slowly, life settles into a rythm. Thoughts whizz through my head in crazy non-sequences. On my way to and from work, at lunch break, at night after lights out. Like buzzing flies over a carcass, they are too tiny and too quick to catch in words.
Over the last few weeks, since my re-awakening, so much has happened. Little gifts good, bad and ugly, from everyone all around.
Like never before, I stand at the cross roads. I am so confused that I am frozen numb. As ever, the biggest confusion is about what I want. A dream, versus reality. When they clash, do dreams ever win?
Its strange 'being' after so many years: living in Calcutta, living at home, living amongst people, working offshore, and more.
Had woken up at 5 as usual for Golf. How pretty she looks, waking up slowly, stretching, bit bit, rubbing sleep out of the most beautiful eyes in the world. Magnificiently resplendant Kolkata, stubbornly intellectual Calcutta, unreasonably happy Kolkata, Irresponsibly careless Calcutta.
Seeing it with fresh eyes, after so long, I could see why everyone loves to hate her. Everywhere it dirty, messy, poverty struck ... but everywhere there are people with life spilling out of their eyes, laughing, joking, playing 'life'. So alive ... I have travelled around the world. I have seen many cities. I have fallen in love with many places. But I havent found so much life anywhere.
Went to CRC afterwards. But they wont take on any new people till the state-levels are over. Thats the end of this month. I want to try sculling again. But I'd have to wait till the end of the month.
After golf, came home and rushed off to work. Thought I'll leave early today. Still, it had struck 9 before I could leave. Didnt want to spend 200 bucks on a cab and didnt have the energy to take a bus. Started to walk, but got a 'shuttle' a nice AC Zen.
It rained while i was at work. sometimes, you eel like a butterfly, or moth, tarpped inside a dry glass box looking out into the rain, your heart fluttering against the transparent panes.
As I walk out, alone atlast with the pounding thoughts, with all the issues which need to be resolved, the mysteries that need to be fathomed, the dreams that need to be measured, while walking down to the bus stop, the wind that laughs into my face and playfully tugs my hair in every direction, like Panda gone mad bcz you have come home after ages; the air is cool and a little damp still. The air is scented with the perfume of some evening flower, tastefully delicate.
Out of nowhere, I remember you and how you loved these flowers.
Once again, I am astounded by my immense calm. Or rather, numbness. or maybe, its the same thing. Such vaulting ego's. Such amazing selfish-ness. Such monumental cruelty ... beauty, joy, fun and games (that people play) ... and it all leaves me unmoved. I accept everything. I accept everyone in spite of.
Just once in a while, I think of you. When the wind blows me the fragrance of your favourite flowers, or I see someone who reminds me of you, some loving couple: mother and child. Then hurridly I turn my thoughts away again.
Fleetingly the other option comes to my mind. But I dismiss it as soon as it comes. It would be really cruel. And besides, I dont have the energy left for it.
Soon its night and I am home with them. You must have loved her, and she you. Yet, since you've been gone, its that much harder to keep in mind. So complicated ... why does it always have to be this way? Is that the price of intensity?
Outside my window, the moon is a shyly smiling face. Gently, the wind chimes tinkle, the delicate glass lines still glistening with drops of rain. The stairs to the terrace, taht lead from outside my room, are wet. I am not sure if its because of the rain, or because Ram Da has just been watering the plants. In the other room, Mummy and Munal are arguing and giggling alternately. That days Subala came to my room and said 'didibhai, tomaake Munal-er Ma daakchhe'
... its all about you. Its always all about you.
it's funny, how many people see themselves mirrored in the reflection of your flames in my eyes.
When did I become like this. I am frequently called diplomatic or a hypocrite. I think I am just polite. Is it a bad thing, to care enough to behave nicely with people, to want them to be happy?
I am tired and I want to sleep. But there are so many people I still need to meet, to listen to, to care about; So much I need to think about; so much to read and write about. And tomorrow is another day.
Originally Posted at Prerona.