TAXI

Jhora Pata: 

What’s this new thing adorning your lips?

Megh Balok: 

You should know better, you were the one who is playing with it.

Jhora Pata: 

Playing? I don’t like this sour metal thing in between us.

Megh Balok: 

As if I care!

Jhora Pata:  

Remove it.

Megh Balok: 

Wishful thinking!

Jhora Pata:  

Won’t you do this much for me?

Megh Balok: 

Stop opening the same old account of how much you did for me, and how much I did not do for you.

Jhora Pata: 

Stop cribbing!

Megh Balok: 

Stop biting, it hurts.... and dare you make a mark!

Jhora Pata:  

What scares you more, the biting or the mark?

Megh Balok: 

Nothing scares me; getting hurt does not equate to getting scared....

The driver is watching!

Jhora Pata: 

And the bugger is also getting paid for it

Megh Balok: 

Your humour sucks! Can I roll down the window? I need a smoke....

Jhora Pata:  

I get headache with smoke.

Megh Balok: 

When did you last shave?

Jhora Pata:  

Is this the first cigarette of the day?

Megh Balok: 

How you know?

Jhora Pata: 

You smelt unfamiliar before the smoke

Megh Balok: 

Often I feel I don’t know you anymore, but your Davidoff still feels the same way familiar.

Jhora Pata: 

How are you Megh?

Perfumes are strange things; like songs and memories they get etched in your mind. They travel in time and can make you feel strange things at strange moments. Megh Balok wanted to start off from where he had left; he saw himself standing on the cross road where he stopped three years back.

A noisy silence intruded the rendezvous! Megh Balok did not know how he smelt; but he knew for sure, that inside his head it was all smoky, though he could not figure the exact source of fire anywhere. He tried reading in between the lines, but inside his head it was all too hazy to be deciphered. Pressing his head on Jhora Pata’s chest he inhaled the fragrance deeply and wished that there wasn’t so much in between the lines. An unknown darkness surrounded him. Even at those moments of excitement, those moments of pleasure, his eyes remained void. Somewhere else, away from where it was to be....

He looked outside the window, looked past the running buildings, lamp-posts, trees, cars and people. He saw a man hanging from a 77 bus with a lunch box in his hand. He thought if the man was hanging on the foot board merely for the adventure of it, or because he could not afford to travel in a taxi. He thought of what would have happened if the bus stopped with a sudden jerk; he also imagined him falling on the side of the road with the lunch box slipping off his hand and another bus smashing his head. He imagined the man’s family weeping when they would come to know of his death by the roadside, falling from the foot board.

The helplessness of the man’s family made him vulnerable for a moment and the taxi stopped with a jolt at the speed breaker. The world outside the taxi seemed so far away all of a sudden. Megh Balok rolled the window up; as if he separated life and death with a thin line.

Megh Balok: 

Do you still love me?

Jhora Pata: 

What sort of a question is that?

Megh Balok: 

Would you cry if I die?

Jhora Pata: 

But why would you die?

Megh Balok: 

That does not answer my question!

Jhora Pata: 

You and your thousand questions

Megh Balok: 

Ok I won’t die; if you promise to grow old with me

Jhora Pata: 

Have you ever thought how would we look when we grow old?

Megh Balok: 

Hah hah hah! You are already half way there, with puffed eyes and dark circles

Jhora Pata: 

Why don’t you gift me some under eye cream?

Megh Balok:

And also some wrinkle removing packs!

Jhora Pata: 

Age is just a number, a mental block, a state of the mind honey!

Megh Balok: 

Yeah right! ....stop quoting me honey!

Jhora Pata: 

Quite like virginity - another state of the mind; it’s all in the head.

Megh Balok: 

How are you Pata?

Jhora Pata broke into laughter at his own joke and Megh Balok’s thoughts drifted somewhere else. Yes, it’s all in the head. There were things about the Pagol which Megh Balok never understood. Even long after Megh Balok left the Pagol; he could never stop speculating why he lied so contemptibly when he did not need to. It must be all in the head.

Megh Balok tried smiling at Jhora Pata’s joke.

Amidst the mirth and laughter he thought of Real age, while a faceless someone continued playing a sad tune in his head, he tried seeing the face but he could not. He was 30 and for him life had been lived. He had only one opportunity. He made a blunder; loved the wrong person. For him there were no more chances.  He could not afford to hurt himself any more.

