A FLIGHT OF PIGEON

A flight of pigeon they were..., flying in the lonely sky in the direction of season wind, backing the massive red ball in the west... Dusk was the time, and my early childhood. Alone on the roof of dreams and fantasy, eyes fixed to the white-off white-grayish far-off feathers, wind playing with soft hair, with those pigeons hovering in the southern horizon, one after another after another...

I used to call them ‘friends’. Friends of a lonely child. They were companions of mine since my early childhood, from when I was seeing them rounding the southern horizon by days after days, months, years. It seemed to me that they would continue to round the horizon till the end of time...

Emerald green was the nature, spring...did we presume. I considered myself as being the nature. Joyous I was, for no reason, save the loneliness I was in; if it could be. But nevertheless, friends I had, from the moment I went to the roof, I was no more alone, sky was there to watch over my footsteps, wind was to listen to my songs, and above all, those pigeons covering feather around me, embracing me from any harms that could be caused by the fluffy old world...

Days passed, years progressed. Days of my early childhood ran through the late ones to reach me into my age of eighteen. But I was fresh. Fresh like a seed, before it is put to sprout, wet and muddy, all set to create a new magic to the world.

And that is how life made my paths easier to meet with Purabi. Later, much later I have thought about it, that what could be my fate if I was not to meet with her. I mean, the whole world goes in its own way, even time doesn’t stop for anyone, but again, between that, we do come to meet with someone special at a certain point in our lives. We meet, our minds meet, but perhaps the invisible cord, which binds us to human periphery, does not have enough time to bind us to that deep and strikes us far apart... where from there can be no sign for a comeback...poor men can not believe, if someone has gone from our lives its a hell hard chance to bring her back.
So that’s the way, I met Purabi. At primitive, we were just friends. But as time, as well as life started moving on, we realized that there is something more in the world also than friendship we can share of. That’s the day we knew each other. Our heart beated as one. Love was in the nature. Never had I saw the world more colorful as I used to see then. We never told each other that we love, but it was all in t he belief of us.

And that was the time when life took us apart from each other. It was not that we tried to push things and make our lines cleared, but the truth is that, we accepted it.


After she went from my life, I started writing. It was by writing, I kept those happy moments behind me, which used to often trouble me. Not long after that insomnia affected me, the only suffering which has no medicine for itself. The thoughts of the happy past kept weakening my mind. I nearly broke up. But writing kept me alive all the time. Here is a short poetry written some days ago keeping her in mind:



I loved a rose once.
A small, red rose.
When I saw it,
I wondered of the creation of God.
I kept it in my pocket, and forgot.

The next day, I found it dead.
But it left a thorn at my chest.
A drop of blood, it caused.


I loved a lady once,
a nice hearted one.
Again I wondered the creation of God.
I kept my promises, and waited.

And this time, I lost her...
But she left words at my heart.
Words of love, they were.


I saw a tiny girl,
playing at a park.
And gave her a flower.
What is it? She asked.
Love. I answered.
And she ran away.

'Love it is, which does not die.' I said.



There are many writings like this. And because of my suffering of insomnia, I like prefer night over daytime. No one watches the full night as they do the day. I have seen nights, like the old man watches the clumsy evenings shattering day after day.


Monsoon came. The dry dust of the earth got wet. The scent of the newly wet nature was in the air giving people an unknown reasoned happiness. I, packed up in my room had nothing to do, and started climbing the steps to the roofs. It was a long time I had visited the same. And as I stepped forward, I saw something. I stopped and watched. A boy, of age around twelve, standing alone in the roof, looking at the southern horizon. The season wind playing with his hair, eyes fixed to far-off. As my eyes followed the direction of his eyes, I saw greyish, off-white spots moving in the horizon...FRIENDS!


