips making her dimples prominent.

The Bougainville among the green lawn and the wooden swing with all those plants, the old Volkswagen parked under the shade. This surely feels like home and the soft music of sitar playing somewhere near.

As she rings the old vintage bell, a lady opens the door dressed in a cotton saree. The pepper hair pulled up in a bun, an elegant smile and that red bindi resting on her forehead. A few lines wrinkle near her eyes.

"Yes?" She asked with her deep Bengali accent.

"Hello. I am Sheuli,"

"Oh, acha tumi Sheuli?" She smiles warmly now opening the door widely. Slowly Sheuli steps inside as the lady gestures her.

The aroma of tea is filled in the lounge, asking her to take a sit on the couch the lady goes way somewhere maybe the kitchen as Sheuli concludes. And she took the moment to look around, and surely this place is just like her home.

The bookshelves are filled with collections of Ray, Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay, and Tagore obviously Sunil Ganguly. On a smaller shelf, she finds Ahmed Fazar and Rahat Indori too. The one towards the left holds Amitav Ghosh, Arundhati Roy, and many more. Above it, the old gramophone playing the Sitar cassettes. Ravi Shankar, she concludes, so many times she had heard them that now she can't mistake it anyhow. She loves how this lady had sorted them so nicely.

A thing about Sheuli, she loves books and literature. Her mind wanders back to the day she spent in Boi Para and College street buying books and spending sleepless nights upon them. Books and her are a match rather it's something she has been carrying her in genes.