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!

words Words WORDS...

POST - (I)

Silver Rains :
Will you ever stop being mad?
Dreamer:
Yes!
Silver Rains :
When?
Dreamer:
When you stop calling me mad!
Silver Rains :
“I think that I am going mad, I don't recall my name
I think I must be going mad, I really feel insane
I really know I'm going mad, hear voices in my brain
So maybe I am going mad, but maybe you're the same!”
Dreamer:
Madness indeed is reflective ! And now I love you more ….
Silver Rains :
And you love me more…. But honey, what is love?
Dreamer:
Love?
....No this is not what this post was intended for; this post was intended for words, pure and simple words. Words exactly what they should exude and no back ground, fore ground and all that jazz! But words are not tears; they don’t come pouring out of the blue like July rains!
You, the one with words, had painted all my childhood dreams, my first poem, my thoughts and my clouds....
But today even though I try so hard, I am losing out on words, I am sitting for hours watching the computer screen without moving my eyes. With the cursor in my hand I am flirting with the desktop, tripping on the old, elapsed corridors and lonesome roads and alleys of Calcutta (precisely Behala) sitting on the desk near the window at my office in NID.... It’s Christmas afternoon and sleep comes breezing through the timeless Sabarmati; waving a lazy sepia dream in my eyes, making me nostalgic. Maybe I need a smoke!

....continued

And with the smoke I blow away the afternoon, blow away the afternoon to a sepia evening! My fingers smell of liberty, as I blow out the smoke and try to rub away the sleep. Harp on those words! Harp on what madness is! Harp on how I have fretted my freedom away, what all had not I tried to trade for madness. I think of the Mad Mortician. I think of the Mute Maya, who also thinks I am Mad!
....and my chain of thought is again broken as my phone blinks!
Silver Rains :
How lovely is love Dreamer ?
Dreamer:
I don’t know!
Silver Rains :
“The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?”
Dreamer:
How madly is madness ?
Silver Rains :
I don’t know.
Dreamer:
“Sometimes when I'm alone, I wonder
Is there a spell that I am under
Keeping me from seeing the real thing?
Love hurts...
But sometimes it's a good hurt
And it feels like I'm alive.
Love sings,
When it transcends the bad things.
Have a heart and try me,
'cause without love I won't survive.”
Silver Rains :
I am reminded of Alice!
Dreamer:
Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?
Silver Rains :
'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.'
'How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.'
Dreamer:
That fades away all inscrutabilities and life goes explicated....
:)

Bhalo aachi, bhalo theko….

Jhora pata:
"swopnobilashi se ek udash baul,koto sohoshro alokborsho dhore , pothe lokaloye takei cholechi khuje…."

Megh balok:

?
Jhora pata:

"kono bosonte makhabo tomay rong, swopne amar chupi chupi geche bole
bosonto ashe bosonto phire jaye, biborno ami boshey achi dwar khule…."
Megh balok:

kaaj kommo nei tor?
Jhora pata:

"somajer chokhe dwicharini, khoti nei , sotitwo kobe swopner khoj rakhe?
swopner dake sotitwo bhese jak, dwicharok mon faguner rong makhe…."
Megh balok:

onek kaaj aachey, tor kamona bashonar goppo shonar shomoy nei amar
Jhora pata:

ektu nahoy shunli boshey…. pagoler prolap….
Megh balok:

ami toh onnyo kichu cheyechilam
Jhora pata:

tobey tor jonnye thak premiker golap
Megh balok:

saaper beesh
Jhora pata:

aar beesher prem….
Megh balok:

bhoy paina
Jhora pata:

hah hah hah ….bhalobashish?
Megh balok:

na bashina!
Jhora pata:

tobe aar ki…. khela sesh!
Megh balok:

kon khela?
Jhora pata:

sesh aar surur khela….
Megh balok:

naa! khela bhangbar khela….
Jhora pata:

kabbyi korish na, ghor dupurey!
Megh balok:

kabbyi korar odhikaar bujhi tor ekar?
Jhora pata:

tui akhono shei rokom e aachish, sob shomoy raag….
Megh balok:

paltey gele tor bhalo lagbey?
Jhora pata:

janina
Megh balok:

naki jantey chash na ?
Jhora pata:

bhule gechi
Megh balok:

tor je dekhi boroi bhulo monn
Jhora pata:

tui aachish toh! monn e korabi na?
Megh balok:

ami ki tor “Sonchoita” na “Geetobitaan”?
Jhora pata:

janina, shudhu jani amar gaaner sob hodish tor kachey
Megh balok:

shobbonassh !
Jhora pata:

thattha korchish?
Megh balok:

eto spordhya amar nei
Jhora pata:

ki aachey tor?
Megh balok:

cholona aachey, cholona….
Jhora pata:

ta ki chawlaa kawlaa janish, amakeo shekha na rey….
Megh balok:

dhere khoka aaj amar kachey sikkha chaichey!
tor shaddyer bairey…. parbi ditey Guru dokshina ?
Jhora pata:

aaoawj dichchish?
Megh balok:

niriho proshner niriho uttor dilum, aaoawj debo keno? ami ja bolar onek bar bolechi tokey, bekar keno birokto korchish amake ?
Jhora pata:

ektu baad e class aachey….
?
Tui chup keno ?
Megh balok:

tokey toh kew aatke rakheni, aar amar kon kotha e ba tor kobey bhalo lage je aaj ami chup bole tor gaye bajchchey?
Jhora pata:

tui toh aamake kono din o jete baron korish na, tor ki kono din o ichchey korey na amake aatkate?
Megh balok:

ami aatkaale tui thakbi?
Jhora pata:

aatkei dekhtish!
Megh balok:

parbi na, ami jani…. onek shahosh laage tar jonnye, tor seh shahosh nei….
Jhora pata:

aar ki janish?
Megh balok:

sob kichu ki tokey boltey hobey naki? keno? keno? onek din toh holo, eto bochor por notun korey shei prono kotha bolbar kono ichchey aamar nei…. bhabtam amar kichu kichu ichcher mullyo aachey aajo tor kachey! Jaak…. seta amar e bhul….
Jhora pata:

bolish na, kintu ekta kotha…. tui lekha chhere diyechish keno? tui taake chharli na seh tokey chhere gelo? tor kichu kobita chhilo amar kachhe, amar aalor utso, amar jyokkhyo purir ek chiltey aalo. aaj firiye ditey chai tokey….
....ami jai! Aar hyan…. shon, dorjata kholai thak, notun alor borat niye eshe kew jeno phirey na jaye….
Megh balok:

ei baatlaam gulo college er bachcha der dishh, ora mughdho hoye shunbe….
Jhora pata:

tui toh janish, ora amar student, aar ami tor!
Megh balok:

tor na class aachey, bachcha gulo apekkhya korchey, 02.45 baje
Jhora pata:

sob e baje, shudhu kono din bajena amar dorjaye ekta koda…. bhalo thakish!
Megh balok:
"bhangchhe samoy, agun jwele, purchhe kichhu, batil chithi
notun khatay, notun lekha, purono cup, notun coffee….
chokher patay, thnoter chnoya, ankchhe agun, bhalobasa
purono chhai, urchhe haoaye, bondhu ekhon, neel dhnoyasha...."

….ami bhalo aachi!

Wishes for the MORTICIAN !

Even before destiny got them together the DREAMER had known the MORTICIAN; he had known her through the eyes of someone else. Someone else whom he had loved and she also had loved no less. To him she had then been that crazy psychotic creature who incessantly spoke of love and other sad dreams; smart and intelligent with a razor sharp memory; addicted to games of words and mind, wrote gothic poems, read tarot and her favourite colour, black. She was completely crazy; getting musical notes inked on her body hoping to find harmony. Horribly screwed up in life, frustrated, she threw tantrums on everyone around and he was warned and asked to keep safe distance. He knew he would be a real lucky dog if he could manage to be in her good books or else Gods save him. That’s the picture he had of her a year back and so he had all the reasons to avoid her.

But things changed as they propelled away from the shore and started their journey. Patching grief with proverbs two strangers started sailing, hoping to find a new shore somewhere.... Often you open the wardrobe thinking of something and then find something which you have never thought of, but you end up with a smile; and life indeed is beautiful with such little wonders. She is one such precious wonders in his life.

....He usually bakes a cake on all his friend’s birthdays. Last December he wanted to bake a cake for her as well. But he did not. They were not so close and he knew her through the lunatic that time. He was scared what will every one think. May be baking a cake and getting that for her would unnecessarily draw every one’s attention and evoke controversy; that’s what he thought and with the terror of being exposed and the fear of the lunatic altogether rejected the idea. He was scared, too scared and anxious to loose the lunatic at any cost. Later on when she had come home on Christmas, he had baked two cakes instead of one, somewhere in the subterranean of his heart he wanted to compensate. Compensate for not baking a cake for her on her birthday, compensate for everything and nothing that happened between them!

