In the Rain After Three Years

 What is falling in love, really? It's a kind of bug that once it enters someone's head, invites all its bug friends to join the party up there. A whole bunch of bugs get together and have a picnic inside your head all day long. It's quite a raucous affair. Some of the bugs are natural leaders. They keep giving speeches, on and on. What kind of speeches? Well, imagine one bug that flies around all fluttery and excited. It'll say, I like bugs that sway and flutter when they fly. Another one doesn't fly at all, just dozes. That one prefers sleepy, drowsy bugs like itself. Then everyone starts calling over their preferred types of bugs into that same head. What does this mean? If there were 10 bugs before, now there are 10 pairs. Isn't that amusing to think about? Yes, quite amusing! And as the bugs in someone's head enjoy their extended honeymoon day after day, that person's thoughts change along with their head-dwelling bugs. How? Listen to this conversation between one bug and another: "Fried rice?" "No, plain white rice." "Alright then, that's better anyway." Or: "Red?" "No, blue is much nicer!" "What are you saying! Blue? At night?" "Fine, whatever you want then." Or: "Listen, don't fly." "Then what?" "Hop." "Why?" "Because you look good when you hop." "Alright." When bugs enter someone's head, they start liking all the bugs' opinions. They change this way one moment, that way the next. Whether these changes are right or wrong doesn't matter. Their thoughts move along the same path as the bugs. So falling in love is really the feeling of having a bug-infested head.
But boys falling in love and girls falling in love aren't quite the same thing. When a boy falls in love, he announces it himself, but when a girl falls in love, others announce it. Then there are some kinds of love where inside, the heart burns to ashes in love's fierce fire, yet the face shows only detached, ice-cold indifference.
Good?
I'm leaving. Who are you?
Your well-wisher.
I have plenty of those! Introduce yourself properly.
I didn't knock to give introductions.
Then why?
To play you some music.
Not interested.
Really? But I know you are. You're quite curious.
What do you mean?
I already told you—I'll play music for you. Here, listen to this. Let me know if you like it.
Prosun couldn't remember hearing the song before. Usually unfamiliar songs don't make much impression on first listen, but this one did. He should at least give that ID a minimal thank you. He typed "thanks" three times but never sent it. Life is all about backspacing!
I knew there wouldn't be any feedback.
What do you mean? How did you know?
I know you! I could recite the pattern of your blood flow from memory.
Who are you, tell me?
Don't bother knowing! The song pleased you, that makes me happy. Here, take another... actually, I'm giving you two. Listen and see, you'll like them.
You'll like them—how do you know?
I just know. I won't explain that. Call it my guess, or my confidence in understanding you. That's all! Listen. I'm going now.
Don't go, wait! Tell me who you are!
Can't you see—'For Prosun'? That's me! Nothing more.
This is going too far.
I know. So I went a little far! I'm not hurting anyone!
Don't you have anyone else on your list?
Why don't you look and see?
I can't see anything—there's no option to add you, no info at all!
That means I'm only this much! I'll come to your inbox, give you songs, and leave. That's it! Oh, and one more thing I forgot—I read you, I'll keep reading you.
My writing?
Everyone reads that. How many people read you? I read you.
Your words are so confusing! Nothing's getting through to me.
Do you have to understand everything?
What do you mean? What are you trying to say? Speak directly!
I didn't come to say anything directly. I only came to share music. I won't bother you anymore today. I'm giving you 3 more links. Listen to them. Happy listening!
The ID couldn't be found again. Deactivated. That's how it always went. 'For Prosun' would give songs and vanish like the wind. Who was this stranger? Or was it a he? Prosun thought and thought but couldn't figure it out.
Why did you suddenly get angry at women, sir?
Where did I get angry?
Writing like that?
That's exactly how they should be told!
Just because one woman hurt you doesn't mean you've earned the right to hurt all the women in the world with your words! Did I say something wrong?
Less talk would be better! You didn't understand my writing at all!
