Tales of ephemeral truth is played by penny whistle blower. My life admonishes to seek through the gradual mapping of cityscapes as South sea corridor or Nicaragua. I disdained the French arson gallery. I disdained the sailor in me. Topsy turvy whereabouts. Some Delhi channels were scary to me. My lesson seekers were with me. Delhi provided the solitary nights. I walked through it. Living to tell the tale. There were many he’s and she’s who liked myself. I seeked the story teller in me. A slurry woman of ariatic zone tried to withheld my story. I was the hard nut to crack. She tried to cut the kitchen robes. God and Anandaroop Sen saved me. I silly passed her. I was waiting for the Galapogas leaps. Something in me whispered, there must be someone waiting for me. Meanwhile my teller selfhood. My cherished inbetweenness. There were many solo players in the campus. Long lost in the layers of self. My tellership, before being at one with the story. Her solemnity and prayers. By jove, I liked the clowns. The Beckettian trope in me, told to be in sync with the dreams of Cultural Revolution. Yankeeism, what a great civilisational acumen. I was the vote builder of a group, beyond left or right. Night spent in juvenile corrugated meetings with both sides. Some meagre time was left for me, I road hopped the campus. I saw my stars. Around a decade waiting.  The sailor returned sometimes. All were pretty nationalist, except me and my ilk, Gaya Singh. We liked to be Israel mongers. I loved the Pakistan tripping in Kashmir. Delhi is aghast, with many from my ilk. The inbetween tellers. Certain woman loved my inbetweenness. It was put forth in my thesis. I wished her in good health. The role I played was not to be part of any story. Me, myself, the wholesome. Inbetween north point appeared through Bena. We scored high. It was a scandal in the campus. We played petty thief and secret agents together. Stoned to the core, I built stories. Every he had a she. They were timely in campus. I was out of joint. I tried to infiltrate other stories, to put the localism outside the purview of their account and build my solo internationalism. Local story teller and international are in a one to one symbolic correspondence with each other. One transcribes the other. Both become each other. Me teller become her’s. Teller becomes the part of wholesome story. I missed the evenings with Allahabadi Gaya these days. He used to admonish everything with his so-called right wing scores. The lesson I learnt, how the local and international, enmeshed with each other, transcribes and at the same time, admonishes the Nation form of the Ariatic whole.

Jeet Bhattacharya
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