Thoughts of a wanderer 4

Once again I find myself on the paths of the lake place. Dark becomes the world. The lake is still. The evening couples continue their love talking and love making. The breeze from the southern horizon rides over the lake and touches my face, as I return to the usual question.


Why had she said nothing to me? What could be the reason of her behavior?


I walk alone. I walk as if I am a ghost. I do not feel anything. I do not see anything that is related to the real world. I do not feel love. I do not feel pain. I do not feel the need to be loved or the need to be felt special. I see faces as if I dream, as if they exist in the virtual world. I feel sorry for those persons who exist. I feel sorry for those persons who fall in love. I envy those persons who have hungry kisses in the Moonlight. I feel hungry when the Chhatim flowers awake my soul. I feel the urge to be happy when I imagine her drinking vodka. I feel stones in my heart when I see her holding his hands or dragging him close in an old picture. I feel I would bet the world when I see the curtains of the windows of her bedroom flying in the wind. I feel myself losing away when I keep looking at her old pictures. I feel rejuvenated when someone calls her name at my presence. I feel the most beautiful dreams of mine become true one day. But I do not feel her. I do not feel her consciences. That’s the reason I do not feel anything that is related to the real world. I do not feel anything. I walk as if I am a ghost. I walk alone.


The smell of the Chhatim flowers bewitches me. I feel the blue snake at my forehead, as I remind of the last words of the clairvoyant. I see the smile at the end of his lips as he took my hand, and said those words. I feel the gust at my face, I turn my face away. I turn my face away from all the pleasures of life- love, liking, and relationship. I just become an unhappy person sitting in the corner of his room, like the character portrayed by me in the story ‘The Night Train’. I remember the fact that someone said I was going to write the story of my life myself. I shiver, because I know that I am a tragedy writer.


In my dream, Pallabi comes. And when I walk here at Southern Avenues, I clearly see her footsteps at the roads and humbly step away. I stare to the place where once we stood in the times of Durga Puja in front of a house. I think of those few seconds I got the chance to stand beside her. I feel myself special when I think of these happening. I feel myself special when in my heart I travel to the holy places of Varanasi; from where she came when she was just nine years old. I feel myself special when I praise of her writing and she doesn’t answer. I keep looking for a word, a sign, rather an omen, but I fail. And the more I fail, the more I feel. I feel because I don’t tell. I write because I don’t tell. I fail because I don’t tell.


In my truth, Pallabi comes. I place the Urim and Thummim in my heart and let them lead the path. My legs tire, but I walk. The stones lighten the path of my life and I follow the toughest path. I seek the truth from the liar. I learn to live from the depressed one. I learn to smile from the distressed. I feel the sorrow of the street side beggars. I keep looking at their face and they smile. They do not smile because they get money. They smile because they know what’s happening. I stretch my hands in the dry summers expecting the raindrops at my palm. I keep looking to the southern horizon where a flight of pigeon goes round and round. The picturesque descriptions sometimes drag me to the past, as I lose myself away to an unknown zone. I fear I might not return. I fear because I love. I get back because I fear. I love because I do not get back.


I walk across the cinema hall named ‘Menoka’. I become unmindful. I walk past colonies in search of her. I come near her house, and see the meeting. I see the curtains of the windows in her room. I walk past the Nava Nalanda building, and everything starts to fade away.


I give second thoughts in writing the novel ‘Friday’. What should I write now? Should I write about all the virtual interviews I am going to invent myself? Should I write about her Varanasi background? Should I write how a serene, holy girl turned into a gypsy, in the flame of the lies of a city? Should I write about those innumerable smiles those lips threw to a boy, who came from a Mofussil, passed his childhood in a hostel loving the nature and worshiping the truth? Or should I write about the wry smiles I see in my nightmares in the face of her?
I fear I might lose my story. I am afraid, I have lost the girl.


On the way back home, I stop. I stop, look at the sky and think for a while. I feel myself like the shepherd boy. I search for the Alchemist, and I find him in each and every face of humankind. I place Urim and Thummim at my heart. My eyes become narrower. My hands stiffen. My legs cramp. I feel the hunger at my stomach. I walk till I get tired. And then I start walking again, till I get tired.


I feel the urge to ask her the question, why had she said nothing to me…but I realise the answer. It’s not only just because this is what happens if you want somebody from your soul and that somebody wants another from her soul, but there may be other answers.


May be because I am the chosen one.

- Oct'09