Imagine Real

I met Prof Prashanta Banerjee, eminent statistician and Cephologist. Now retired and columnist in a well circulated news paper. He welcome me with hot tea with milk and sugar. I revealed my identity again. Joy, Joy Roy from Bavaria News Agency. He asked me point blank , do you think the accident was a pre planned conspiracy? I answered , Professor, I assumed nothing but I got the information is one of the top secret person was surely going to win the election against chief minister. Professor smiled, " have you done the homework ? Anti incumbent factor, vote suing due to religious intolerance ..." . I said I only gone through the technical analysis , which is clearly showing a head and shoulders formation for Chief Minister and bullish in favour of the top secret person. Professor said, let clear the technical condition of the aeroplane, weather data and fitness of the flight captain. I provided him the data and said, flight captain was in absolutely fit and charming last night before her ill-fated flight , I assure you. Professor Banerjee said, "in that case I am taking the human error negligible. I said, let me think about the anti incumbent factor. A wave of light like playing santoor came from the rooms inside. Professor said, let us meet again on Sunday. I agreed.
I was sitting on the floral woven cover of the bed. Mrs Banerjee was sitting few feet far from me. She has golden skin like sunflower. Long, hairs tied in hanging bun. Wearing a ivory white tasser silk saree with durga motif in Anchol and red wide paar. I asked her, "Boudi, long time I didn't heard any song from you". She smiled and sang a Tegore song like the sirens of eagion sea "je rate more duar guli bhanglo jhore/ Jani nai ko tumi ele / a a mar dware E" . I felt the saxophone of the clam of the bay of Bengal. There was slowly the monsoon clouds were forming. Light and she'd was playing chess board out side. It was noon. She slowly stepped before the window. I closed to her. She asked "why me?" I tried to answer, she turned at me, her golden idol was burning red, she touched her finger on my lips . Told "Chup" " be silent" . She untie my hanging buns, she took both of her hands till the point of her back which only woman can with ease to unhook gracefully when the door is close and never when outside. She scratched my sabre with foils of her nails. I saw the storm outside. She taught me to be calm at the eye of the storm. She sat on my waist inserting the clove inside the lotus . I was sitting in the kneeling position. She hold my shoulders with her hands, scissor locked my waist with her elephant trunks, her towes were touching the bed. I thrashed upwards against her thrust downwards. She bend her like Beckham in to an arch touching the bed in back for sometime. Her long hairs mage a Vail behind, again she bite forward like a snake, hissed , kissed the eternal natural. In the out side then the storm was singing Tegore song " shaono raate jodi.." . We stepped on the clouds she was then the daughter of the moutains. We danced with Adana Malhar raag. We stepped on the planets, galaxies, we ignored the singularity. We danced tandava together, until the Tabor the domoru and the Drum or Dundhuvi shivered us and we entangled into the fountainhead of the sensation flowed eternity to eternity. Boudi tumi kotto bhalo.

https://anchor.fm/subhabrata-chowdhury5/episodes/Psychadelic-Night-Calcutta-e1odp8i