….A lot actually happened between them after that and how they both survived the precarious catch of the dream seller. For him, it was those wine sweet days of attention. The joy of being desired; the naughty fun of being watched and not letting oneself touched…. How he smiles with a smirk when he recollects those days now. He had called her up from the far away land to wish Good Night; when she told him about her new found love, the dream seller. A flurry of quandary flooded the high fortifications of fortitude, while the shapeless words got mute at his throat as they found way through his eyes and rolled down his cheek. The past was revisited and he was shrouded with memories that he should not have had. On the other side of the phone she could hear him panting for air standing on the balcony of the crummy hotel in the suburb; and soon he found himself giving her the biggest truth of his life. The truth, that he had been carefully hiding all his life. Strong as she always had been, hugged him with her words and promised to be there with him. They both did it, trapped the trap of the dream seller!

The guilt and the pain would not be gone, but they survived. They consoled each other saying the trap was a boon in disguise; and realized how more close they have become after the catastrophe. They survived, but the poison is still in their wounds and the wounds are open. The wounds are dormant but not extinct and they have still NOT learnt not to presume the permanence of any relationship!

….Raw and uncovered they both stand under the night sky and the blue moon watches them as they pacify each other every night. Now parked in the crater they talk about their flight across the moon in the past. The Heartless Casanova, the Thoughtless Spineless Lunatic, the Cruel Dream Seller, the Funny Little Hill Boy and the Mysterious Maya often twinkle in their nights. Two brunt neon night skies of the two far away cities…. The distance, the void between them is filled with songs; the notes float around in sepia undertones as they go back to the past again…. ”Dnariye aacho tumi amar gaaner opare!”
DREAMER – tui gaaner kon paarey?
MORTICIAN – ami gaaner majkhane!
DREAMER – shei bhalo, gaaner kono eipaar-opar nei. Shudhu aayinar oparer manush tai thake, aar kew thakena, kew kotha rakhena!
MORTICIAN – abar tui swopno dekhchish meenshey!
DREAMER – bol khelaghor bnadhchi! Swopno shottyi eishob niye naiba bhabli meye….
MORTICIAN – aachcha, tui Hemnolinir doley na Komolar doley?
DREAMER – tui bidhoba Binodinir doley na oi notun boutar doley, proshnota onekta oirokom holo na….
MORTICIAN – je jaar nijer jwalaye jwolchey rey!
DREAMER – jwoloner o onek moja, tui ki janbi rey mukhpuri!

Sometimes when she thought she didn't need to do it anymore, times when she thought she was done with it. She liked having the ability to inflict pain whenever she wanted, and she liked that she could stop it. Not that she really wanted to. She would ask herself if this was happiness, and told herself that if it was, she hated it. Cutting made her feel different than everyone else, but she also knew that other people did it for the same reasons, which made her feel that she was a part of something. Then there were times when the tears from her eyes burned a path down her cheek, and her throat was so tight she couldn't scream no matter how much she tried. Those times she would find relief only by cutting up her skin and bleeding out all the painful screams. The pain of living altogether flowed from one simple cut. She didn't care where she cut, arms, legs, stomach, or wrists. As long as she keeps cutting she can live to tomorrow.

Today while he reads her letter; thinks of writing to her, a gust of dilemma floods the high walls of determination, everything seems muddled to his stupid mind and all reason seems pointless. He feels like sharing with her all that he had left unsaid at the most tempting moment; that fistful of lesser significant nothings! How he suffered, how he cried, when he first read her letter and he thought this is the real punishment. How does one stop thinking of someone one used to love? How does one stop remembering? It is something they both got used to, it happens all the time.... Days passes empty like the days before. He has forgotten who he was, whom he loved and all other obligations and many a times knowingly unknowingly she rubs chillies on his wounds, but he never holds that against her; he knows she is doing that to herself and not to him. She is miserably trying to build a wall of defence to protect the faint heart and trying hard to make him see reason. Though sense hardly makes sense at such situations; he has learnt he could not be simple; he has no business to be simple and live in this world and know nothing about its cruel ways.

...and it rained during the busiest time of the day in the crazy city. DREAMER and his letter, she never thought life comes in small pockets of emotions!
She looks for that stupid boy from “Aarshi-Nagar“ insanely when she cries. Now, that Aarshi is broken...the Nagar is filled with void and the ruthless girl keeps on walking in the debris to find the little remaining pieces of them, together. The stars, the hatred, the pain, the anger - everything makes her a motley of a cold blanket. At night when she unmasks herself, she sits alone with a Marley Joint and wonders where the lost DREAMER is, whom she once hated so much. She has forgotten what love is all about! She doesn't feel the feeling. She looks for Dreamer in every face that she meets, post work when she crosses the street she looks for him perpetually and every time she fails. There's no one to hold her hands while crossing the road. She gets scared even now while crossing those busy routes. She doesn't have him by her side; the thought makes her feel miserable. No, he doesn't make her cry, he makes her feel angry, ANGER - that's the only thing she has. She doesn’t go to the coffee shop - the by lanes and dark corners bring him back to her though she knows he is NOT there anymore.