I humbly disagree, Sir! There are many things in this world I can't understand, I admit, but your writing isn't on that long list! Rather, if someday long after writing something you can't figure out its meaning, if you forget it in time's flow, please give me a knock. I'll tell you what you wrote, why you wrote it, how you wrote it.
Wow! That confident?
Please don't embarrass me by calling me confident! That little word will make me lose my anonymity too! Rather, you could call me a huge part of your mind. The thoughts among yours that remain subconscious—you'll never know them, but I do. That's where I beat you, and that makes me happy!
You're an amazing person!
Not a person—a woman! Hahahaha...
What if I don't accept that?
You will, because deep down that's what you want to believe!
Incredible woman! By the way, you have good taste in music.
I know. How could you escape praising the taste of someone who likes you?
But of the songs you gave me, I'd never heard a single one before. That really amazed me. I thought I'd heard all the good songs!
What are you saying! Is it possible to hear all good songs? Do people live that long? And I can tell which songs you haven't heard but would like if you did.
How?
Like I said—by reading you.
Have you read everything I've written?
Why? Will you test me? No problem. But you probably don't remember everything yourself.
I don't write to remember—I write to keep on Facebook.
I knew some reply like that would come. You know you're quite troublesome? I read your writing over and over, think about you over and over! If God responded to even half of that calling, I'd have met Him long ago!
Don't you have other work? Please tell me who you are! It's getting annoying!
I know it's not really annoying. You're just saying that! Anyway! Today I'm giving 7 links. 4 instrumentals, 3 songs. Today's are from other countries. You'll listen, won't you? Bye-bye.
Gone in an instant. Prosun started listening. No! He hadn't heard any of them before. While listening to them, YouTube's side suggestions led to discovering more good music. Prosun's curiosity kept rising every moment. Who was this girl? Who? Someone who spoke so beautifully, with such excellent taste in songs and instrumentals!
Flower-boy, I sang for you today. Didn't need courage to sing, because even if you don't like the songs, you can't come throttle me! You don't even know my address!
Who's this 'flower-boy'?
Okay, Prosun-babu. Is that better?
Are these your songs?
No, others', I just sang them.
That's what I meant.
I heard something else, only said something else.
You really twist words! Do you study music?
Why, is singing forbidden if you don't study music?
Not that. It just seemed that way from your musical taste and voice.
I'm honored. But I can't treat you, sir. Sorry! See if you've heard these.
Where did you find these old songs?
Why? On YouTube! Did the links go somewhere else?
Not that. But you know how to find these too! Not one of them is disappointing, really! I might fall in love!
With the songs, surely!
What if I said with you?
That's infatuation! Don't worry, it'll pass. Those who make others fall in love rarely fall themselves.
I made someone fall? Who? You? Oh my!
You get happy just hearing that, don't you? Then assume something like that! Your happiness makes me happy!
Why do you need to make me happy?
I do. Because I want to spread my joy to you. After marriage, only Ravi Shankar got to hear Annapurna's sitar, no one else. I want to sing only for you. How will all this happen if you're not happy?
Everything will happen. I want that too. You'll stay by my side as my musical companion for life. Even thinking about it feels wonderful! But will anything happen if you keep hiding like this? Come out a little! Please don't keep hiding yourself!
Listen, Prosun-babu, how much is a lifetime really? Very long? Very short? Who can say? This very moment I'm with you—even if virtually—this too could become a lifetime. Will sleeping today guarantee seeing tomorrow's sun when we wake? Who's sworn to show us? Then what would we call a lifetime anyway? Alright, I'm going today. Mother's calling.
Those words kept spinning in Prosun's head! Such a little girl could speak so beautifully! Wait, how little was she—Prosun didn't even know that. Then why did he feel like calling her little? What if she was older than Prosun? No! How could that be? Prosun listened to the girl's songs. 8 songs total. 5 Bengali classical, 3 Urdu ghazals. That night Prosun couldn't sleep. He listened to each song at least 5 times. The songs completely stunned him. Unless told, it would be impossible to know the voice wasn't Kaushiki's. Prosun was so amazed he searched to see if these songs existed in Kaushiki's voice. Each time he listened, he felt like he was touching each word, each melody. Prosun spent a completely chaotic night!
