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)

Exile....

Many a time I have left Calcutta but never I have felt like this before; this time I am at a real loss of words to express how exactly I am feeling. It feels like I am being uprooted but not completely, some parts of me are still here while I am forcibly dragging myself to a far away land which I have never felt like I belonged to, which I never loved, which I never considered my own. The whole idea of uprooting one’s self from the land one has so loved is not at all easy; it’s difficult, it’s dangerous and also very absurd. But I am doing it; I am doing it because I have to, because I don’t have any other option. I have hoped against hope to look for light but I can’t afford to live with the darkness any more. My roots have seeped deep into the soil of this city, my veins carry the city’s best blood and my lungs the dirtily delicious stench of petrol and non-bourgeois (?) silk-cut cigarettes. The heat, the dust, the pollution, the loud honking of the cars, the hideous traffic, the phuchkas, the rolls, the merciless painful claustrophobic afternoons before rains, the pools and ponds in the middle of the roads after rains.... I have loved them; I have loved them all. The tea coloured evenings, friends, enemies, families and thousand other ties.... All that tied me to this city or may be all that I tried to tie myself to are floating at the back of my mind, making it hollow and void asking me not to grow up. Not at least this September.
I don’t know how much I am leaving behind for all of it seems to be piling with me. Too many memories and the baggage too heavy but I need to move on.
It’s Viswakarma Puja today and I had hired a car from my place to the airport in the morning. The driver had been a very sweet guy. He kept on playing Radio Mirchi while last moment exchanging of songs, poems, farewell notes and all that jazz kept me busy. While I got down from the car, the driver took out a paper box and handed out a sondesh (Bengali sweet) to me with a smile. With the fresh sandalwood paste and vermillion smeared on his forehead, it was evident that he had taken his car to be worshipped in the morning before I hired him. While I took the piece of sweet he kept on telling me “etogulo bag aapni kikorey samlaben? sabdhane jaben dada, sabdhane” (“how will you manage so many luggage? Take care, please take care”). He does not even know me, but the concern and warmth in his voice made me feel better in a way. May be life is not that bad, may be the world is not that bad, maybe there are still some nice people left; or may be sometimes we do not notice all these little nice things that happen to us every now and then, worrying about bigger troubles in life....
And now even before I have boarded the air plane, it feels like I have already propelled away to some unknown sky. I feel extremely helpless and lost holding the boarding pass in one hand and trying to call Mortician with the other; while she does not pick up the call.... The security check is over and my flight has been announced. I don’t have much time left and I am feeling paranoid, but she does not pick up the call; maybe she is also trying to get used to the absence. May be she is also failing miserably to cope up with the impotent wrath of letting go of her friend. This deliberate and desperate absence of the Mortician is difficult for me to handle and my brain has stopped functioning; so all I have managed is to text a small note to Maya before switching off the phone and getting up on the flight....

Calcutta (18. 09. 2011)

No, Ahmadabad has not changed; it is the same; intact the way I had left this city three years back. It seems like everything have been preserved carefully for me to return. I am happy seeing old faces, seeing old places and old alleys but somehow strangely a constant guilt feeling is mingled with my joy.... it is that guilt of resorting to that city I have always neglected, I have always cursed, I have always hated so much.

Ahmadabad (19. 09. 20011)

It’s raining in Guwahati.... You are not here but you are here; I am having coffee and vegetable thukpa at Silk Route.... the road across the glass window is hazy in the rains. With smell of dumplings in the air, music in my head and chopsticks in my hand I am wondering what you do these days, whom you call while having the morning cigarette, I am wondering if Maya at all ever misses me....

Guwahati (23. 09. 2011)

They change the bed sheets every morning in the hotel and I have a new story every morning. Last night Hill boy handed me all the gifts of the Mortician. I loved them, loved all of them. Nobody ever has written me such touching letters; I feel needed when I read those letters.... words and emotions are such strange things.... You are so right Mortician; life, death, love, hate, happiness, sadness all pivots on the tip of the tongue indeed!
p.s: I have decided to forgive Maya for not calling me up and yeah HAPPY BIRTH DAY to me !