He travelled from one place to the other, like a nomadic, with projects that came his way and avoided those psychedelic corners of the flamboyant city that had once so been his place. Away from his friends, away from his family, away from his city, away from the glass walls of his air conditioned office he tried disconnecting himself from the world. But that adamant little boy in him; how would he console him? No, he needn’t worry, because that little boy was no little anymore....

Everyone endures the pain of growing up, and so would this boy, he was no exception; he had no business to be an exception. The loss had softly spread in his life like insects inside books. They had eaten up his words and nobody could read him anymore!

Megh Balok’s thoughts froze like an invisible wall in between the two of them. They looked away from each other and stared outside their respective windows for a while, while the car speeded up and they reached very soon before the air inside the car could get any more uncomfortable.

TABLE

Jhora Pata: 

Come back

Megh Balok: 

Where?

Jhora Pata: 

Into the real world; you can make it I am sure.

Megh Balok: 

Who decides what is real and what is unreal?

Jhora Pata: 

Stop playing with words.

Megh Balok: 

Sorry, you are the blessed one.

Jhora Pata: 

You get away with words, you get away with everything. Come back before it’s too late.

Megh Balok: 

How late is too late?

Jhora Pata: 

Chobir desh, gaaner desh.... you can make it I am sure.

Megh Balok: 

I have nothing to make, nothing to break.

The worst is over and I mean it.

Jhora Pata: 

Escape.... Escape....

Megh Balok: 

Purey jawa moner desh.... I have nowhere to go.

Jhora Pata: 

Uff porar kotha bolish na, steak ta khetey giye amar mukh purlo.

Megh Balok: 

How many times do I tell you not to hog like this? What's your hurry in life?

Jhora Pata: 

Can I borrow the lip balm from your bag?

Megh Balok: 

First send me an application and then I might consider!

Jhora Pata: 

Wow ! The Palace Of Illusions, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni; how is the book?

Megh Balok: 

Not your types; will send you once I’m done with it.

Jhora Pata: 

Why not my types?

Megh Balok: 

Cause they never knew her well.

Jhora Pata: 

Whom?

Megh Balok: 

The lady who had five husbands but loved only one!

It’s been ages that they had gone out to eat together. Megh Balok remembered how he loved to watch Jhora Pata eat, licking fingers, chewing fish bones and blabbering; and wait on the table for Jhora Pata to finish supper.

But how does that matter now? What is past is past; he did not need to think about what was there three years back. It’s a long time and he must not entertain such memories. He quietly muttered under his breath all the better things he had to do in life.

Megh Balok: 

When did you last shave?

Jhora Pata: 

How drunk are you?

Megh Balok: 

Hic! Vintage wine my Mr.Sober!

Jhora Pata: 

Shei, vintage antique chara tor je abar mon-e dhorey na!

Megh Balok: 

Listen, would you take me out for a drive in that vintage Cadillac of yours?

Jhora Pata: 

Tell me where you want to go

Megh Balok: 

Somewhere nearby. Princep Ghat maybe, it’s long that I haven’t been to the river....

Jhora Pata: 

The murmur of the river soothes the mind; your Robi Babu used to say, that resting under trees brings peace to the soul.

Megh Balok: 

Taholey aar ki, tuio amar jonnye ekta chatim gach lagiye phyel!

Jhora Pata: 

No, not chatim; I shall plant polash for you

Megh Balok: 

Hothath polash?

Jhora Pata: 

Cause you are my Hothath Bosonto!

Megh Balok: 

“Stepping on a forbidden dream,

I am caught in the prison of spring”

Jhora Pata: 

Incorrect semiotic.

Megh Balok: 

I am not an evolved poet like you.

Jhora Pata: 

Poets are ever evolving honey.

Megh Balok: 

True.... You know you would have been quiet a plain Jane without these lines of yours.

Jhora Pata: 

Is that a compliment?

Megh Balok: 

Off course it is.

Jhora Pata: 

Thank you!

Megh Balok: 

Not working honey. Thank me like a Gentleman does

Jhora Pata: 

Don’t trigger me, you might have to regret later.

