It has rained atleast twice already, this year, but this was my first big storm. I was alone at home, Sunday evening, when suddenly the wind picked up and went crazy. I ran upstairs to the terrace, and the in that short space of time, it had already started pouring. The air was filled with the dry smell of the soil, the wet smell of the flowers, the grumbling of the Thunder, the flashes of Lightning and the constant roar of the water as it poured down. I was soaked to the skin.
Every other sound was drowned. It made you feel insulated, alone, again. Safe. Cold. It came, two days too late. Nevermind.
In the morning, we went to the Bagan Bari at Sonarpur. I didnt want to go, as usual, but was dragged into it by Mom. There, fed the ducks and ate thick slices of roughmade bread with butter and sugar, crudely toasted. We fished, Hung around. Took snaps. And it rained.
Somehow, when it really rains down hard, noone is around to be there with you. Which is perhaps a good thing. Came home and lazed around till it stormed in the evening. Got drenched on the terrace, ate dinner from the all new Azad Hind opposite our place. And started a blog for Barbie
Downloaded music. Uploaded the Sonarpur snaps. Posted a new poem on Choc-Amer and went back to bed, the Tropic of Capricorn, and Sky Gazing.
The stars gleamed as if freshly polished from the rain. The sky blushed silently after the storm. The windchimes giggled in the corners of the room. The air was still damp.
There's this Sunday evening feeling. A reluctant, hesitant, dragging back to reality. I dont feel like going back to work. Couldnt I spend my whole life like this ... a life long Sunday doing nothing much, just pottering about the house, cleaning out everyone's cupboards and making tea and stories for everyone and anyone who'll stop a minute.
Now, listening to Ishq Hota Nehi and trying to understand why. It feels strange, yet like a dull ache that has settled, I have grown used to it and quite like it; and I cling to it possessively. Like other things, being used and betrayed and left behind, is something you get used to, I suppose.
Adit came over after work. We read back-copies of magazines and drooled over the models together. And bitched about life. and each other. Do relationships ever get this way? Like these age old friendships you cant remember time before? Like old, faded, soft cotton t-shirts you can wear without them feeling like a foreign skin on yours?
Chatts is in Bombay. I was wrong. Its cool. We're cool. Alls cool. Will survive ;). Love you Babes. All the best.
Juls called to meet up but we couldnt.
Another old friend - a ghost from the past. And another, ex-soul-mate and ex-soul; I have so many. One was wonderfully wonderful. And the other, I eagerly look forward to. Its a strangely ethereal feeling, meeting long ago friends - like cleaning old cupboards you havent touched in years. You find bits and pieces of yourself that you had forgotten that you had ever had. If I could find all the bits and piece them together, would the collage make 'me'? Would I recognise 'Her'.
Feels strange to think of myself as 'Her'. I never have. I 'Am', that is all. In my dreams and visions, I ride Horses with Stetsons, Dance in the desert, or fight with swords, flying through the air. Or stand, old and wise, sillouted against the sunset, having just passed an ultimatum to a young Turk. Yeah ... silly. But what the hell, just a dream, man!
Also strange being home again. I feel like I just came. Or having come, just woke from the Coma of transition. It hurts a bit to be alone, but you feel so awake. I know why people sometimes, or somewhere, bleed themselves to their senses.
Before every parting I tense in anticipation, I always have. Like your body tenses before you jump into an unknown ice cold pool. You dont know for sure, but you think its going to be nasty. But when it comes up to greet you, and you are swallowed up in it, after the first shock, it never hurts at all. It passes and you wallow in the water as pleasantly as you stood on the land with the air sweeping fragrantly around you. A part of you dies. A part of you comes alive. You learn this early, when you have grown up playing passing the parcel. The parcel learns quick not to hold any hand too fast, and to hold the new hand fast, fast.
I downloaded a lot of Bengali and Hindi music today. MGG, etc. Mom bought me a lot of new Salwar Kameez sets to wear to work. It still feels strange to be wearing Salwars after so long. And so much more.
I feel like going for a drive. Long drive. In Texas, With someone at the drivers seat, someone who wont ask questions, or make conversation, or want music. Just listen to the wind whispering to the car, as it hurles itself into the night, in a long drawn screech. I feel like sitting motionless, zombie like, in some strange position, and just sit like that, silently, in the midst of life all around me. I feel like letting my mind wander aimlessly, like trickling water falling between my fingers, or the breeze; aimlessly.
Its raining again here in Calcutta. But it's late, and noone up to see, or keep company.
Originally Posted at Prerona.