Have you read the colorful Qudrat on the third shelf of your 18th bookshelf?
Good heavens! How did you describe that so precisely?
I already told you—nothing about you is unknown to me! Everything that's yours is in my head. Absolutely everything! Now tell me, did you read it?
I'll tell you. First you tell me, how are you?
Why would I be bad?
Hey! Did I say that? Can't I even ask?
Not that. It's just the first time this question was asked, that's all! You didn't say whether you read it.
No, haven't gotten around to reading it yet.
When you do read it, let me know how it is, will you? Listen, you have 197 books about music total. How many have you had time and opportunity to read?
Maybe a few. Not many. You seem to be quite a reader.
Some things, not that much. I'm poor, can't afford to buy them. But I was talking about myself, didn't mean anything about you.
Hahahaha... No, don't worry, I won't block you. I couldn't possibly block you.
That's your kindness, sir! But why couldn't you?
You wouldn't understand. Give me your address, I'll send some books I like. Just return them after reading.
Nice trick, but old. I expected something new from you. Anyway! Not giving songs today. Giving some interviews of composers and artists. Listen to them, they'll help with your writing. How were yesterday's songs?
How should they have been?
I won't say that. One request—whether you love me or not, never take away my opportunity to offer my love's devotions, okay?

I promise, I'll drift far, far away before you grow weary of me. Couldn't sing much today, sent you six songs. I'm leaving now. Good night.
Prosun was moving through dizzy, dream-like moments every day. Every few minutes he'd check his inbox to see if she had knocked. Waiting for her songs and links, a strange addiction to her had awakened within him. Her existence or non-existence was simply a Facebook ID. Was she anyone at all, or no one? How could he find her, how could he at least know her name? Prosun spent his moments like a madman, thinking these thoughts.
Have you noticed what state you've put your body in?
Oh, it's you!
Were you expecting someone else, perhaps?
You should know!
That's exactly why I'm not leaving. I'll flee long before I become unwanted. Listen, babusaheb, wouldn't it be good to eat properly? Writing through the night is all well and good. But your body needs to stay fit for that too. I know you're not thinking this is overstepping, so I spoke freely without fear. So, what are you reading these days?
I'm reading Rabindranath's biography.
Prashanta Kumar Pal's?
No, Prabhat Kumar Mukhopadhyay's.
I see. I've read Prashantababu's. Written with such labor. Salute to the gentleman's patience!
What do you mean! All nine volumes?
How else could one read it?
Do you love Rabindranath that much?
How can one not love him? Rabindranath is the sixth basic need of Bengalis! You know, the way they've started taking liberties with Rabindranath's songs in movies these days, it makes me so angry. Some things are sinful to change. Rabindrasangeet is one of them.
Ah, but it's good! Fusion of Rabindrasangeet is happening. Can't it?
It can, but not by distorting the melody. Why would you have Linkin Park sing 'Bhalobese Sakhi Nibhrito Jatane'? Do they have anything private? Everything about them is public. What would they understand about privacy, tell me?
But does that mean Rabindranath must remain forever on a sage's pedestal? So what if the tune shifts a little! No one's singing to dishonor him. Read Nirad C. Chaudhuri's 'Atmaghati Rabindranath.' We're turning Rabindranath into a sage and letting his writer-self disappear.
Nirad C. Chaudhuri's excessiveness has always been excessively excessive. I won't debate with you today. Exam tomorrow at ten, it's two now, haven't studied anything yet. I'm leaving today. You hadn't come to Facebook for three days, so the songs have really piled up. Sending twenty-one. Recorded them with great effort. Don't delete them from your laptop without listening! Good night.