May be Megh Balok wanted to regret! May be he knew what he wanted. May be he did not know what he wanted. May be he hated himself for not knowing what he wanted. He did not know what he wanted, but strangely he knew what Jhara Pata wanted. And this was the problem, they both knew each other too well, they threw words at each other like gun shots and hit each other exactly where it would hurt.

Certain things are difficult to put into words, logic or explanation. Enough of careless words and so now Megh Balok remained silent.

Not boorish.

Not courteous.

Just silent.

TEXTS

Jhora Pata: 

Silence can kill.

Megh Balok: 

I am bereft of words.

Jhora Pata: 

Kotha ki shottyi sesh hoye gechey?

Megh Balok: 

Hoytoba kotha bolar ichchey ta sesh hoye gechey!

Jhora Pata: 

Why are you doing this?

Megh Balok: 

I am not doing anything!

Jhora Pata: 

Is this what you want?

Megh Balok: 

How does it matter?

Jhora Pata: 

What if it matters? Give me a chance and see.

Megh Balok: 

I can’t give anyone anymore chances.

Jhora Pata: 

Life would not give you a second chance!

Megh Balok: 

I anyway do not accept any second rate life story!

Jhora Pata: 

Stop sounding like a third grade film.

Megh Balok: 

Wish life was easy like your films!

Jhora Pata: 

Life itself is a film honey.

Megh Balok: 

Yeah indeed! Black and white, running in slow motion!

The frames flash back on his mind while Megh Balok closes his eyes. Memories come back, pouring like August rains. He can’t see anything; his vision has become hazy, dark like a film hall. He does not want to miss the bell; he presses his ears against the pillow and waits for the interval....

The bitter half !

Thinking profoundly and voicing out loudly is not the same for god’s sake. The Dreamer had always thought that stubborn silence expresses feelings more than words. He had kept quiet, all along he had kept quiet but the internal jousting had always been brutal and sharp.

Small things at times drove him to a frenzy of irritation. Dark and vicious thoughts crept up in the head while the blood burnt at the mention of the Lunatic’s name. Hatred filled him with a black haze, more hatred than he had ever thought he could feel. The Dreamer’s memory faltered from time to time and his head felt heavy.... Probably he didn't actually get over it; but he should have learnt to live with it.

Just because the Dreamer is used to it, doesn't mean it doesn't hurt anymore.

The Dreamer needed something to go right so badly that he convinced himself it was real. Even though, deep down, he knew it wasn't. He always thought the Lunatic would leave, but he never knew that he would leave the Lunatic! Not at least like this!

But excuse me ladies and gentleman, don’t be judgemental!

They are not friends anymore; they are just mere strangers with memories!

                                                                                     

****

....as he stood outside the room, he could feel the fruitfulness of life inside the room, bursting through the walls in the form of loud music, loud so loud, that hence forth he could not sleep nights after nights. He had always tried to ignore and overlook all the stupid things that the lunatic did, but this time it was slight to huge to ignore; the more he tried to block it from the mind the more the sound multiplied, grew large and terrifying. So long unthinkingly the Lunatic had been a part of the Dreamer; but after that evening nothing seemed the same....

It's too much pain to have to bear; to love a MAN one has to share.

Opps! Having a pair of balls does not make one MAN enough!

....Cheating after all is a choice, not a mistake!

April 10^th 2011

****

Hill Boy was in town. The Dreamer had forgotten all the questions.... all he knew was that booze was the only answer! And the phone blinked amidst the haze. It was something he so longed for and feared at the same time.  “Paarley beriye chnaadta dekho, bheeshon shundor laagchhe!”

Had it been some other time, had it been like before, the Dreamer would have replied, “Don’t look at the sky, look at me”. Sigh! Feelings and thoughts get such jumbled up at times.... 

The sky indeed was beautiful that evening; the memory of the pocketful of sky sneaked through the shoddy balcony of Olympia was indeed rewarding. It was a consolation reward from someone who meant; though by then the Dreamer had already told himself a thousand times how that someone did not mean anything anymore....

How does one mean in love? How does one matter in love? It’s all feelings! And the feeling ....it was more like fondness thrown at dogs and love kept aside carefully for the special ones!

For the Dreamer nothing seemed the same. Nothing felt the same.

Nothing mattered much. Nothing much mattered!

