The packing is the easy part. The hard part is deciding what to take in the limited travellers' allowance. The painstakingly collected little ice cream pots full of colour co-ordinated grains. Or the glass jars of chocolate souffle recycled for spices. Or the herb rack I was so excited about. The quirky bottle openener. The herb chopper.
Thats just the kitchen. What about all the little things I got everytime you came over to stay. A catalogue of your colourful travels. The mosaic gecko from spain. The little pot from egypt? The doll from finland. How come I didnt inherit your wanderlust? Just your thirst for life and pain. Or are they the same?
Originally uploaded by prerona.
And then, the clothes. The thread bare thermals u got me when i left home for the first time to go to bristol or the 80 pound cotton shirt from Pink? The bright red thing you bought me from Bhutan, or the brand new black and white dress from Zaara. The wall hanging you got from Madras - you were out of town on my birthday, my first time. Or the orange framed (from Pondi) photographs of 2 young things together, first love. Or the bronze frame with a crack across your face, with 'all my love' written below it? I remember the fight that put that crack there. A T-Shirt someone who reminded me of you had bought me in Texas. A cheap wooden flute a boy had given me in Kolkata. We had found him crying on the steps, Barbie and I. he had fever. Someone had stolen his daily earnings. We had given him whatever we had. 300 bucks. He left us the flute. That flute. The CD's you kids burnt me, each time he came over. The VCD's you recorded, ur blacky shaking ink lines marking, Meghe Dhaka Tara and memories: Baba, I watched 'Cloud covered Star today - guess what that is? The reply, its you my darling, maybe? My corny, adorable darling. And the red foot shaped ashtray: Didi, I got something for you - actually, Baba paid, but I chose it! Thank you my little angel. The cassettes you recorded for me, with your careful handwriting in green ink: Gluzar remembers Pancham and I remember you. Remember, how I used to make fun of 'ye kaunsa ball mere court mein' and u used the get angry. The books I bought for you and you returned. The second hand bookshops that yielded little treasures, collection of letters, birthday cards, a postcard, the movie ticket stub - we had gone to see together and I had wondered: maybe? a little post it on which you had written down a list of things to buy for Dad. In the loo the electric toothbrush that doesnt even work anymore - but holds my first memories of seeing you and rahul together - my poga pogi. U had both tried it as soon as my back was turned ... I had been disgusted and grossed out and said if you two had really been my babies i would have thrown you off the terrace. Aww my little ones. never! Or other Rahuls and red scarves and mittens. Letters, Ducks and Wedding Cards. So many wedding cards. The red cloth in which I had held ur last bits and pieces. Ur not there, where am I going? Why am I going. What will I do there without you. Everyone else will be there, but its not the same, is it?
Every room, every corner, every sindow sill, where we I sat and dreamt of you, where I cried for for you, where I sat and leaned my head while we spoke on the phone (stolen moments), everywhere bits and pieces of you rubbed off - of you and of me. Street corners in the city centre where I carelessly weeped my dead, crumbling graveyards where I sat through many sunsets listening to the silence. The bus stop where I stood while I talked to you. The little lane wher you dropped me off. The tree I looked at while I told Barbie how bad it was, this time. Memories smeared on every wall, strung on every tree, drifted into ever crack and crevice like powder grey dust. Two years of liveing, loving, dying.
The rooms are empty loaded with half filled cartons everywhere. The sun comes in through the window I never close, in rivers of light, alive with dancing dust smotes, glowing.
The bookshleves nude, the kafka and the history of modern philosophy and the maths explained crammed disrespectfully (*) together with manuals for the camera and the flash and recipe books for french food. The sofa where I spent nights and nights - hanging on to a logdistance line, a ghost come back to say goodbye. The Veer Zara songs you used to sing on the phone wafted into the weave of blue and gold. That was here.
Or when you had called me on my birthday. It was after. I didnt think you would. It was wonderful! As usual you were the first one in - 12 sharp. How crisply, starkly, clean you were. And happy birthday to you, btw.
This house had my last memories of you. Of all of you: my ghosts. Thats all I have left to fill my spaces: ghosts and memories and carefully hoarded, slowly fading, pictures, pressed flowers and letters. Even the fresh and living freeze into ghosts here. Or maybe they smell the scent of death and turn away from the door, just their shadow which fell on the threshold for a brief while, freezes still, and becomes another memory, another ghost. Maybe its for the best. This was what I had wanted - for a while, at any rate. Some peace and quiet, to mourn my dead. And stay paused in this moment as long as I can. Then, who knows? Maybe the fairytales will come true and we will meet again, live again, in brilliant flights. But for now its just another ordinary, lonely day, for now I must move again
The OST for this post is Goodbye My Lover, by James Blunt. All his songs sound similar, and I dont like this one much song wise, but I love the words.
The OST of this post was initially Wind of My Soul. I will put up the song sometime in the, hopefully not too distant, future. In the meanwhile if anyone should wish to look it up, its from the Almost Famous OST, its called Wind of my Soul, by Cat Stevens. I have the mp3 but no space the upload it, right now
Originally Posted at Prerona.