Soumyo: April 2011

It's good to be back. Back to home, family and friends.

Chennai was tough, and it tasted me in every possible way it could have. I stood up to the occasion when it called for my response. Being alone in a new city sucks, specially when a taxi driver takes 339 rs. from you, or you get saved from an accident by a whisker, change buses and then walk kilometers to reach an interview place and then again come back there next day. Can't imagine I couldn't even visit the Chennai beach. Bad luck.

But one thing I should accept here tonight. I might not be the 'God's most favorite child'...but then again, whenever I thought I was losing myself in the crowd and found myself dumbstruck, someone or the other came in the form of a help to me, every time. Don't know how to accept it. But I believe without blessings, prayers and wishes no man can succeed in a great cause.

But still I stick to the fact just because someone made it to Chennai a few months back...that's the reason I thought I too will be able to do it all by myself.

Don't know why, but feeling very lonely tonight.

P.S. : Waitlisted in FORE school of management.

-April '11

The four parts of 'Thoughts of a wanderer' previously featured in my blog and they were posted separately. I had wanted to publish them as a whole in kolkatamirror.com like my other posts. But then again, from May '10 the site was closed for maintenance purpose and my wish of publishing all the four parts together never fulfilled.

Just thought it could be a good time to cherish those past moments of my life, once again.

1. Nomad in Dark

I returned to the usual questions: Why had she said nothing to me? I wondered, as I kept wandering in the paths of the lake nearby, or staring to the ripple less water, stagnant till its deep...

What could be the reason of her behavior...?

The wind is blowing hard tonight...no signs of rain though... as I continued to walk on the road, head down, hands in my pocket...smell of Ruskin, is it? Can't help much again.

I went past the boating post and site, and the sitting arrangement where once a man asked me to sit. He presumed me a person waiting for his lady friend to come...I look at the room once again from where they give the passes and the food. I pass bye...my shadow becomes longer and longer as I leave the neon behind me.
I am waiting for my lady friend to come...but where will I place her anyway...

I do not look at the right side as it is forbidden to me. It repels me every time I pass the road...this repulsion has a strange thing inside it...it attracts too.

Kisses in the moonlight. Hungry kisses. Bodies fall upon each other, clinging tight, mouths unable to do anything but to suck the other, palms sweating, a faint moaning and panting....and in the midst of all these, a boy of twenty-one beating down the paths...

But what am I writing....?

Three years have passed...

Every now and then as I think of her, I can remember the eyes of a person who was rigid from inside. She was firm, and the firmness is now preventing me to enter. Funny old world, isn't it?

I pass the popular cinema hall. 'Menoka', as it suggests. I go past the semi-colony thing as once told by her, and saw a crowd, dancing in joy.

A birthday party, or a marriage ceremony, I thought. People in these days have a lot of money to spend on nothing. I chose to walk away.

And it was then I changed my mind.

What if today I leave visiting her colony and see a crowd cheering. My life in the recent past hasn't cheered for anything, save it be a late night dream, but that's another story.

It was a Puja at a nearby temple anyway; I managed to figure out all. I took out my mobile, took a couple of shots from a distance. The pictures proved to be hazy, and nothing seemed to be clear in the photographs...but I didn't care...I want the lighting and the crowd in the pictures to keep my gloom away; I don't want a megapixel for that.

The colony is as lonely as I have been seeing it in the last few years...I wonder, I only wonder why did a religious person come all the way from Varanasi to stay at the heart of Kolkata, here at Southern Avenue, with his wife and a seven - eight year old daughter...what could be his conscience, his sufferings, his family... the little girl, who had seen a very small part of the world, in the narrow lanes of Varanasi...running down with her friends, or playing sometimes alone on the roof of their house, or in the rooms...playing with dolls...

I wonder about the life of her family in Varanasi. They say things never change, but they had to change, after all, it was not the same city, not the same language, not same type of familiarity and hospitality one can ask in Varanasi. Which school she used to go, by which lane or road, the paths she beaten, how badly I want to go someday to the places she has been...

My idea of Zahir keeps growing with each and moment I am without her. I want to go to the places she has been, I want to see the places she has seen, I want to feel the things she has felt, I want to utter those words she has uttered with her lips...

I am not that lucky to write something like 'A time to reap and a time to sow' which I can expect to be in her lips, but I am lucky enough that I came into contact with her, not in the most difficult time of my life, but certainly, the aftermath has been torturing, and worst part of my life. Yes, I have known things I never thought of, or heard of their presence in the world....the sunshine, and the blue sky, how does it differ from the usual when you are in love, and you lose her..................

Perhaps someday, I’ll have someone, who'll say that she has come to rescue me...

It was the same road that leads to my colony. Southern Avenue was left behind, as it is left every evening. I leave it behind hoping to come again tomorrow. Tiring legs takes me to the roads I walked an hour ago, or rather; I was walking for the past three years.

These trees here will remain, being the only proof of my love. The love I had for her, I couldn't express to her, nor will I be able to express any time in my life. So I decide that I will love her just as a memory. We never talked that much, we were not close, never close enough so that she could call me a friend in public, but she was, and she will be...just the way she is now...with me, as I type these words in my lone room. When everything leaves you, be sure that someone is with you, not that loneliness, not that darkness, not that silence, but it is her...................

Many works are unfinished..........'Friday', 'From the Ghats of Varanasi', 'the no-private room', and so on........

I need myself to be more matured for 'Friday'.

I remember some lines from one of my stories..."Options are not finished, that's the main thing." But as time has passed, the line has come in the very life of mine.

One thing is for sure, I will not ask for a love in the upcoming years, the rest, I will have to concentrate on my own life...I want to follow my fate...wherever it drops me.

Options are not finished, that's the main thing.

2. The Love Within

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 like a ghost.

I continue walking as I think of her. The eve couples make love as usual, talking to each other, sometimes laughing out merrily. As I walk 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 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 thought that 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 walking, and start fancying about the lady.

I remain mystified about the whole idea of love and lust. The couples I see everyday, now I 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 ‘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 come 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 flow. 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 a 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 Stand 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.” I mutter.

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

3. Return to the Faith

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

There 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 dazzle 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 on 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 back 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 paths are lost into the bushes. Pieces of wood have fallen 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 as well as 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 and come into the crowd. I continue walking 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 comes through the windows and falls in the balcony. I lower my eyes, and continue walking.

A song comes drifting in 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. 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 to 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?

4. Being a Free Man

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 at 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 worshipping the truth? Or should I write about the wry smiles I see in my nightmares at her face?

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 maybe because I am the chosen one.

-April '11 (Assimilated and re-posted by Somsubhra Banerjee)

Soumyo

Thursday, April 21, 2011

...Rejection continues 4

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

...Rejection continues 3

Monday, April 18, 2011

...alone

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

...back from Chennai

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

...Off to Chennai

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Thoughts of a wanderer

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