April 18^th 2011

****

“Bhalo theko, Jodi paaro,

Kono daabee nei karo,

Kototuku bhaalo aache bhaalobaashaa!”

(lines the Mortician had written to the Dreamer that afternoon and had also put up as her status on Face Book; funnily the same lines were also lifted and sent to the Dreamer by the Lunatic and the dumb Dream Seller the same evening, and even though the Dreamer was out of station, he understood the royal mess that was being cooked back at his city)

The Dreamer was at a loss of words when he received this sudden text; the ground felt unsteady under his feet. His uneasiness had reasons more serious than a hurt ego.

His mind raced in a hundred directions as he waited for the right time to come. But how would he know which is the right time? His head felt void and so he saved his rebellion for another day.

He tried deciphering the message. Was it love? If so, then it was very different from all the kinds of love he knew. Or perhaps, what he knew was wrong and this alone was love. He tried telling himself that he was just complicating the simple friendly gesture of the Lunatic. He often felt like asking the Lunatic, “You always spoke of love, but did you know the meaning of the word?” The odd feeling reached past his body, his mind, his thoughts into some part of him that he never knew had existed.

The Dreamer had many a times gone over the Lunatic’s words, gnawing at them, teasing out of them the last shred of bitterness. The words once gracious and beautiful now showed the thorns underneath and haunted him when he realised the treason. The smiles stitched at the edges of those words became nasty smirks and hammered his head. 

To prove someone blind when someone trusts you blindly is no act of chivalry; it proves how you have the balls but never a backbone.

The Mortician is right; one should never grow a wishbone where the backbone ought to be!

May 16^th 2011.

****

Ignorance is not actually blissful.

Shock and despair devastated the Dreamer; he caught the Lunatic red hand! The Mortician and other friends were witness!

Often the question lingered; was it pain or was it courage that led the Dreamer to take such a step? Or may be to endure the pain the Dreamer had to gather the courage. He had to overcome the obstinate battle in between his heart and head. Lunacy he could deal with but not the deceit.

“It’s double the fun to cheat a cheater”....now where did he hear that?

Things were not as easy as it seemed. To find out the truth the Dreamer had to breach trust.... and yes he was not wrong; the lunatic’s cat was out of the bag! His will swung between remorse and revenge and his heart would not stop stinging.

Truth, like a diamond, has many facets. The Dreamer tried placing himself in all the possible platforms and tried looking at the story.... But no! There was no sparkle of truth, only deception and dishonesty of the Lunatic. So long the Dreamer had been scared, but now the Dreamer was hurt. Lies had always hurt the Dreamer but this time what hurt him more was whom it came from. There always had been a faint line of perilous hope around the dark clouds, romancing with the Dreamer, giving him one more reason each time to put up with the Lunatic. But now that he knew the truth, he was more distressed, there was a concrete proof reminding him of the treachery every moment of his life.

The last nail on the coffin!

June 22^nd 2011

****

History repeats itself.... it is the same text blinking out of the blue on the Dreamer’s phone that had once blinked on January 21^st 2011.

“-What is so special in love?

-nothing special!

Two vowels, two consonants and two fools!”

The Dreamer does not remember if he had replied to the text message or had said it in his mind to himself, “Dear slimy creature, there is nothing special in love, its people that make it special!”

In some strange way the Dreamer had so long believed that he understood the Lunatic better than people who had spent their entire lives around the Lunatic, and he liked and trusted what he sensed; but now the door that was open in between the two of them has been permanently closed by the Dreamer.

They all talk about feelings; but the Dreamer fails to feel any feeling any more. He often feels that his feelings have all dried up. After the whole Lunatic incident; he is left with nothing.... A mad Mortician and her endless crazy banters, without a love of its own there would continue to be Nothing!

The Dreamer is tired of praying, tired of hoping. His mum often says that prayers are rewarded in strange ways; after all no one can see the purpose of what happens in their lives, maybe it’s just another examination. The Dreamer thinks at times of how cruel is the humour of the Almighty, or perhaps God sees more than we do. His mum reassures him and tells him that Gods are not as deaf as we habitually accuse them of being and reminds him of Time, the master player; she tells him that we all are mere pawns in the ravages of time.

