Monday, February 13, 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!

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