Nearly one and half decades have passed. But the picture lays the same there. For me, life has moved on, but for the roof, the wind, the massive red ball in the west, life hasn’t changed as yet. Friends will be there...perhaps till the end of time. The boy of twelve will be there, playing and watching the nature for eternity. It’s not our lives, its not the time that move on, it is you and I who change, and the rest of the story remains unchanged. For ever and ever...

-March '09

MEMORIES OF A NO ONE

DECEMBER, '06


“Why do you write such stories which end up with a tragic situation?” she asked me.

“As because I do believe that life is a sad song” I said.

“But life has some glad sides also. Relationship with your familiars, smiling nature, love, happy surroundings, - don’t they keep your mind fresh, alive, happy?”

“I don’t believe in relationship, love or likings, so they don’t excite me.”

What did I say? God, I was talking to the person I had loved for over a year. Days, months I’ve only waited for the day when we will talk something about love. I was eager to talk with her about her views of love, and what I’ve done? When the right time came, I just said that I do not believe in it? But, after all, what could’ve I said? From the day she had stepped into my life, I’ve only feared of losing her. It seems I was destined to meet with her in some part of my life. And now, when I have fallen in love with her, I would better accept the fact that our paths are different, and whatever relation we have now, it’s not for eternity. As I was destined to meet with her, she is probably also destined to meet with someone else. And the best thing for both of us would be probably to be what we are.

This time she gave no answer. She was immensely thinking about something. I couldn’t make out if my stories had done any effect on her mind. I was even in doubt whether she had understood the stories or not. Now another question raised in my mind that, she has certainly noticed that most of my stories contain her name, then why didn’t she ask me anything concerning that. Has she understood my feeling for her, or she is just ignoring this possibility. If considered that she has taken it so simply that no curiosity raised in her mind, but one should get some clicking in her head seeing a name so many times in a diary. And if considered that she has understood it, and just ignoring that related talking, it will be better for me to keep a safe distance apart from her.

The class ended. I came back home. Night came gradually. I kept my bedroom dark and sat at the corner of my bed facing the window. “…keep a safe distance apart from her”, I muttered. If I had thought so ten months before. The golden months, the months deciding the route of my life. If I would have thought so before they had passed, before I passed them so callously thinking about her leaving my studies miles apart.


JANUARY, '07


“It’s me.” I said, as she received the call.

“Oh yes, say”

“Listen, the date of our Friday class…, I mean the timing of our class has been changed. Now onwards, it will start at 2.30 and end at 7.30. It means the biology class will be from 2.30 to 4.30 and chemistry class will be from 4.30 to 7.30.”

“Why this…”

“See, the syllabus can not be completed if the change doesn’t occur. Sir told that the extra one hour may lead to the completion. ”

“Oh! Five hours class!”

“Okay, listen, are you coming this Wednesday? “

“Yeah, I will.”

“But sir told that he will get us out if we can’t answer the questions. “

“No, no, I will go. See, I’m not going that class for two weeks, so I don’t really think that, later he will keep me inside anyway. ”

“Okay.”

“Happy new year, anyways.”

“Happy new year, happy new year.”

“Okay, thank you, bye.”

And I put down the receiver. My heart beats were going faster and faster. My fingers were trembling.


“How much for two minutes’ call?”

“You give four rupees.”

I walked down the footpath. The most remembering day of my life! I can’t believe myself. I called her, and she recognized me! Colourful butterflies flew around me. I could not see the people around me, but only the smiling face. I could not hear the buzzing crowd, but the soft voice asking hello at the telephone in a tender voice. What can one expect in the whole year if he is greeted by a girl on the first day of the year?

I didn’t sleep that night. A tender but sharp voice echoed at my ears, “Hello, hellow, hellow…”


But surprise was waiting all the time for me. She didn’t come that Wednesday, not that Friday too. I astonished, my heart broke. She told me that she would come, but she did a treachery.

My nights seemed to be my only friend then. I thought, I spoke, I cried, I laughed, but it was all the night who was my companion. None other was there to share me.

