Scribbles - ii

My exultant eyes burst into tears, 

He knows not the meaning of which.

Crimson half moons rest on my neck, 

His sharp nails dug in a shade too deep. 

He is my pink mascara,
His lips smell of poppers, 

He can keep the regret colour memories....

I just want to smell of freedom,
I have always been the topper.

22. 04. 2012

Bombay Blues

Our arms weren’t strong enough; we ripped the roof with our hearts. The road was dark but dreams had lit our way. There wasn’t space enough but we made space in our hopes. We brunt like stars at the end of this world. Packed a bag with everything we needed and left the rest behind. We caught the blue bus, boarded the train to hell, elevator to heaven, somewhere in an ocean of skin, somewhere in the sky of sin…. wandered the city like lost dust particles in a storm. Gasping for air and sanity we looked at the sea. 

The sea looked like the sky. 

Sometimes you look like me!

Cheers !

From across the table Megh Balok watches Jhora Pata's hands clenched to the wine flute; his finger’s long and neat, much bright in comparison to his own dusky skin. A part of Megh Balok leaves the table as his thoughts take a flight. Every time Megh Balok speaks to Jhora Pata he tells himself this is the last time, every time he receives a call he reminds himself tomorrow his phone might not ring; every time they meet he fights with himself ....the darkness looming over his head on one side and the shuddering pleasure of the meetings on the other.

Jhara Pata notices the changing colour of Megh Balok's face.

Jhora Pata: 

What is it?

Megh Balok:

What?

Jhora Pata:  

What is it that's keeping you so lost?

Megh Balok already has missed what Jhora Pata has been saying so far. It always happens. He always gets caught in the wrong time. He nods a meaningful meaningless nod trying to compose himself. 

Megh Balok:

Nothing.

Jhora Pata knows how dangerous these 'nothings' can be. He quickly tries to change the course of conversation. Anger can often make one stick to strange things, and he knows that. He waves out to the waiter and asks for another drink. Megh Balok's eyes go back to Jhora Pata's hand.

Jhora Pata: 

Auntie Rosa had been asking about you. She has got some new recipes from her Morocco Trip.

Megh Balok:

Tell her, I shall visit her someday soon.

Jhora Pata: 

What all are you going to cook for me?

Megh Balok:

Excuse me!

Jhora Pata: 

Wouldn't you cook for me? What’s the use of collecting recipes if you are not going to cook for me. 

Megh Balok:

What gives you the idea that I collect recipes to cook for you? Just because I collect recipes does not mean I am going to cook for you.

Jhora Pata: 

Whom do you collect these recipes for?

Megh Balok:

Why should I tell you?

Jhora Pata: 

So mean you are.

Megh Balok:

That indeed I am.

Megh Balok laughs in his head. He has always loved cooking. But these days he does not feel like cooking anymore. Not even when friends come home. He calls up Kowloon and gets food home. His mum says, "human beings are creatures of habit". So true. Some habits never change. He does not cook anymore but carries his recipe book everywhere with him. From the folds of the Himalayas to the desserts of Kutch, from the ghats of Varanasi to the banks of the timeless Sabarmati, his recipe book travels with him where ever he goes.

The very thought of travel shakes his heart, stirs his soul inside out for a moment. Whom has he been running away from? ….Only he knows how much he hates to come back home, when there's nothing waiting but an empty fridge with some stale curd rice. Only he knows how he fights himself when he wanders the city streets in those unknown lands. Only he knows those memories of memories, that he does not even have the right to have.

Jhora Pata: 

I am so so confused.

Megh Balok:

Confused about what?

Jhora Pata: 

Can't decide about the Ph.D.

Megh Balok:

What can't you decide?

Jhora Pata:  

I think I am too old to start all over again.

Megh Balok:

Age is just a mental number. But if it's just to keep you busy then there are better things to do.

Jhora Pata:

Why? Is your Maya only entitled to have a Ph.D.?

Megh Balok:

Get a life sweet heart! Why do you always have to make Maya a yardstick to judge your own life? It's not a movie that you will make him into your competitor.

Jhora Pata:  

Relax. Whats wrong with you?

Megh Balok: 

Things are wrong with you. You are behaving in a way as if you wait for my permission for whatever you do in life.

Jhora Pata:  

But your decision matters and you too know that.

Megh Balok:

I don’t have any problem as long as you don’t have to leave your job.

Jhora Pata:  

Suddenly you sound so grown up.

Megh Balok:

Do I have a choice?

''Off course you do honey'', Jhora Pata wants to shout back at Megh Balok, but as of now he holds back these words. He often gets petrified thinking of how much anger Megh Balok is nuturing inside him. He knows that talking to Megh Balok would not help; certain things are best left unattended. He hopes things would change with time, with time Megh Balok would realize. The promises, the songs, everything fails.... Jhora Pata feels very helpless at times. The hesitation in his steps, the worry in his voice exponentially increases when he sees this reckless anger in Megh Balok.

