Kumartuli or Kumortuli is located in the northern part of the city of Kolkata . The locality is a traditional habitat of the potters for nearly three hundred years. The potters or the artisans or the artists settled here during the restructuring of the Kolkata colonial region by the British East India Company . Earning a livelihood by making earthen pots and utensils first they gradually shifted to the making of the idols of Gods and Goddesses for various festivals round the year. With increasing demand and quality of their creations over time the artisans became famous and Kumartuli came to be known as the hub of idol makers supplying thousands of idols, particularly of Goddess Durga , to whole of the state of West Bengal and to NRIs of around 90 countries across the globe. At least three months before Durga Puja , the biggest festival of West Bengal and one of the biggest across Eastern India, more than five hundred workshops come alive with hyper activity day and night. Fir...
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| A Still From Hitchcock Classic Frenzy |
Dinkar stood hunched, a knife in his hand.
He was agitated and tense. The situation was getting out of hand. He had to do something now—something permanent and final. He could tolerate it no longer.
Everyone has some weaknesses, but at the same time some strengths too, he muses furiously. What to do if one always highlights the weaknesses and makes it a point to ignore the strengths! His has been one such never ending story since all the years of his marriage.
His grip on the knife tightened.
He could still hear the rumblings, the grumblings and the awesomely monotonous cacophony.
First thing on this beautiful Sunday morning he got it again. And what did he do? Were his mistakes so unpardonable or were these mistakes mistakes at all? He only tried to help as always. That he broke the tea cup was only an accident. He took it to the sink just to make it easier—as a good gesture. Spilling the water in the passage was another little accident when again he tried to help only by carrying the water to the bath.
He could hear his wife still in the bathroom. He felt the point of his knife.
‘Nag…nag…you old hag!’, he muttered to himself with relish not daring though to say it aloud, because that would make her start all over again. Her way of putting it never failed to hit him to the core. She says his daily routine goes like this—sit, sleep and eat while at home; sit, sit and eat the lunch provided while at office and then coming back home to sit eat and sleep again. How so cruel of her!
He could hear her coming out of the bath, meddling with the washing machine and then entering the bedroom still not forgetting to go on with her live demo on his morning mistakes in all its originality and manifestations.
This was his chance! The line was clear! Their son out at a music class. They were alone.
Holding the knife poised Dinkar rushed to the kitchen and bolted the door from inside. He violently took out the vegetables tray and attacked the greens with venom.
He would prove it once and for all that he was no less a cook than her and that he was her equal in all respects.
He was not going to come out till the lunch was ready.
(This story was retrieved from my old files of more than 12 years. More discoveries to continue!)
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