The Dreamer is tired; so tired that sometimes he does not feel like returning. Mortician calls him back to the city of love, pleads to him with teary eyes. He has worn the armour of caution so that nobody can reach past it to break his heart. Nothing affects him. He has become a stone. It does not react; nothing can melt it. He is dead; paralytic! No one has the power; no one has the Maya to affect him.

August 4^th 2011

****

Maya:

A love once tender has now grown old.

Dreamer:

Old wine tastes the best.

Maya:

Unless you take good care, it might just become vinegar.

Dreamer:

Vinegar is acid, so is love, both are vicious in their own way.

****

The Dreamer has become bitter, has become cynical. The years of deceit and rage, the loss of the innocence, the lessons in love, the masked faces, the forgetting, the remembering, the memories, the pain, the acquaintance with loneliness, the gypsy heart, ephemeral songs and the cacophony of music.... his world now is a cold night shrouded in rust and silence.

He is tired, very tired.

Hill Boy gets worried with the Dreamer; takes him out for coffee and mid night breaks, sings him songs and fools around searching for that smile that the Dreamer always had pasted on his face. The Albany girl gets angry, feels helpless, tries convincing the Dreamer, tells him how she misses the person he used to be. She calls up India every night when her hubby is asleep, talks to the Dreamer and tries to pacify him but he doesn’t listen. Sometimes she throws tantrums but nothing works. Black Beauty calls up the Mortician and pleads for help, tells her how she misses the sweet old Dreamer in the not so sweet city. The screams and screeches of the Mortician cuts through the Dreamer’s heart!  She blames the Dreamer for treating friends like alien; for not talking to Maya.

The Dreamer wishes he could tell the Mortician how the journey through the psyche of a complex broken heart is never so easy like it seems; it’s always difficult done than said.

How he tells the adamant Mortician that he cannot help the situation if people are tongue tied and escape his presence as soon as they can; when he approaches a place where that person in question is, he finds a reason to leave the place. The Dreamer wonders how the Mortician not notices how that clever stupid person only met him in settings designed to dampen uncomfortable questions; and he does not want anyone to feel so uncomfortable because of him. But that’s Mortician, and that’s how she is; deeply inured with the fateful habit of mixing up what actually is happening and what according to her should have happened. It’s dangerous when the story teller itself lives in a story. The Mortician has a thousand stories set in a sweet little world of her own; stories of falling in and out of love, though the world around remains the same. Nothing changes, but the stories are built. And often she tells the Dreamer about the stories of Maya. The Dreamer knows what is good for him and so he tries to put the stories out of his mind. Though the Dreamer would never confess it to the Mortician; somewhere deep down the Mortician knows that Maya is the most exciting part of the stories to him and every time she tells the stories, the stories get entrenched in the Dreamer’s veins, for stories gain power with retelling. The fragrance seeps into the house the Dreamer lives in, into the water he drinks and into the air he breathes; until there is anything left. The Dreamer tries hard to mutate his expectations and the stubborn Mortician tries to convince that he deserves more. Like a strainer can never block the wind, fragments of the stories come back to him distracting him in the middle of work, sleep, walk, talk and laughter.

On the other hand, there is the little Hill Boy, who worries about the Dreamer more than required, believing it his brotherly duty and tries to shield the Dreamer from everything that is unpleasant in this world. He reminds the Dreamer how stories are to be ‘Written’, ‘Sold’, and ‘Read’ but not to be ‘Lived in’. The Hill Boy asks him to open up. Tells him stories of the world, tells him how he is stagnated in the remote backwaters while everything important in the world is happening somewhere else. The Dreamer is not a child and no one has the right to make the Dreamer feel like a child, he has to take care of himself, and he will take care of it his way!  So if he has chosen not to talk, there must be a reason!

The Dreamer is tired and does not want to engage in any argument with anyone. The bitterness and anger inside him eats him up: anger for the Lunatic whom he blames for his present state; anger for Robi babu whose songs once had been solace now tortures him; anger for the stupid Hill Boy, who plays the wrong songs at wrong times; anger for the Mortician, whose care makes him vulnerable; and also anger for Maya, with whom he has no right to be angry. Often the words he speaks do not match the thoughts hidden under them. Only he knows how every time when he returns to the city he hopes to meet those forbidden eyes across the coffee table, even though he knows the sight would only bring him heartache and bitter aftertaste! His heart pounds even at that mere courtesy smile which is no different from any other acquaintances’ in the coffee shop; and he fails to realise why he feels such a void inside him when the coffee shop serves one person less.  The world blames the Dreamer, tells him how heartless he has become and has stopped caring about people around, about all who cares for him. But they don’t know how much he cares about all the wrong things, the shifting sands on which his mind rests, the restless moments that stretches into light years when he waits after sending a text, and the reply never arrives.