MAYA calls her and asks her to take care of herself. Though the she knows even MAYA doesn't know what 'taking care' means. The closet, the warmth in the call, the feeling of belonging, the wait - another blanket of fondness that MAYA gives; she takes all of it with deep breath and happy heart though she knows, she's alone - just like the way they are!

She takes the last puff from the joint, wipes her tears and smiles. As the dreamer once said, "Rest everything is fine. Just Fine!"

Her words still hover on his head and he wonders what is it that made a MORTICIAN out of a LOVER. May be Love indeed is too young to know what conscience is....

The past one long year had been a witness to a thousand oscillations…. And it’s the MORTICIAN’s birthday again. Opps! The LOVER’S birth day again! He wishes he could be there with her, with the little girl who would find it difficult to cross the road while coming home after getting drunk on her birthday!

Rest everything is fine, it’s just fine!

This place is politically very sensitive because of Tribal Militants. They kill people, burn trains and rape women. Children here play with AK47-doppelganger toys and innocence is nowhere to be found. People here live with suspicion and fear; the fear of death. Some say they are fighting for truth, fighting for their birth right. Some call them Terrorists. I don’t understand what exactly is going on in here; neither do I want to. The community of weavers I work with belong to the same tribe in question. The love and warmth they have showered me with, the way they have taken care of me while on my field-work, the way they have helped me whenever needed, I am deeply touched. I have put up in the District’s Circuit House. Every night when I return after work, I thank god because I came back safe.

Many a times I feel like asking Maya and Mortician to come down for a short trip, but then I stop myself, thinking why should I risk their lives just because I miss them. Old life recedes further and further away and I console myself saying that they are just a few digits away. Though I call Mortician frequently I never call Maya. Strange thoughts plague me and I feel that the gulf between me and Maya would never be bridged; what if Maya does not pick up the call, what if Maya does all that the lunatic left me to suffer with.... I often feel like spreading out all my anguish at Maya’s feet, I often feel like giving all my secrets to Maya, but then I step back. No Maya, why should I burden you with my heartaches when you have enough of your own? Also what if Maya turns out to be like one of them! It’s not that I don’t trust Maya; I can’t trust anyone for that matter. Thanks to the lunatic, that word is lost in my dictionary.... and I like a fool had lain awake nights wondering why.... Sometimes I would wish that.... but what do I wish? Reconciliation and humiliation? All these thoughts keep splitting me in two equally unacceptable pieces.

Maya came down to Calcutta to meet me before I left the city. I was happy, incredulously happy, as happy as happiness could be, but I could not properly ever tell that to Maya. Back at home I used to wait for the weekends for Maya to come down but now in this exile, I don’t even have that luxury of pleasing myself by waiting for the weekends. Four months seem ever so long. I don’t know exactly what is it that’s disquieting me so much; I don’t know what I am so scared of. I know for sure I am not scared of Maya; maybe it’s my own self I am so scared of. All I know is that I wait for Maya and I don’t know why. I know I wait for Maya like I never have waited for anyone. My soul revolts and torment increases with each passing day. It is helpless, crying is no good, it is the faith I live by; the thoughts imprinted on my mind, my heart and my soul so strongly that I live in a shadowy insubstantial land.... and life goes on with everything else a little faded at the back of my mind.

There are police check posts at every turning of the roads. On our way to work, they stop our cab and check our papers every day. This morning while clicking photographs in the village bazar an old tea shop lady started hissing at us with her face puckered with distress; “Amar chele taake toh liye gelo rey ! Amar ghor ta jwaliye dilo rey! Akhon abar salara chobi nitey eshechey ken rey! (“They killed my son! They brunt my home! For what joy do the assholes now want to click photographs?“) Seeing her rage I was shocked and surprised at the same time. My whole body tightened with tension. She wasn’t ready to listen to us; neither did she wait for us to explain to her what actually we were there for. I have never faced such circumstances before. For some strange and unknown reason I felt guilty and ashamed, I felt as if I could not live with myself. I did not have any word to console her neither did I know how to react when all the eyes in the bazar got glued to us as a result of her screaming. I felt brutally helpless standing there in the market like a callous and facing the red eyes of those people there; I felt out of place, an out caste amongst all these people. I again thought of Maya who came down to meet me and I told myself that I should be satisfied with that. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I somehow hurried to drag myself towards the cab, and soon while it started for the next village, I fixed my gaze on the moving world beyond the window. The scenery blurred as my eyes grew hot and started to prickle. The desolate woman’s screams are still echoing in my ears and hammering on my head, even while I am typing out this letter.