After a few days, she comes, and wants my copy to note. I give it to her and ask for the questions of the tests. She promises to give those and tells me to remind her at Wednesday by phone. These become very formal talking, but my journey through sadness starts from that moment, even though I think that it is going to be the opposite. If atheists have a god to pray, I am ready to pray for her, at any cost.

Days pass, and I suffer from some sort of uncertainty. I call her on that Wednesday, but she doesn’t come. She doesn’t come even that Friday. I become a little bit angry with her, and call at her home that Friday night.

My trembling fingers become once again on those numbers; it starts ringing, and I can hear the every beat of my heart.

“Hello”

“Hello, is she there?” I ask.

“Yes, you have to hold a few seconds.”

“Okay.”

“Pam…, Pam… it’s his phone…” her mother shouts.

“Hellow” she takes the phone now.

“Hey, what’s this?”

“Why, what happened”

“What’s about my copy?”

“Hasn’t your friend Ratul given you that?”

“He didn’t come today.”

“Oh, I’ve given your copy and the questions to him and left for home as he told that he would be at the chemistry class.”

“Its embarrassing, my copy…, by the way, what happened at Wednesday?”

“Yes, yes, I am telling you that. See, you called me at 3.30 but at around 4 o’ clock I realised that I was not ready for the question answer session. So I called Mashie and asked for your phone number, but as she failed to give it, I told her to tell you that… but just a second, Mashie didn’t tell you that?”

“Yes, she told me, but you see…, my copy…, if Ratul forgets?”

“Hey, is there any problem for it? I mean, is there any urgent need for your copy?”

“No, that’s not. But I’ve to write in my rough copies and have to rewrite them.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Just stick those pages right in your copy. By the way, not a bad idea, no?”

“Yeah, okay then… bye.”

“Bye.”


FEBRUARY, '07

Time. And it was passing like rainy stream. Control on mind was lost previously, and now, I was losing control of my own, my nerves, my soul, my behavior. And all things around me were suddenly very disgusting to see, to hear, to feel, to judge and to accommodate.

Midst of February passed without any happening. None! Neither I called her, nor she did. A big, big question of uncertainty covered my mind; does she want to step out of the relation or is it the pressure of time which keeps us apart?

If anyone reads this, will obviously support, that in this world, something happens somewhere concerning us, which we do not know, but we have to suffer the results, whether it is good or bad. My opinion is the same too. If someone assesses you and takes decision governing you, which may go for you, or against you, but you have to accept them, because it is possible that you have done the same with someone other also.

It reminds me of the first conversation between us, which I can’t forget for the rest if my life. The day, the first class took place at the other building. I was the only person around her. “Tapan sir’s class?” she asked me, and I was pleased. I was pleased because she talked to me. I was pleased because at the time of answering her question I could look at her face, I could look into her eyes.

But all these were very primitive. And the last conversations were...

“Have you got your copy?”

“Yes, Ratul gave it at last.”

And it seems a formal, normal talking. But I know, relations don’t end anywhere. You can’t end them. Yes, it is true, that we are not going to meet after this, but you will know someday, the world is very big, and people themselves do not know, what they are going to do, or what they have done, with others or with themselves.

How much I felt for her, how would she know? So many things I thought about her, about me, about us. So many things I knew about her... Many had been told to me. I can even remember about the night when I dreamed her saying those magic words to me. But just then I woke up at the bed and realizing that it was just a dream, tears rolled down my eyes. It cried me badly. People often say that, what we see, we hear, we think, comes in our dreams..., but I haven’t thought it for a while, that she would tell those things to me..., but still it happened, and it happened, just to hurt me.

And time has taught me, to understand all, to understand the situation I am in. And..., and yes, I have to stop loving you. I have to stop loving you because I want to live. I don’t want to die just thinking about you throughout my life.