Guwahati (26. 09. 2011)

I wished Rumyum this morning. It’s her birth day and the whole team is dressed in their Sunday best to celebrate. She smiled back when I wished her and asked me to kiss her; I gently had put a peck on her cheek and hugged her trying to smile with moist eyes. Rumyum does not know that she shares her birthday with the lunatic but I am at awe how my eyes got moist. There were many people in the room but she asked only me to kiss her; I wonder if she had read my thoughts that moment. Thinking of the incident, it feels strange. Last year on today’s date I had baked a cake for the lunatic; and prayed in my heart. We got happily drunk that evening, singing to our glory. The lunatic sang aloud while I sang in my head. I took a cab back home and thanked God for everything and nothing; the night breeze hit me smoothly on the face while I stared out of the cab window and the drunk lunatic sang to me on the phone.... life seemed perfect and I was happy. Leaving behind rows of buildings and trees, leaving behind people and light posts the car speeded and I speeded with it leaving behind twenty six useless years of my life.... life seemed beautiful and I smiled with moist eyes like I did this morning.
But things CHANGE! And HOW!
I bake no more cakes but I still pray for the lunatic.... “May you stay Forever Young“

Guwahati (02.10.2011)

The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Decked in azure mascara and purple nail paint, bold night awaits the return of the colour flamboyant....
They all who got drenched in the rain, they all who claimed to have measured the pain;
Do they know that turn on the road, where a painted heart was cheaply sold?
The secrets, the bleached bones of a story so layered; of a heart that was once desired....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

.... The lonely prey walked from there; conch shells, wind chimes and blank stares,
Whistle of the ship from the long lost past; those scarlet days paid with blames and rust....
Rust coloured songs and a rust sour smell; is all that you get if you believe in fairy tales.
Fairies leave, fairies vanish and fairies fade ....the heart left for the demons to trade.
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Scarlet days that were woven with bliss, bubbles and roses and clouds and kiss....
The river still flows inside the heart; the prey has now learnt how to act of mirth.
The sheets new, the doors latched, the bed shared ....but the scars never stripped;
Strangers come, strangers go ....nobody knows, nobody will ever know....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Counting heartaches in the head, old violin floats on the dead, on the red....
The azure mascara is just another coat; the river in the heart still has a paper boat,
The black eyes melt, breakup, makeup, dust.... rotten flesh and some more rust....
The songs tainted, no solace anymore; the prey is quiet from the deepest core....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

The time pass lovers, the time pass losers, the strangers in the night,
Changes every day, and the sky is littered with so many new kites....
But that kite running soul who painted a dream, of passion, of mists, of colours, of hue....
What happened to it? Who knows? Neither me nor you....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Unfinished....

MORTICIAN:

Toke aaj ekta kotha boli, may be I will never say such things ever afterwards.
I shall be missing you Dreamer when you are not here. I won't have anyone who will listen to my late night blabber.... My endless grumbling about something called 'your career'. How horrible was that. To my every nonsense you have been an active listener, all my tantrums you have dealt with forbearance and a happy face. What would I do without you I really wonder, my sudden day's escapade to the famous "Aarshi-Nagar" with cups of black tea/coffee, nico puffs and endless meaningless banter with child like photo shoots. I shall miss these greater halves of my life! I never found someone like you, who's always there donning that 'ready to die for' dimpled smile. Ah! The smile indeed; an escapade to my lunacy...Hori-dar cha-er dokan-e mosha-r bhyan bhyanani aar tui, Vivekananda Parker unchu unchu ghas peyire bench ta dokhol kora, hothat kore gaan geye kende phela, othoba "MORTICIAN tumi kintu bodle jeo na..."
You gave me all that I always WANTED in this wreck-less life.
There are times, when I scream at you. Just like a little girl who screeches in the middle of the night after seeing a nightmare. There are times when I ask you not to cry, your tears scare me and I ask you quite brutally to stop it. Though I know within, that these drops of eyes, are hard to resist. There are times when I look out of the window or read a book as you call and I say " I don't wanna talk anymore..." I do it all, everything that can justify me to be an inhumane. But behind every savage act there lies a subtle love, something that only I can feel and you can understand!
In 12 days time you shall be off to the Gujju Land with your life covered with strangers, some of them might also be your friend. And here I shall be all by myself thinking about your Assam expeditions. But that is life I guess...that is the ONLY way to remain with someone with a handful of memories.
My secret keeper, my friend, my masochistic angel; be happy as happiness could be, be strong like the rocks can be and remain JUST the way you are .... ‘Cause you are a BLESSING for people like US! I Love you!
Live well, drink and be merry DREAMER, with or without me! :)

DREAMER:

Yes I will be off to the dry state of Gujarat, pay five times the price for drinking, get lost in the folds of the Himalayas, call up Bihu-man, throw tantrums at him and sulk about how horrible Assamese foods are.... all these I will do, but somewhere deep down a bit of the Mortician would also be there doing all these with me.
I will miss the scared hands that always held me tight while crossing the roads making me realise that I better grow up and learn to take charges. I will have fun in the weekends but the joy of having you at the “Aarshinogor” would always be longed for. I will meet many new people, see new rivers but in my mind I will always hum the same old river songs that you always sang for me. The steps of Bihu would be echoing in my ears and hammering on my head, the solace won’t be there, because there would be no Mortician or Maya to drag me to sing.
With every taambul that I will chew I know for sure I will be missing Ruu and her funny ways of blaming me for having paan alone.
I will wear the white Tee that you have gifted me for my birth day. And yes may be I will also miss the Lunatic thinking of my last birth day....
I will be missing you all....

