NYMPHIA'S PAGE

He said she was his Achilles' heel long before she had read Homer. "What's an Achilles' heel?" She asked with the innocence of a teenager even though she was in her twenties. She had never really grown up, her mother would tell everyone. She was too naïve for the world. Achilles was a demi-god, his father being the mortal Peleus, the king of Myrmidons; but his mother Thetis was a goddess. She wanted him to be immortal like herself. She did everything in her power to give him immortality. She put ambrosial ointment all over his body after burning him in fire every night. She dunked him in the river Styx since it was believed that the immortal gods bathed in the water of that river and that conferred invulnerability to its bathers. There was just one problem though! She had held him tight at his heels, fearing that he might drown and as a result, not a single drop of water would reach his heels.  Hence the weakest part of his body was his heels. Year...

The phone rang. This was in the middle of the night, at 12:25 pm. Wasifa’s breath quickened as she answered the phone. ‘Hello!’ ‘Hi! This is Mirana. Did you hear that Ayman is in the ICU of Midland Hospital?’ ‘No! Oh my God! What happened to him?’ ‘No one knows! I called his home and they said he had fifty-fifty chances. ‘What do you mean? Fifty-fifty chances?’ ‘Well he might live or he might die, fifty percent chance for him to make it through. Mirana’s voice was cold.’ ‘But what is wrong with him?’ Wasifa eagerly awaited her response. ‘I think it’s some kind of virus. It’s killing him bit by bit. All his organs are failing on him.’ ‘I can’t believe it! I just talked to him just last week. He said he was feverish. Anyway thanks for letting me know. I will go see him may be tomorrow.’ ‘No use! They are not letting anyone get inside.’ ‘We will see what we can do. Bye now.’ Wasifa’s throat went dry and there was a knot somewhe...

Chandrabati, the poet who composed Ramayana from Sita’s point of view. She attempted such a tacsk in as early as the sixteenth century, which has earned the right to be termed canonical texts from a women's perspective. We started our journey at 8am from Mohammodpur, took a break at Egaro Shindur in Pakundia in Kishoreganj district to see the place where Isha khan, the chief of Baro Bhuiyan fought Maan Singh. As we climbed up high on a hill like structure on foot, and came down on the other side, we were informed by a villager that this was a tomb of some saint who lived here many years ago. We we taken over by guilty feelings for having tread over some unknown saint’s eternal resting place. By us, I mean the group of writers who came out on an expedition to find out more about the sixteenth century poet Chandrabati. What was discovered beyond the hill was a series of modern village houses with brick walls and tinned roof tops. A young villager led us to an enclosure beyond the hou...

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‘YOU know I heard someone passing by my room wearing anklets. The noise came from the veranda, taking down the four steps and crossing my room, and went towards the back of our house.’ Suman looked at me with a mouthful of food with a quizzical look in his eyes. He kept grinding his chapatti as he spoke with a smile, ‘You are so imaginative! Why don’t you write some fiction? Seriously you could do well in the field.’ ‘What? You don’t believe me?’ ‘Well, wish I had time to sort that out? I have an office to attend, so please pass me my tea. Don’t want to be late.’ So we quietly had our tea. After he left I sat outside on the veranda. It was green everywhere I looked. I was quite excited about coming to stay in this teagarden when he got his job; it had been two weeks since I got here. It was a beautiful bungalow, made in the British era when tea plantation was in vogue. There were three bedrooms and a guestroom in the house. The sitting room was very big; it took up almost half of the ...