But I will never forget you. The small things you did, you told. I won’t forget your eyes, your lips, your gentle smile, all things concerning you, and just you. And I can’t forget the first day to the last day I passed with you, the days I passed with you, or thinking about you, because..., I can stop loving you, but I will not stop loving those days I loved you.

- February, 07

Thoughts of a wanderer 3

I stepped on the road and stopped near the slum area.

It was a drama being played by some local people. Two persons, one dressed as a god and other as a lady in distress, perhaps suffering from leprosy wanting some food in a horrible manner. The laughter of the half-mad lady keeps hovering in the crowd. The colors from their faces dazzles in the spotlights. Red, blue, yellow, green slip into their faces, making them look celestial, as the lady character keeps reminding me the dark sides of the world, the other character keeps fading away, and I start walking towards the lake.


I return to the usual question: why had she said nothing to me. What could be the reason of her behavior...as I enter the lake place.

I check the time. It is 7.56 PM. No train is going to come now. So I continue walking.

It rained last night. Also the whole of today. This place becomes fairly wet whenever it rains. I see trees that fell down the other side, perhaps the consequences of the rainstorm last night.


I get the smell of a costly scent from a girl’s body who just passed me on the way. An attracting one. I look back, and find her looking at me. I continue walking.

I see six couples kissing lip to lip in the dark. Embraced. I see the water of the lake. I see the South City far across the lake, the Merlin's’, and the Golf Green tower.

I am all set to cross the neon once again tonight.

And that’s what I do. The neon becomes far behind me, and my shadow becomes longer in front of me. I step into the dark.

“Will you sit?”

No answer.

“What? Will you sit?” a lady calls me standing just in front of me.

Once again I remain silent, dare to look into her eyes, walking away from the woman.

She is above forty, a bag in her shoulder, wearing a sari and calling in from the dark. She is elder than the previous one that called me the previous evening.

I astonish.

Back to back evening I get these proposals of sitting with ‘them’. What do they think? Do I look like one of them?

The downpour affected the lake place a lot. The signs of path are lost into the bushes and pieces of wood fell from the trees. The mud created problems in walking, as I keep thinking of the last words of the prophet.

I am not that fearless to sit with them, yet. Perhaps someday, I will come back, and say yes.
The bushes on the both sides of the path and the lake remain mystified to me. In the dark, with the wind, they remain as one of the darkest characters in the world, being the evidence of a darker world.

I cross the cinema hall and once again come into the crowd. I continue to walk until it’s her home.

The meeting is on, in front of her house. I look at them, they do not care me. I look above, to the curtains, which continue to swing in the cool breeze. The neon from the room of her came through the windows and fell in the balcony. I lower my eyes, and continue walking.

A song comes drifting into the air...I stop for a few moments, listen to it, and once again I am on my way. The paths take turns and I keep walking. Southern Avenue falls behind.


I think of the proposals once again. It’s a matter of fact that I am 21 and I desperately need a girl to fulfill my thirst, discharge my man-ness onto her. I remember the thirst of ‘The Sensualist’, which had a terrible end. But what a catastrophe it has been on the fate of mine. Just three years ago I was in love with a girl of seventeen. She dejected me, and now a lady of forty calling from the dark. What a sad end it’s becoming of the whole story. I don't know, perhaps it is the beginning of a greater thing. I don’t want to be another sensualist, that’s for sure.


I walk on the busy road and come under the overbridge. The evening train leaves the station now. It comes like a giant, panting in from far, passes the overbridge with heavy, metallic sound.

As I walk back home, I find the drama still on. I watch it once again for some time, and somewhat like it.


Life plays different dramas with us. We have to just sit back and watch. There is no chance of changing the script, whatsoever.

What can we do, else?

Thoughts of a wanderer 2

I returned to the usual question, why had she said nothing to me, as I stepped on the narrow paths of the lake.

Evening was the time as usual. And then the station got busier – the evening wagon came running in, and passed by. Against the dark blue horizon, and in the reflection of the water of the lake, it looked as a ghost.