Everyone tells him how he has changed; how bitterness yields bitterness and nothing yields more nothingness.... how he should open his fist and let go of his past. It’s time for him to realise that what he is holding onto is nothing and only nothing!

His life anyway is crumbled into pieces; and so he must not hold on to the dust of the past!

The Dreamer often takes up the pen, thinks of writing to Silver Rains and contemplates staring at the blank letter pad. He slacks and declines the idea. He had always called up Silver rains and shared all his little secrets; how he cried to her reading stupid Mills and Boons while in school, how he spoke to her all night after watching ‘Indian Summer’ and lost all the coins on his phone. But today even she seems so far way, quiet like that old life which he longs for, quiet like that old him which he craves for every moment.

The Dreamer does not remember the time, he does not remember the place, all he remembers is that it’s long; it’s a very long time since he had been continuously cheated; his emotions raped over and again and his heart still aches for a home. Nobody wants to grow in pain; nobody wants to be a bitter person. Cynicism, sarcasm, distrust, disdain, contempt and pessimism had never been his forte, had always been a waste on him.... he himself at times misses the person he used to be; he tries to cry and feel sorry for himself, but the tears too have dried up.

Often in the middle of some conversation he would forget what he was saying. His eyes would go on the scar on his right hand thumb; he would be reminded of how he had cried being ‘rudali’, oblivion of the glass bangles that he had broken and had hurt his hand with while crying in a fancy dress competition in school and had won the First Prize.

The Dreamer has learnt not to be fool enough to give any one the mastery over him to sway him. But after the whole nights work in the studio, at dawn often when the peacocks call to each other, the menacing screeches close, then far, then surprisingly close.... his heart balks inside him like a horse that refuses to follow the riders command. Each night when he goes to sleep and each morning when he wakes up, he wishes he had the courage to choose the other way! At times while he closes his eyes he lands up where he should not have, the Mortician consoles him saying that it harms no one, but deep inside the Dreamer knows whom it harms and he cannot afford to do the same mistake all over again.

Away from home after hours of work and late night teas and cigarettes, while walking down the deserted road with a doped friend frozen in time; the questions beneath the questions haunt the Dreamer.... the phone blinks, the Dreamer slacks and tries not to break the chain of thoughts in his head, the phone blinks again.... irritated, the Dreamer takes the cell phone out of his pocket and it’s a notification that says Maya has shared his song that he had posted on Face Book; “....find a way back into love!”

 The Dreamer smiles staring at the screen thinking how often ironies are overrated; and he puts the cell phone back in his pocket.... again the phone rings and this time it’s his Mortician....
He already knows the news that’s waiting his way; “Hello....
February 26th 2012

****

ke aacho kothaye ?

(1)

Dreamer:

I did not ever want wrought iron furniture in my home. I wanted huge floor cushions on palm leaf mats! That enthusiasm to scan through the Elgin Road Fabindia for curtains; desperate attempts to struggle through the crowds in New Market on a lazy Saturday; to find out the exact shade of white satin that I wanted.... No amount of money or independence now can implant in me that sentiment ever again....I have been practically living in suitcases for the last five months. And curtains, cushions, carpets, quilts, lampshades, mugs, cutlery, pickles, planters, cactuses, hibiscus.... I have left them; I have left them all behind! But why am I telling this to you all of a sudden?

‎Mortician:

Because neither did I ever want any wrought iron furniture. Instead I wanted to sit on the "chatai" and eat pickle with "paratha" with you in a warm summer afternoon!

Dreamer:

Some Midsummer Madness!

Mortician:

Its winter now, we're supposed to shiver in cold. But see, even it is not here as you are off to the faraway land. Come back home and bring me back my winter chill.

Dreamer:

I miss the Calcutta December too; the intangible sometimes-cold-sometimes-not-so-cold month of quick mornings and luscious evenings. Prolonged nights intoxicating with the smell-less smell of mist and your hazy glass window with a layer of accumulated water vapour....

