The World Through Your Eyes

Matters of Home and Heart

That evening, Kolkata's sky was a luxuriant shade of purple, liberally streaked with hues of orange and red. It'd just rained, and the petrichor-infused scent of freesia wafted in invitingly through the gaps in the green shuttered windows as Swapnil's fingernails scraped at the rotting damp wood of the windowpane. It'd been a rather vengeful kalbaisakhi storm, and the news anchor on the television set in the next room had taken a break from haranguing his hapless guests on his 'debate' to report on hail showers in Midnapore. The stray mongrels had crept out of their hiding places under garage sheds, trees and discarded cardboard boxes, and were now frolicking about in the street. The
Rather nice of the locals to allow the presence of so many strays in the neighbourhood, Aman thought. In Bombay, some geriatric pensioner would've relentlessly pestered the local municipality until they were neutered. Kolkata, in general, was a kinder, more generous city. People here could apparently reach work as late as ten in the morning, without much chance of being chastised by their higher ups who'd probably be as late as they were. The gyms here were frequented not by starlets and aspiring young actors striving to get into shape before they queued up to audition for the coveted role of the female lead's best friend, but by pot-bellied men with jowls trying to fend off diabetes and high cholesterol levels, and middle-aged women who went by the univalent moniker 'auntie', shuffling on to treadmills, battling their rheumy knees that ached in protest. In Bombay, every block had atleast one trendy Zumba and/or pilates club or MMA academy. In Kolkata, every locality had a dozen coaching centres boasting veteran teachers to help students crack engineering and medical entrance exams, so that they could fly the nest and relocate in greener, busier pastures. Most importantly, if you ended up saying Calcutta instead of Kolkata in a social media post, angry politicians and keyboard warriors didn't label you an anti-national with a colonial hangover. In a nutshell, if Bombay was a dainty keto meal of chicken and nuts, Kolkata was a warm homemade meal of curry and rice, just the kind of lunch that made you want to take a long siesta afterwards.
Long story short, Swapnil was glad to be back. The country had gone into lockdown less than a week ago, and while most would've rued being away from home indefinitely, Nayan didn't feel the least bit stranded. His apartment in Kolkata, no matter how derelict, felt much more like home that the tiny dormitory he rented in Mumbai. Here, he could spend his quarantine reminiscing his days of being a theatre enthusiast, fresh off Jadavpur University's Dramatic Society. Besides, on the practical side of things, the COVID case load was far lighter here.
"Look at me getting all self-indulgent and nostalgic about the 'good old theatre days'. Anyone would've thought I'd become some super successful megastar to be so introspective about my career graph," Swapnil grimaced bitterly. "It's been nearly a decade, and I'm still Samar Khanna's pet poodle on a leash."
He still remembered the day he'd first bumped into Samar. His first sight of him had been Samar chomping on piping hot samosas and washing them down with tea at the stall outside the JU campus, haggling with the lady at the counter for a discount. She'd ultimately given in, courtesy Samar's disarming lopsided grin that he flashed at all the right opportunities. The stall had been surprisingly deserted, considering it was a Wednesday, and the canteen and stalls should've been milling with broke students, pestering each other for a treat to celebrate some exam they'd aced or some new girl they'd wooed. But that evening, when Swapnil walked in, his left hand weighed down by his Mathematical Statistics: Kenny and Keeping, there had been only Samar, trying to charm his way out of clearing his long overdue tab at the shop. What I wouldn't give to be as confident as this guy, Swapnil was marveling when Samar turned. Swapnil stood rooted to the spot as though he'd been electrified.
Even as the two men stared at each other, it was Samar who'd first broken into his trademark grin and exclaimed, "Holy crow! Bro, I could swear I was hallucinating when I first saw you. You're real, right?"

This is the first of many chapters to come. It's the first time I'm trying my hand at something somewhat resembling a book, and I'm pretty clueless as to how this is done. Any and all feedback(non abusive, of course) is very welcome. Lemme know in the comments why you think Samar was surprised! There will be a next chapter only if I see you asking for it.

Also, can't sign off without thanking someone who's pretty much mentored me with my writing. Warisha_Ahmed is one of my favourite writers on the platform, almost all of her writing have been my comfort reads for some three years now. I'd never find the nerve to even contemplate writing a full fledged e-book without her continued encouragement and advice. Please check out her account and her work, if you haven't already. To my bona fide sister, THIS is, because YOU are. I can't be grateful enough. To Satarupa_Official who's written a banger of a book named Navalok and an equally surreal poetry collection. I've fangirled over her work incessantly and she's been kind enough to often offer constructive feedback on my work. Also, SANAM_Beloved who's asked me more than once to consider writing a book. This is for you too, Sim. Wattpad has been my safe haven for a while now, and you are one of the reasons why.

Lastly, but perhaps the most important of the lot. Basundhara Paul, you pushed me to get this going for AGES. You reviewed every piece I've ever written. You told me I was good when I firmly believed my writing was trashy. You taught me most of what I know about being a storyteller. You were my proofreader on call, my motivator-in-chief. I don't know if I'll ever get this book to completion without you. The very act of writing with the knowledge that you'll no longer cheer me on is painful in the extreme. But I promised I'd try, so I will. I love you.

Please vote if you think the story is worthy. Bubbye! 🖤