MORTICIAN:

We spend most of our time talking about nothing but I just want to let you know that all these nothings mean so much more to me than so many somethings. I don’t regret the rain or the nights I felt the pain or the tears I had to cry some of those times along the way. If you’re leaving, take me with you. If you’re running away, take me too. If you’re jumping off, hold my hand as you do...But these good byes are painful!
Life takes a different run, each time I read your thoughts. Yes, I can READ them all. And then those endless telephonic conversation that determine 'how we should be or how we are'. Life goes on, as it never ends! With Maya by my side, and Ruu on another, I shall be living YOUR life, here, in this reckless city, where life refuses to gain momentum.
Think what you have while I narrate this life story to you, so that you can also have time to smile a bit and say, "Life is short, but this time it was bigger"!

DREAMER:

You have never accepted a second rate life story, so have I tried following your footsteps. But none of us have seen the end, we know not what we are, what life is, how the ending is like.... no one knows the end before the end....
You and Maya always ask me to grow up. You scream and shout at me, I remain quiet; not because I don’t have answers, not because I don’t want to piss you off; it’s because I know I need to be shouted at, the child in me always feels safe with you around. The screeching and scolding gets surpassed with the love and affection you have unconditionally showered on me. I never had to ask for anything, but you have given me all that I had so longed for....
Grown up Maya often says we are all alone. I bargain saying “we still love to act as if we are not alone”. I shut Maya up, I shut you up; but at one point I see a reflection of this Dreamer in both of you. So yeah, we all are sailing the same boat, through the "shorbonasher nodi" hoping "lagbey tori kusum bonn e...." I can’t promise you anything, because I really can’t afford to break the promise if I make one. I know how it feels when promises are broken. I don’t know exactly how short life is, and this time how big it had been like. All that I know for sure is that some short stories are ever so long.... "sesh hoiya hoilo na sesh...."

MORTICIAN:

Ever wondered how will my trips to the cemeteries be? They shall be as ghost-like as the graves themselves. I will be carrying the same camera, with a bottle of lemonade and few note books in my bag. But the charm of these little excursions will vaporise, with each passing day. I don't know whom to call when I need a smoke in the middle of something; I don't know who will hold my hand as I walk the streets gallantly while talking to one of my friends over the phone.
Rita mashi'r cha-er dokan will have one empty space, Indthalia will have one chair free, Nandan-Academy will have a spare place to sit, Cafe Lounge and Cha Bar will serve one person less, the cinema-hall Ajanta will have just one more ticket to sell, CCD, Barista, Maharani'r Kochuri, the ol' alleys of the New Market to the unpredictable "Sinful Afternoons", everything will miss one more part of this worthless Mortician. And I will be missing, my most beloved half, YOU – The dreamer.
The regular walks from Lake Road to Rashbehari, the sudden afternoon showers, lazy clicking sound of the camera, the occasional shopping, my encounter with Robi Thakur, those unending midnight conversations, your love for Love and my hatred for the same or the smoke with whiskey filled glasses will never be the same!
You are the world-class fool indeed! Cause you in turn befooled the world!
....Till we meet AGAIN!

DREAMER:

Don’t get distressed when I cry, let me cry and feel sorry for myself.... many a times we have called each other up complaining about the over cast sky or the traffic on the roads or the hiking up of the prices of cigarettes.... and then consoled ourselves with the thought of there is always a tomorrow. It’s just that this time the night would be a little prolonged before tomorrow comes.
I promise to come back as soon as possible. You just promise me to be the same Mortician you always have been to this Dreamer.
.... I would just be a phone call away.... and yeah I am sure dirty Santa’s would not sleep switching off their mobiles this Christmas.

MORTICIAN:

Remember Me..?
Am your sanity...
We used to walk hand in hand
But you could no more stand
The incisions of life
And chose to stay the horrid way....
In a life of illusions
And smokey repentance...!!!

Remember me.....???
Or should I believe
U've lost your head drawing pictures,
Scribbling things that dont make any sense
Waiting for the Eternal Death...!

I shall be writing such a History. :)

DREAMER:

:)