Peeking from my blanket shell, to snooze the alarm Is there light outside? Sunlight or streetlight? Its still as dark as soot, as I take out my arm Waking the children is going to be a fight.
Peeking from my blanket, a tog down now So much light outside, what is the time? I have managed to get some sleep through the sunshine somehow Atleast there is a breeze kissing the wind chime.
A big jerk of the car made Aurora wake up and look outside the window. She was transfixed by the pallette of colours outside. The steps on the fields looked like giant waves of plants ready to absorb all the goodness of the sunlight. The mundane little huts popping up here and there brought the contrast to the waves, like little mushrooms growing out from cosy corners. Her eyes breathed in the hues the scene in front of her had to offer.
Mary stood for a moment in the dark corner of the alley, and imagined she was alone as she was craving for a moment of peace and quiet for the past 5 hours.
Rewinding back at 8pm last evening, she had entered her first ever work party with the excitement of a little bird first learning to fly. Eat, drink, drink some more, drink till you blackout, then go home is the party mantra for most. But not hers. A teetotaller, she just wanted to be a curious observer at the corner. But things turned out to be a little different.
As she slowly sipped her mocktail, almost camouflaged in the wall, glancing at the menu but her contentration attracted towards her team members who were already on their third round and were ordering bottles now. She saw them loosen up, getting oblivious of the professional rules of not badmouthing their seniors. Within their earshot she had just started enjoying the gossips when she was noticed.
As everyone invited her to sit among them, half of them unaware who she was, she felt a warm sense of belonging. She wasnt the shy lonely apprentice anymore. But as she was urged to drink, laughed at for not being a sport and trying alchohol and was slowly isolated by her drunk colleagues, she felt the wave of loneliness suddenly drench her. She was in the party, had her food, her drink - but she wanted to go home. Being a junior she did not know how leaving early will be looked upon, so she stayed, among people swimming in alchohol, and waited for someone to leave.
No one left, not until it was past midnight. The loud music and swearing, smell of alchohol and sweat numbed her as she waited. And then when her team members who bearly sensed her presence started to leave she bought a bag of crisps and came out.
Never had she loved her own company more as she sat on a bench looking at people tumbling and puking on the streets. She had somehow imagined she would be hung over after the party like most do but she was not. She was relieved, happy and as she munched her crisps and walked towards the bus stop, she felt calm. Not everyone needs to enjoy a party and thats perfectly okay.
She felt her ears turn red, as she was squashed by a group of preschoolers. Some were crying, some were asking, some were quietly staring. They all needed her but she did not know how to help! What a helpless feeling that was.
Time was ticking and it felt like long hours have passed since she had entered the children’s room and stood like a statue. Now that she has entered the battlefield of interactions and caring she will have to fight her shyness off. She took a deep breath and said “Hello darlings, I am your new friend Helen. If you are sad I will give you a cuddle. If you are happy I will smile with you. Whatever you are feeling I will feel it with you. Does that sound okay?”
She felt the glowing warmth of smiles on little faces ushering her with confidence, though a little voice peeped “I am hungry Helen”
She woke up in the comfortable bed, so soft that her face snugly sunk in her pillow. She looked at the bright sunshine bathing her room. “Her room” - thinking about these two words made her smile. Though she tried to push away the next pictures that came to her mind, she couldnt. Her brain forced her to visualise the damp dark room, smell the stink of sweaty crowd. But not anymore, she was free. Free as a bird.
But was she? A free bird or a caged one? She wondered. Surely all this luxury is all she ever wanted to make her happy. But was she happy? Did not feel it when she woke her. A tingly feeling of loneliness washed her like a gust of wind. She knew her past, her present will never get rid of this cage of solitude in future. She playfully chewed her gold chain and then brought it near her eyes. As she watched the world turn golden with sunshine through the chain, she knew exactly how she felt at that moment.
Between the books peeked a little corner of something white. As Arit decided to start cleaning his father’s belongings, he had started with the books. Books were his father’s(baba’s) world. He remembered lazy Sundays when his bookworm baba snuggled in his cosy chair early morning with a big fat novel, and finished it the same night, reluctantly occasionally getting up for necessary chores. As he grew up he got interested in the topics of the books his baba read and found out they were all somehow related to unfound love or lost love. Whenever he enquired baba about what made that his favourite topic he gave different answers everytime, none of which convinced Arit. “I have had friends with broken hearts”, “I have wondered what if my love was 10000 miles away from me”, “Tragedies are the gems of literature” were his excuses.
The pitter-patter of rain outside brought Arit back to reality. He pulled the little white triangle sticking out, it was an envelop, with an address of Shantiniketan written on it, but no addressee. The handwriting was that of Baba’s. Who did he write it to? He did not know of any acquaintances living in Shantiniketan. Why did he not send it. The envelope looks worn down with time. Curiosity brimming in him, he stashed it between the books and tried to divert his mind by shuffling the books in the cupboard.