While returning from work the roads ran cutting through fields of fire flies; as if a hundred thousand stars were strewn about on my way. Nature is always a wonderful resort when one is disturbed, it always offers harmony. Absolute bliss! Beautiful! The vast open evening sky allowed me all the room for shying hopes, suppressed fears and speculations of the unacknowledged.... the beauty in the surroundings added to the pain and I ached with that nothingness gnawing inside me. I wanted Maya and Mortician to be there with me. I miss them the most when I am happy; I feel as if life is so meaningless if not shared with them.... but I guess the luxury of living, how and where one wants, is not for me anymore.

Later, this evening, after coming back from the remote village we gathered that a shopkeeper has been shot dead in the town-market. The shops were shut on the way and very few people were seen on the roads. The front gate was shut and we entered our den through the back door.... once again I thanked God.

Scary stories of how outsiders had been often abducted in this territory are all known. I was never so scared of death.... recently I have realised that I am scared of death now. I want to live, I want to live again and I want to love again.... I want to love as if I have never been hurt. I get drunk and spoilt in the evenings all alone in the Circuit House and dream. Dreams that I have never dreamt before.... Mortician thinks it’s perilous. She warns me, gets upset, throws tantrums at times and calls me “silly’, calls me a “fool” and we talk ceaselessly about the layers of love, life and lunacy....

The endless soliloquies continue....

Some things come with their own punishments and do not change though life seems to have taken a new turn after I shifted from Calcutta. I know nobody here in this new town, nor does anyone know me. This is the life I had so asked for; a brand NEW life, where solitude would be tranquillity. No old ties! No old questions to be answered, no old acquaintances to be faced, no old songs to be sung! During my College days I had stayed alone, away from my place and had managed fairly well; I enjoyed the freedom, the independence. But this time being away from my city, away from my home, away from my household activities, away from my daily drama is not the same like before. Though this is the life I had been praying for till I managed to bag this Project, now the feeling is a little odd because how much ever I pretend to cope up, or try and actually understand, every moment I keep meeting the same wretched me of my past, and fail to cope up. I realize there is no escape. The joy in freedom is lost; the independence wreck less and dangerous. I am scared the newness of the new life is again tainted with the old wounds stifling me!

Lot of things though have changed; new faces around, new places, new roads, new rivers but often I am reminded of the Ganga while I walk along the banks of Gourang. Life here moves at a slow pace; we go to remote villages every day for work and I see how different their ways are from ours. These people in the villages are so poles apart from us, yet they are so like us, so known and so close. I talk to them, talk for hours. Try understanding them; delve deep into their lives, slowly and gradually, like peeling an old lover’s clothes. We talk about life, nature, society, poverty, miseries, happiness, fears and also about thousand other things; and with such natters the meaning of life seems perfectly simple. The respect, love and affection they show us are unadulterated.

Nature here is bountifully painted on the canvas of the mother planet; some of these villages we go for work are flanked by the Bhutan hills, blue and misty. But I don’t see the hills, I don’t look at the sky, the clouds don’t touch me; I want to come back and see them with Maya and Mortician. I walk down the hills hoping to see them waiting for me down the valley with their arms stretched apart. I wonder how long is too long while I wait for their much awaited arrival which never happens. At every turning of the road I wait for a miracle, I hope to see the faces I long for. The darkness under the saal trees, the bits and pieces of winter sky through the canopy of branches and the gusts of cold wind rustling the leaves make me wonder how cold must have been the winters there this time. The corner couch at the coffee shop would still be warmed up, Black Coffee with sugar-free in a take away pack would still be Black Coffee, would have the same rich aroma and Maya would call it the bitter sweet symphony…. Few lesser significance of life! And now I long for them even more. Back home I had so long waited to run away from the city, and now I wait for my city here; all I know is to wait…. the wait, again! I see kids in the villages, they run after our car in the evening on the dusty roads with the setting sun on the horizon in the backdrop.... and in all their faces I look for Maya and Mortician.

Rest everything is fine, it’s just fine!

Kokrajhar (17.10.2011)