Megh Balok reminds himself, love is a losing game. You have to be strong; you can't loose your name. Be prepared with answers, you have to give it back, things can change anytime. This evening might not come back to you. It’s a strange feeling and Megh Balok knows it; he knows what it feels like to make a mistake, while realizing at that moment that he is making one. He tries disconnecting himself from everything happening around him. He tries looking outside the window. He tries consoling himself .... Like the rangoon vine bends in the wind, twists and turns before it touches the sky, he should also not regret the mistakes, he too one day would reach the sky. A retarded smile lights up his face.

Jhora Pata: 

Joy-r je lekha ta diyechish porlam, bhalo laglo tobey kosto-o holo, kosto chara amake kono din kichu-e dili na tui.

Megh Balok:

Ami dileo je tui seta grohon kortish emon kotha kothaye lekha aachey shuni ?

Jhora Pata:  

Diyei dekhtish.

Megh Balok: 

Aar ki ki je dekhtey baaki tai bhabi majhe majhe.

Jhora Pata: 

Bhebey dekhechi bhebe kono laabh nei! Bhabna gulor ki kono sesh aachey?

Megh Balok: 

Laabh kshoti diye ki shob kichur bichar hoy bujhi; naki shob kichur shuru-sesh thakey?

Jhora Pata: 

Kichu proshno emon hoy jar bhitor-ei uttor lukiye thakey.

Megh Balok: 

Tor shongey toh amar kono lukochuri nei.

Jhora Pata:

‘Nitantoi e sojasuji’ o toh noy.

Megh Balok:

Shahittyo bechey pet chalano jaye kintu jibon choley na, keno bolish emon kotha jaar kono maaney nei.

Jhora Pata:  

‘Kothar maaney bujhtey holey chena pother bairey cholo’....nei bhabley nei, aachey bhablei aachey; proshno ta holo tui ki chash?

Megh Balok: 

Ei kabbyi kabbyi khela aar koto din khelbi tui?

Jhora Pata: 

Amake bolli na nijeke?

The very idea of leaving the city is not sinking in Megh Balok’s heart. He has already started missing Jhora Pata, though he is sitting right across the table. He knows he will be missing Jhora Pata. He knows no one else will wait for him in this city. He knows no one else will bring him smashan chnaapa and email him from the work place and no one else will buy him drinks and kaleidoscopes. No one else will paint his days. No one else will tell him stories.... night after night, story after story. Stories that flew him to unseen lands, unknown worlds, stories that swallowed him up, stories that broke down the sky, stories that gave him courage, stories that aided, stories that mended.

Megh Balok:
Ruu ekta kotha boley, ‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us’. Amar kokhono kokhono mone hoy khub deri hoye gechey; bola koyowar urdhey choley gechey jeno shob kichu.

Jhora Pata:  

What the mind cannot fully analyze to perfection, the heart can still enjoy…. Why are you always so analytical? Shob kichu ke eibhabey dissect korar tendency keno rey tor? Design School e na giye science pora uchit chilo tor.

Megh Balok:

Design science noy emon kotha ke bollo tokey? 

Jhora Pata: 

Things that everyone admires, you must spot a small part where it’s erroneous. The concept of looking at situations as a whole and not dissecting was clearly not inculcated in you.

Megh Balok:

Hah hah hah…. I am slowly picking it up, but not sure if I should even; because if there is a better way, I genuinely don’t want to know yet.

Jhora Pata: 

My little stubborn bitch! Opps designer!

Megh Balok: 

Jibontake sajiye tulteo design lagey, jaak sheta tui bujhbi na, that’s something beyond your intellect! Shahittyer adhyapoker mukher ki bhasha! Dhik dhik!

Jhora Pata: 

Ki aar kori, na bhasha na choritro, kichu e aglaitey pari na.

Megh Balok: 

Choritro bostuti onek durer, bhasha ta ontono….

Jhora Pata: 

I am not gifted with words like you, but I do feel humiliated when people's confidence cross their limit of decorum!

Megh Balok:

Onubhutir limit hoy jantam na kintu bhashar limit nischoi hoy.

Jhora Pata: 

Ekdawm thik kotha, ekbar bhebey dekhish bhasha diye ki onubhuti shob shomoy bichar kora jaye?

Megh Balok: 

Bhebey dekhechi bhebe kono laabh nei! Ke jeno ekbar bolechilo!

They have always thrown back angry words at each other. But this evening, Megh Balok is feeling ashamed of himself for throwing back words at Jhora Pata. He knows it’s a vicious circle. He knows how the lightest of words are powerful enough to make your heart feel the heaviest. He wants to leave the table and run back home, pretend to sleep in the silence of his home, sob in the comfort of his room.

In a few hours time he would be off to another country, in a tiny room on the 10^th floor, up in a street in Pritam Nagar…. Time after time he would ask himself, how soon is now? Cause he knows, no one else there would ever say, “Fuck it dude!”, when he is tired. When he is tired of being in a house where everyone loves him but no one understands him. When he is tired of carrying the burden of his family’s respectability. When he is tired of living up to their sky high expectations. When he is tired of being the boy who lives in daddy’s big house. When he is tired of being the party boy. When he is tired of everything around. He knows no one there would say, “Fuck them all. Don’t go back. This is where you belong.”

