House of Bougainvillea and Other Stories

By Debadatta Satpathy

From the very beginning, I believed that every moment of our life has a story written in it, because its unpredictableness breeds countless posibilities. Its only because we are so tuned to our mechanical jobs that we do not keep a track of it. As we grow old, the stories are written on the hard disk and then deleted simultaeneously, for we have better things to do than remebering silly episodes.
Therefore, I turned to my childhood. Where little incidents have shaped my life. Where a girl taught me what is struggle. Where a school showed me what is friendship.And where a friend demonstrated the true worth of fellowfeeling. This book has just captured those moments and some other stories as well, some funny, some poignant, which either I have encountered or listened somewhere. I have no pretension of being a great writer. This book is written in a very day-to-day english, because I feel ornamental language destroys emotions. Being my first attempt, I have also no idea about the rules of writing, if something of that sort exists. The tales are just the reflections of my feeling. Hope, the esteemed readers enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Feb 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482818871

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Debadatta Satpathy.

ISBN:                  Softcover                  978-1-4828-1888-8

                            Ebook                       978-1-4828-1887-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is work of fiction. Resemblance to anyone, dead or alive, is just a coincidence. Names, characters, places, dates, figures and events mentioned in this book are either the product of the authors’ imagination or used fictitious, and are intended for the entertainment purpose only.

To order additional copies of this book, contact

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000 800 10062 62

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INDEX

1.   The final gift

2.   Kites

3.   Memories

4.   Love’s Labour Lost

5.   It’s a bad, ba (l) d world

6.   The celestial challenger

7.   Navina—a blacker’s Tale

8.   A night at Old Kothi-a story

9.   The glass window

10.   A cat called Graey

11.   The last dirge to an unsung prince

12.   A letter to Mr. Ravan

13.   The House of Bougainvillea

Dedication

"Dedicated to those countless memories

that have shaped my life."

The final gift

I know the person for whom I am writing this memoir will never get to read it. Because she is not among those privileged few to have computer or internet connection. I am not even sure whether destiny has chosen her to be literate enough to read English. She is among those faceless millions who take birth, toil and fade away. But she had another brilliant characteristic that very few of us possess. A heart of gold and sharp brain. She could have gone to any heights had she been given opportunity. But fate chose otherwise.

Sadly, life is so ruthless.

This story is for you, Sasmita.

Bapi bhai, you recognize me na?

I looked back and saw a middle aged lady, smiling from cheek to cheek, her hands dragging a small girl. I was walking right across Tal Telenga Bazar, a long circuitous road from Brundabati Chaak to Bhakrabad, in Cuttack, Orissa.

I did not know why I decided to go to Tal Telenga Bazar on that fateful day. Was it a nostalgic trip to the 80’s, where my adolescent years have passed? For if that was so, I was getting sorely disappointed. ‘Katak’ is no longer what ‘Cuttack’ was, or what I thought it should have been. The routes looked sadly congested packed with luxury sedans. The laidback people looked very busy, gossiping loudly on mobiles and chewing Gutkha. Where are those khattis, the loud jhagdas of household ladies, the joys and effervescence of a bygone era?

U r getting old son, I told myself. The time to be romantic has long passed.

I suddenly realized that somebody has recognized me, the lady calling me ‘bapibhai’. Sure enough, I scratched my receding hairlines… at 40+, u have to be somebody’s bhai… . But who was she? I jarred my memory… umm… not much girls or ladies came out of it…

Arre, Me Sasmita… did you forget everything?

Now I remembered. A girl in her skirts metamorphosing into a bride in her saris… the smiles converting into weeps… the vacant face… my God, why should she recognize me…

Hey you are totally changed. Your glasses are there, but where are the hairs? she asked.

She had also changed. Perhaps more than me. The once joyous girl had turned into a middle aged lady, the ageing signs all over her face. But the infectious smile has still remained. Ya… it must be around class 5 or 6…

I was studying in collegiate school, then supposedly one of the best schools in orissa. Why then, even now that pride remains in some corner inside me. So it came as a rude shock when one fine day it dawned upon me that Maths is simply unpalatable. There was a huge exercise to be solved for the class next day and I was at my wits end. And unlike today, when teachers are benign friends of the students, sirs at that time were devil incarnate, to say the least. I was silently thinking the aftereffect of the massive slap that Rudrababu, the Maths teacher, was going to give me, when Sasmita called me.

"What are you doing Bapibhai, Maths?"

Though Sasmita’s family was our next door neighbour, we had hardly talked. Her father was probably a daily wage earner and her mother was doing odd jobs, apart from the mandatory