I continue walking as I think of her. The eve couples make love as usual, talking to each other, laughing out merrily sometimes. As I walked down the path the second train comes in from the opposite side.

And now I will stop to watch it.

The train comes in. The reflection of the each lighted coupe comes down to the shadowy black water of the lake. The neon, from the train dazzles the eyes. I stand still. The wind plays with the water, creating ripples, which strike to the ‘ghat’ and goes back. It plays with the soft hair, which come down to the forehead, sometimes flying high. Eyes remain fixed to the vanishing train as the body and mind remain mystified about the whole world.

One of my stories had this feeling, that a boy remained stagnant standing on the very scene. As I have always said, if you are a film director, shoot a scene in here with the train coming in and passing the lake, with the reflection on the water. It has always fascinated me, as it has been with the place Southern Avenue.

I continue walking, and keep on listening to the love-making couples.

And it is then, I get the proposal.


“Will you sit sir?” a lady of around thirty, calls in from the dark.

Open invitation. The first word came to my mind was body. And after then it was love, and once again it became body.

I knew previously, the place was known for its so-called girls, calling out from the dark after evening with not so-called ‘decent’ proposals. Just a sitting of an hour or so, try your hand-at-anything at the cost of some. I lower my eyes, continue to walk, and start fancying about the lady.

I remain mystified about the whole idea of love and lust. The couples I see everyday, I now start doubting whether they are real. How many people are here like them? Who knows, anyway?


It’s like the fact that I don’t smoke. It’s not that I hate smoking. It’s not that I like smoking. But it is that I have a deadly attraction towards the ‘thing’ that I know after all my knowledge about the ‘smoke’, I will not be able to resist it someday. Curiosity. That’s the word. It’s like the fire that draws the moths towards it. As the smell of a man attracts a woman, as the physique of a woman attracts man, as the lips reach out to the other, as the hand to the hand, the bodies coincides, words stop flowing, just the sigh, moaning, panting. The moths go round and round the lamp, darkness becomes still outside, the moon becomes fading under the July cloud. They go round. Sigh. Up. Sigh. Down. Round and round. Colors. Now. Now. Now. And they fall upon the light. The truth is like that.


But what am I writing?

I cross the lake place and came near the local cinema hall, ‘Menoka’.
And it was then I remind of our fate.

The fact that the prophet told me to get married after thirty surprised me. He had, certainly foreseen the divorce and a probable suicide in my hand. But the whole thing shook me a lot. I had previously known of an accident at thirty by another clairvoyant. But who knew it could be an attempt to suicide? The thirsty part within me is longing for a girl. Once it comes, pleasure will flow around. But the fate says, downfall will start at the very moment. I am confused. I need pleasures of life, I want to see those dark parts of our lives, but on the other hand it contradicts with my would-be fame, all the things I am going to do in my life to earn money...retarding the writer soul within myself.

I hear the mike shouting the political speeches.


Did I mention it is the time of vote in Kolkata?

It is. The 87 block Trinamool congress committee is shouting in the full blow. I walk down her house, see the dark room of her, the curtains flying in the air, and turn right.

Does it always happen that our past relationship teaches us how to move on?

I remember the answer given by her at a social site to one of her old friends back at Varanasi. People in the big cities don't really have much time to forget things. The life is fast. There are malls, shopping centers, restaurants, places to enjoy. And she added saying that Varanasi is still the loveliest place to her because she had passed her most enjoying and memorable days there.

Probably.

She has told many things to many persons that contradict.

She is diplomatic. And one is out of adjectives how much cunning she could be in a given situation.

Anyways, they do not matter now.

I cross the Kali temple where once I tried to follow her. I buy a cold drink, and Standing there for some time.

I look at the sky. The moon is there, but surrounded with clouds. And the color of the sky is changing from dark blue to black.

“A storm will come, perhaps.” I mutter.

The wind keeps blowing. I don't know why they all agree with me.