So you read this book, you watch this movie and now you can’t stop thinking about it. You see your life by degrees permeating the plot. You’re a part of it now. You’re a film. You feel you’re being watched, being read.
“For years, my life has been flat. I’m not sure how else to describe it. I’ve never admitted it before. I’m not depressed, I don’t think. That’s not what I’m saying. Just flat, listless.”
I think of my school days. It felt so accidental, unnecessary, arbitrary. It lacked a dimension.
I’m thinking of ending things. Lately, my life has been flashing before my eyes a lot. Shreds from everywhere. From the four-day train journeys from home to Jammu with all the house in bags, to me arranging books on the school library shelf, the class watching me like I’m mad, misfit.
The moonlight seeping in through the window panes, all parallel, on my body. Some of it seeping onto my skin. The rain with all its power breaking into the roof of the 3-storey army building in Ranikhet. Meenu running to me whenever I go out. Eating mangoes in our backyard with my friends on my birthday. My birthday is the same as Anita Desai’s. I want to be like her someday. I’m thinking of ending things.
I woke up late today. Maa would’ve been so angry at me. It has been raining all night. My roommate says she loves to sleep when it rains, “I love it more than anything”. It terrifies me, the rain. It seeps into my mind like thorns, they cut deep and strangle me like strong, rootless vines strangle timid stems. Why did she do that. I Couldn’t tell how the day just started and ended in a snap.
“We can be heroes, just for one day”
I had two spoonful of peanut butter. It doesn’t melt in the mouth. It just stays. Intact molecules.
“Mundeya dupatta chad mera ni sharmata ghund laayi da”
Maa says Koka (dadaji) loved watching films, talked a lot of Noor Jehan. I feel me listening Noor Jehan, 22 aged, out of the blue is no coincidence. I wish I’d have met him, or maybe seen his photograph at least. “All pictures were lost after your Aita (dadiji) passed away, ghor tu bhangi pelaisil je.” (tr.The house was knocked off) “A strong home but a weak house with rain finding ways to get in from everywhere. Dreary winters. I used to sleep with Deuta (father). He would be awake all night placing amorphous tin buckets below tin holes on the roof.”
I’m in my room. I’m okay. I’m sitting on my chair facing the window. The wooden panes swelled with water in them from the weeklong rain. At home, whenever I’d tell mom about her wooden table being eaten by termites, she’d say, “ muk’u ghune khale, table khonoku ghune khale” [tr. the termites are eating my table and they (time) are eating me as well.]
I’m okay. But if I were a bluebird, flying high over the sky I’d be sitting on small twigs, weak branches, drenched in rain, ‘cause it’s moving towards death. Death comes to me slow, like a dream. I’ve always yearned for it. I couldn’t sleep last night. All I could think of was that picture with a blue rope hanging from the fan. I look at the sky and it turns into an ocean, a dreary ocean and it falls on me. All of the waves, the heavy waves, it burdens me and I don’t even grasp for a breath because I’m just a blue bird now, my wings heavy with rain and I’m so close to her now, so close to death. It’s three in the morning now and I’m smoking in my room. I like to lick my lips after because they’re sweet from the clove-flavored cigarette. I’m naked now and I’m looking at myself in the mirror. I’ve grown a little arm fat, I don’t wear sleeveless tops. I smell of period blood. I want to write a poem. I have two puffs left, this was my last cigarette. All this while I can only think of that picture with the blue rope from the white fan, the white ceiling that seems too weak to hold any of us.
I also think of him. When returning from the library that night, I knew he would kiss me. And it happened right where I always wished, underneath my cassia tree, the rain falling on us like soft moonbeams.
ą¤øाँą¤ø, ą¤²ą¤¬ों ą¤ो ą¤ूą¤¤ी
ą„िą„ा ą¤®ें ą„ुą¤®।
ą¤®ą„ą¤®ूą¤° ą¤Øą„ą¤°…
(ą¤¤ेą¤°ी ą¤¬ेą¤¹ą„ी ą¤¬ेą¤¹ą„ी ą¤Øिą„ाą¤¹ों ą¤Øे, ą¤®ुą¤े ą¤¶ą¤°ाą¤¬ी ą¤¬ą¤Øा ą¤¦िą¤Æा।)
ą¤ ą¤² ą¤ोą¤² ą¤®ą¤्ą¤«ी ą¤øą¤®ा…
ą¤ą¤ø,, ą¤ि ą¤ू ą¤²ेą¤¤े, ą¤ą¤्ą¤¤िą¤Æाą¤°,
ą¤ाą¤²ों ą¤ो,
ą¤Ø ą¤ą¤°ą¤¤े ą¤ą¤ी ą¤¬े ą„ैą¤¦।
Walking back, we talked and talked and talked. “Do you think of me when it rains or the lights go out?” “I do. You?” “Yes”.
‘In ten years? Well…
Maybe you too would be sad and lonely and one day we meet on the street. You’d ask me- ‘coffee?’ And we’ll talk and talk and talk. About books, music, rain, everything. You’d talk about a Bangla poem.’
‘And I still haven’t have read The Bluest Eye, haha.’
‘You would have. By then you would have and you’d tell me… ‘Since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in..’ hahaha.
And I’ll ask, How are other friends doing? Baatein hoti hain? How are you doing? And you’d be doing everything you ever wanted to, but you’d be sad. Just like me. Happy in the day, sad at night.
And we’ll talk about how we can be such good friends. And maybe one day we’ll make love and then laugh about it the next day, say we’re better off as friends and then make love again.’
