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?”