After half an hour, he abandoned his self restraint, quietly asked for forgiveness from Baba and tore open the envelope. Inside was a piece of paper, slightly yellow being imprisoned in the envelope for some time. The words said:
“Dear Mithu,
I know this is too late as you will goodbye today and leave to a far away fairyland with the luckiest man on earth. And maybe when this letter reaches you, if it does, you will not remember the author of these words. Because we never spoke, I had fallen in love the first time I saw you carrying a heavy suitcase to your new home, just beside ours, your face red and glowing from the heat and excitement. I had ignored storm and rain to have a glance of your serene face everyday. But courage has always slipped past me and I never have talked to you.
And today when you will look most beautiful, I will not be able to confront you, as it will be a harsh reminder of my cowardice.
Maybe in our next life. Good luck and best wishes.
Always loving you Subir
P.s I got your husband’s address from the wedding invite.”
Arit read the letter again, and again till his heart broke into pieces. His dear Baba had submerged himself into fictional tragedies, never finding the courage to send the letter to the love of his life. But luck has landed the letter in Arit’s hand, and he decided to be the messenger. He put the letter in a fresh envelope, wrote the address again and booked a train ticket to Shantiniketan. With a letter, an address and the first name of its receiver, he would fulfill his father’s deepest secret wish.
As soon as he reached Shantiniketan, he took a riskshaw straight to the address on the envelope. He was dropped off in front of a quaint little cottage, wrapped around with flower beds and guarded by a little gate. His heart pounding and hands shaking he rang the calling bell. Neither vibrant flowers of the garden nor the birdsong in the quietness calmed him down. The door was opened by a middle aged lady, with an enquiring look.
“Does someone called Mithu live here”, Arit blurted.
“May I know who you are?”, asked the lady.
“I am from Kolkata, and I had a letter for this address”, Arit knew how stupid that sounded, but the lady said “Mithu was my mother, she passed away few months back. Did you say you had a letter for her?”
Sheepishly Arit handed over the letter, fully aware there was no real proof of its genuineness. The lady did not introduce herself, tore off the envelope and read the letter. They stood in silence as she read on, her brows curving.
“Are you from Kolkata did you say? From Maniktala by any chance?” She said as she finished reading.
“Yes, how do you know?” Arit was confused.
“Can you please wait here? I am Moitreyi by the way.”
Moitreyi came back after a couple of minutes holding an envelope and handed it over to Arit. He could not read her expressions, she seemed amused yet sad.
“I found it along her belongings, addressed to a Manicktala address”.
Arit tore it and they read it together:
“Dear Subir,
Feels strange writing to someone whom I have never spoken a single word, but have longed to till my last days. I dont even remember how I came to know your name, only I remember your big bright eyes looking at mine, turning your gaze away as soon as I looked. I wanted to know you more but I never found the courage, always hoping you would come forward someday. But you never did.
I dont know why I am writing this, maybe because I have never told this to anyone. I have always imagined what it would be like to love and marry the boy with those big bright eyes. Maybe with this letter I can get to know you during my last few days.
Mithu”
He pretended not to notice as she entered the room and glanced furtively at the little box on the table. She pretended not to notice the little box. It was these pretences which kept them in their own bubbles.
He is a retired professor busy with his laptop, researching on places of wonder and events of interest. She is busy feeding, caring and nurturing everyone in their huge family, including him. They are too busy for each other.
They are not estranged though. They have their little moments. She makes his regular cups of teas with just the correct amount of sugar, she can feel when he is craving for some warm puffed luchi(bread) and fulkopi bhaja(fried cauliflower) and prepares them before he asks for it. He knows which songs she likes to listen to after her morning shower and plays them just at the right time on his laptop, he knows she likes her lavender spray before bed and ensures they are always available at her bedside. Love is still there, subtle and floating, not visible to eyes.
Exchange of words are few, include the daily routines of assertions and questions and statements.
Now back to the box, she knows what it has, and he know that she knows. A juicy chomchom(sweet) from a particular sweet shop from where he first bought her favourite treat 40 years back and have been buying her one ever since every year on this particular day.
One of such little gestures keep the fire of love burning, maybe not as strong as the younger days but enough to light up the bond called marriage.
Bow shaped eyes drenched with mascara, lips plumped with blood red lipstick - she has tried her best to be beautiful. But her eyes are hunting for the next prey, her lips are contorted in disgust. Her disgust for the world which never treats her well. Her figure is odd, square shaped and fat, for all she can quench her hunger with are thrown away chips and unwanted junk food. Is she not the ugliest creature in this beautiful world? Or has she lost her chance to be beautiful in this ugly world?
“Her hands grew as tall as she could summon” Ma said slowly with a halt “She loved her rice with a drop of lemon And a pinch of black coarse salt”
“She was pretty as a rose Stole everyone’s gaze No one ever bothered to look at her toes Because they were something to amaze”
“Because her toes all pointed backward When she craved for a lemon she stretched her hand Until she touched the lemon tree in her backyard And plucked the lemon from the strand”