Angry tears burn his eyes.

Jhora Pata:                                                       

Don’t try to get away with tears. Stop creating a scene!

Megh Balok does not reply. He does not want to reply. Jhora Pata's cruel words clang repeatedly against his chest and he loses more of himself with each breath he breathes. He doesn’t want to create a scene, but he has no place to hide his tears. And he knows that Jhora Pata too knows that. He can feel the veiled concern in those unkind words. He tries to overlook the sadism of those words and throw them in oblivion. He tries parrying the brutality of those words with his silence. 

Megh Balok knows he is wrong and he has no time left. He knows Jhora pata will call him cheesy and filmy. He knows Jhora pata will call him non pragmatic and insane. But tonight he wants to be cheesy and filmy, tonight he wants to be non pragmatic and insane; cause tonight’s only what is left.

He quickly smears a smile on his face and orders for another drink.

Megh Balok:

Cheers!

I get up from sleep,

Fail to recognize my own voice,

I scream. 

Drown in words, 

I never knew I had.

I push the hurt further deep,

The deeper it hurts,

Down inside.

Hurt those parts of me, 

I never knew I had.

I am stuck with a melody, 

That had faded with time.

I listen to your songs in loops,
Not wanting to, 
Yet feeling compelled to.

I know that feeling,

When there is nothing left to feel.

I smile and giggle and talk and laugh, 

Hide that bitter taste, 

In my mouth and go to bed.

I drive down with you, 

The street I once had lived,

Memories come back home.

I try rolling up the windows, I try stopping the world, 

And then you stop me,
"Even wounds need air to heal". 

Boy-oh-Boy !

Tonight is the time boy tonight is the time.

Tonight I'll listen to no reason, no rhyme!

Come to the point boy come to the point.

Roll me a joint boy roll me a joint. 

Pour me a drink boy pour me a drink. 

You don't need to think boy you don't need to think.

Tonight I have gotten dressed in my best pink!

Take me in your arms boy take me in your arms.

Tell me you are mine boy tell me you are mine.

The night's still young boy the night's still young.

Give me your song boy give me your song.

Tonight I don't care, what's right what's wrong!

Give me your hand boy give me your hand.

Lets play on the sand boy lets play on the sand.

We will go running boy up on the hills, up on the hills,

Cherry blossoms, tulips and gaint wind mills.

Tonight I don't care, I wanna feel the chills!

Write me a letter boy write me a letter.

Sing me of the river boy sing me of the river.

I won't ask for anything ever, anything ever.

Kill me with the shiver boy kill me with the shiver.

Tonight I don't care, it's now or never!

Take me for a ride boy take me for a ride.
Let me show you my hidden, darkest, deepest side.
Lock me with cuffs boy lock me with cuffs.
Throw me a noose boy throw me a noose.
Tonight you decide what you choose!

They call me loose.... I have loved and lost.
They call me whore.... I'm paying the cost.
They call me mad.... It doesn't make me sad.
I am a brown boy. I don't sing the blues.
Tonight I don't care, I have nothing left to loose!

2oth March 2014

Spring

The smell of kalo jeeray in mustard oil,
The shock of shukno lonka phoron in ghee,
The kirtan evenings in the reverine islands of Majuli,
The night screeches of the peacocks,
Close, now far, now surprisingly close,
Cutting through the silence in the lawns....
Like all these I long for you.

A part of me leaves the kitchen, as I peel oranges in the counter.
I think of those mango trees in my mamabari's backyard,
The tiya pakhi rodh mornings in the baranda,
The carefree afternoons in the chaad,
The ghorano siri, the purono Dodge gari,
And the pukur paar....
Like all these I long for you.

The white chnapa on the way to my office keeps me thinking,
I try so hard but can't remember the word, the scientific name,
Alstonia Scholaris comes back, phirey phirey,
I clearly remember that's chatim and not shmashan chnapa,
I call up maa on my way back from office,
Ask her if kingshuk and polash are the same?
I remind her to get a sapling of fagun bou for our garden.

I sing myself a lullaby every night.
Winter fades into spring....
They play Holi.

17th March 2014.

Maa

It’s more than a decade now that I started living on my own. Here, in this faraway land, I am free like a bird; but with this reckless freedom I often feel an emptiness gnawing inside me.
…. I miss her. I miss her big red bindi, paan stained smile and enthralling fragrance of zarda. I miss her mood swings and her horrible tantrums. I miss her sudden frantic calls complaining how I am the biggest mistake of her life, how hopeless her husband is; how the rising prices of things have made life difficult and eventually how life sucks. I miss the pack of lunch made each morning by her with an eye perennially set on the watch; she juggled hundred things that demanded her equal attention on a workday morning when I was in school. She hysterically screamed at me whenever I came home drunk in the middle of the night during my college days. She made me whatever I am today, gave me the courage to listen to my heart. She stood by me always and gave me the strength to fight all battles. I miss her for the values and the uprightness in spite of all odds.
How much ever she cribs and fights with me, how much ever I eat her brains, she still is the best friend I have!
Thank you Maa, thank you for everything!

12th May, 2013

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

****