He was staring at the slick streets through the break of car wipers. They ferociously tried to keep the downpour off windshield. Stay focussed, Tanmay reminded himself again. It seemed, the wiper was at fault for all this, for his losing focus, as the world outside vanished for long seconds behind a cascade of water and thoughts. Finally, Tanmay gave up, and let his focus wander. His grip on the wheel became heavier. And his shoulders drooped some more. There was no where to go. So where was the hurry? Tanmay didnt remember how long he had been in the car, slipping through the watery city. The warm car and the chassis-deep drone quietened the weird dream he had been having. He could almost laugh at himself. But by the time he recognized the iron gate and the security guards and the apartment lobby, fresh memory hurt again, like no dream can. He was left searching for a meaning to go back to his own flat. When he finally found the key and slipped it into the key hole, the numbness came back. A soft, reassuring click of the key turning in the lock. The door moves back so smoothly that he blinks at it for a moment before dragging himself in.
Silent posts
April 12. 2010 – May 18, 2011. Some silences have more meaning than any sound can convey. Silences are not to be confused with blank periods. Far from it. What happens during a long pause is any body’s guess. So, to cut a long silence short, April 12, 2010 to May 18, 2011 was a long period of silence when the blogger of Unborn disappeared from blogosphere, without any commitment to return, ever. Even the blogger had no knowledge when they would return. Or, if. Compared to all the other posts on this blog, the silence seems the most interesting, for the sheer number of things it could mean. Did the blogger get tired of posting things no body was dying to read, and returned hurt? Probable, because it happens too often in this crowded nebula of posts. Did the blogger run out of interesting subjects or just lost direction in life and gave up? Yes, could be. Successful blogs usually have a clear purpose, as it is a little difficult to keep up readers’ interest without a bigger key interest than the blogger themselves. Of course it is different with the aimless ramblings of say Aamir Khan or J Lo. People lick those morsels of scrumptious nothing like pet pugs. But before long, even celeb blogs slow down, sputter and stop, belly up. Coming back to what may have happened to Unborn, it could be none of them, or all. But I have a theory. Suppose, the blogger never stopped posting on Unborn. Instead they continued to send silent posts into the blogosphere, for every one of the 400 days. Talking informally about all the things that happen, events, accidents, joys, unions, surprises, tears, scenes, words, actions… except that these things happened in a way that words can’t describe. So, the loud, long silent blogs. For any one to read, understand and share, in silence.
NOTHING PERSONAL AGAINST SUMMER
IT’S SUMMER. For all. The scabby, four legged friend on the street. Its human rag picking companions. Or, the owner of the perfectly manicured hands impatiently drumming on the BMW steering wheel. Stock still traffic. The heat, it rings in your ears like a drone. But summer only thinks it’s for everybody. it’s really not for those off to South African vacation egged by an intelligent ad. You dont even have to switch hemispheres to find winter. Air Conditioned world at home, work, shopping, and the road in between. If you can afford it, you can even choose your climate. Poor Summer. The great leveller, it is not.
Numb, Number, Numbest
How many times I had looked at the number saved in my mobile and remembered with a twinge of regret that I had not called her for ages. Yet, it would have to be another time when I could ring her. Sometime when we could have a long heart to heart sisterly talk. How thrilled she would be then. And deafen my ears with her cheer-bursting “Ki re….?!” (Heyyyy?!)
-Kotodin por!! (After such a long time!)
- Ki Khobor ? (How are you? )
- Bhalo, bhalo, tui bol! ( Fine, fine, you tell me)
And all the while, our happiness and missing each other would tightly wound itself around us, pulling us from the two ends of the long distance call, a thread so taut, you could hear its low hum in the back ground . A sad monotone of longing. How long it had been since we had last met, at whose wedding was it now? The words we speak do not matter. It is the voice. Her voice would drape her chiffon and sparkling danglers and slip on the lovely sandals from Gariahat and come out to dance with me madly before plopping down on the bed, laughing, sending a pillow flying or scaring away the cat may be. Her voice has so much life and joy that nothing can remain the same after you hear it. Even speaking to her on the cell, I could feel the room change out of the corner of my eye. The window was now larger, letting in more light and a breeze. The traffic sounded farther away, like rushing water. News, of course we would share. Eagerly, ernestly, desperately. Afterall, only a sister can share the burden of a sister’s heart. Was she still doing that job? Would I be home for the Pujas? Was she there at another cousin’s wedding I missed? Was I seeing any guy? Was she enjoying being married?
“Never get married, Bb!” she would suddenly crush the bubble. “Oh, Bb, I’ve made such a mistake!”
For a moment even the hum of our longing would be dead silent. Then I would remember in a stroke of practical wisdom that all married sisters and girl friends were wont to advise against marriages. And all unmarried sisters and girlfriends would be wise to ignore it as a tired wive’s loving rebuke at life. At 30, I was no longer going to take it as seriously as i had done till now! Love can be a tiresome game I know, so tell me sister, about your big and small troubles. Husband keeping more busy than he should? Bad for his health? Interfering in-laws? Rising Prices? No? Darker problems? Tell me about them. There cannot be a bruise on your heart that I would not try to heal with warm sighs and tears. Remember how you could tell me, and no other living soul, about your heartbreaks and teen age anxieties. And while no one saw, I snatched every word from you like a shimmering treasure before it was lost in the darkeness of our secret terrace. Remember how, only after you had poured and poured, sister to sister, beaker to beaker, that your heart would resume beating again. And we would both return to the world, sadder, wiser and cozier in the security of having a listener. So tell me now. Yes, I am sorry I delayed in calling you up. But now I am all ears. Don’t remain silent. Don’t keep so quiet. I am asking you to tell me. What is this hum? Why is this hum so loud? Where are you gone? Has the line got disconnected? Sister. Sister? Hallo? Hallo? Hallo? Hallo?
August 15, 2008.
it’s exactly a year since you died. And every day I have remembered and wanted to call. You. And then ruthlessly reminded I could save myself the trouble. Why didnt you tell me? Why didnt I just break that choking cheerfulness of yours behind which you hid pain, violence, mistrust, a toxic life. Till it scorched you right away from our middle. Look, I am hoarse from killing my scream everyday.
Your number is still saved in my mobile. Liquid crystal shadow digits that I look at like they are clues to some weird logic behind life’s loss. Calling a dead sister. Huh. To play some agony aunt and save you from the brink, the ultimate mistake. Oh, many thanks for your sweet gesture, but services not required. But. I still know you would have unburdened yourself to me and only me. And then? And then, things would turn out different. You never spoke, getting muffled by the quicksand you were sinking in every passing day. And I remained blissfully unaware, waiting for a better time to call and ask you, “How’s life, sister?”