Mortician:

Are we getting old? Sometimes I ask this question to myself and then I look for an answer from you.... Were those days so glorious that we even sit, think and write about them like voracious writers?

Dreamer:

May be we are getting old; maybe not. May be they were actually glorious. But unfortunately all the glory has faded away, like the gasp of white vapour that comes out of the mouth while we talk in a winter morning....

Mortician:

But why do things fade Dreamer?

Dreamer:

Cause we all are walking in a dream Mortician! A dream within a dream!

Mortician:

Don’t call me back, let me sleep then! Let me be engrossed in the dream!

Dreamer:

I never call you to wake you up!

Mortician:

Then why do you always call me when I dream?

Dreamer:

Cause it’s always nicer to dream with a hand on your hand!

Mortician:

Hold my hand lets chase the sun

We both know something's begun!

(2)

Dreamer:

....the only time I ever really rejoiced, and the only time I ever was happy was that evening last year when you cancelled your party plans and came home and we drank whiskey with green apples; we opened the windows of my room and smoked up, shockingly, inside. And drove down the road next to my home, drinks in hand. And we ducked behind the window and saw that couple leaning against the wall and making out, shockingly, outside. And we giggled. And we were happy....

Mortician:

Come home you rotten scoundrel. Come home I say! Those summer siesta with a glass of chilled "nimboo-pani", our sudden pangs to visit the grave yard, chicken steak at Inthalia, evening rain with "cheii-chapa-cheii" in the puddles.... Come back home Dreamer!

Your Mortician has never been the same!

Dreamer:

Nothing has been same here either. It’s all dark and bleak and empty. The void engulfs everything, every little thing that I try to hold on. Life moves on, as I wait, as I wait for someone to ask me what I am waiting for; as I wait for you there, where you got down from the car handing over to me an envelope and asking me to promise not to open it before I reach the airport. Everything is fine, but something is yet not so fine....

Like Robi Babu says “I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung”.

Mortician:

Do you remember the last time when you held my hand at the junction where we used to meet every day? With that appealing dimpled smile you asked me to wait for you. I did wait and still waiting to see you back at Barista smoking cigarettes and sharing some ol' story. The memory of you returning, remain afresh in my corroded head. You with a mixed bag of colourful Bihu-land stories and me with a retard smile dangling on my face. I miss those days. I miss the days when you used to wake me up to say you miss me, I miss the times when we used to roll a joint and play songs after songs with an unusual tempo. I miss the tram-rides and my foundation with your long time lover Robi Babu. The nights are long and the days come with no expiration dates. Come back as I cook hot "parathas" for you while you sit on a "chatai" and look at me with those endless loves!
No, I never missed you in any ways!

Dosor !

Mortician:
What’s up?
Dreamer:
Watching movie....
Mortician:
Which one?
Dreamer:
Dosor.
Mortician:
“Tnuhu momo dosoro”
Dreamer:
Achcha, would Kaveri have forgiven Kaushik so easily if Mita would not have passed away in the accident?
Mortician:
Moner moddhye pushey rakhishni, goraye amio rakhtam, kono labh nei!
Dreamer:
This is exactly what Gopal’s mum had also told....
Mortician:
Now who is Gopal’s mum?
Dreamer:
Uff! Kaveri’s maid in the movie
Mortician:
But life isn’t a movie child!
Dreamer:
Exactly my point!
Mortician:
This conversation would never end....it’s like two banks of the river....
Dreamer:
Liar! You have seen the movie
Mortician:
I have seen you!
Dreamer:
My death?
Mortician:
No; your life. How you are living, living with a memory, which should have been dead!
Dreamer:
I am the Dreamer!
You are the Mortician!
Death isn’t really my forte!
Mortician:
Don’t try to be deliberately normal; it shows....
Dreamer:
Don’t try to be deliberately nasty; it does not go with you....
Mortician:
What gave you the impression I am not nasty!
Dreamer:
You smiled.... and I remained never the same....
Mortician:
Chumbon toh aageo bohubaar
Tomar thonth-e peyechi ashroy!
Dreamer:
Tomar thonth amar thonth chnulo
Aar ja kichu akinchith kor!