Prosun and 'Aparichita's' undefined love continued this way. For the first time in his life, Prosun was maintaining daily contact with someone he didn't know at all, yet who knew everything about him very well. Even though this was happening to him, Prosun couldn't believe it. Prosun had his own rules about maintaining contact with people. He had given one year, seven months, and seventeen days to a girl who matched those rules the least. Yet he never learned anything about the girl. This was so unlike him! The girl was even more than Prosun had always imagined his beloved to be! At some point, Prosun started addressing the girl as 'tumi.' Despite many requests, the girl refused to address Prosun as 'tumi.' The later conversations became quite long.
One day.
When you girls fall in love, you love hiding yourselves so much. Your life may end, but you won't open your mouth. The attitude is such—what if he drives me away if I say I love him! What's the point of loving in your heart, tell me? Tell this one, tell that one, but don't tell the one you actually love. Some of you don't tell anyone anything. One can see you've fallen in love, but if asked, you'll say, "No, no, my face has just been looking like the in-love type lately. What can I do?" You love in your own mind, burn to ashes inside, but never say it even once. I loved, but the one I loved never knew, didn't even know of my existence—such love is not love at all, it's disaster. Sometimes such love deceives oneself, deceives the beloved too. Now tell me, why are you even assuming I'll reject you? Maybe I'm like you too—my heart breaks with tears, but I can't say anything either. Couldn't that be?
I've accepted such love. If one loves, must one have the beloved? This daily offering of love that fills your heart—is this nothing? Why must love be self-serving? Selfless love has much more purity. This closeness we share—you staying with an unknown person like me day after day—we're so close that this closeness can't be touched, but can be felt more intensely than touch itself. To me, this is love, this is affection. Why must one say "I love you" when in love? Why drag oneself from behind the veil to the front?
Listen, all those grand words of yours only suit book pages. Such love only increases mental illness. I've seen so many loves lost to the ego of "why should I speak first"! One-sided suppressed love is as meaningless as a beautiful woman's heart-stealing silent gentle smile in a pitch-dark room trying to impress someone. The burning and burden of such love sometimes has to be carried lifelong. It's better to say "I love you." If she turns away then, one can think of other things. In such constant coming and going, love fades somewhat over time—the death of aimless love saves life—therefore, may good come quickly! How long does one-sided habituation in love survive anyway? It dies. Saying "I love you" may not bring as much happiness, but there's relief! They say peace is better than happiness. I say relief is even better than peace. Love that consumes all of life's essence—allowing such love to grow only in the mind causes severe mental illness. Only one person suffers from that illness. Maybe the other knows nothing of this, sometimes doesn't even know they need to know. One-sided love, one-sided disaster, one-sided agony, one-sided dream. Meaningless!! Absolutely meaningless!! Why should I destroy myself for you? Who the Hell are you? Your love is an extremely sick kind of love. You may be very well with it, but you're not letting me be well. You're very happy sharing your favorite things with me. If you really loved, you'd share your sorrows too. But I never see you speak of your pain. Yet I understand very well that you're not well. You have many kinds of illnesses, all mental. You're making me sick daily with the virus of your illness! This is not fair! You're just pathetic! I won't stay in this address-less, rhythm-less, destination-less relationship anymore. From today you'll be as you are, I'll be as I am. Enough is enough!
Look, I know love is a kind of habit. It's better to remove oneself before that habit completely destroys oneself. Love is a good thing, but living healthily is an even better thing. Love that's like death—living with such love and dying are the same thing. Must one love for life just because one loved once? Even if one doesn't receive love? Doesn't one-sided love eventually dull feelings? Is love slavery? I'll die, but I'll keep jumping into love's fire. I'll keep this love alive even by destroying myself—this is insect philosophy. Why should humans live by insect philosophy? Right, you're right. I accept everything. But I've become helpless today. I don't seek shelter from you, Prosun-babu. I only seek a little refuge in your inbox. Please don't drive me away. You don't need to reply to my messages, don't even need to see them. I just want to live with this feeling—that I'm close to my most beloved person, nothing more. I have no other wealth in life except you. If this goes, I won't live anymore.
After some more words, the conversation stopped completely.
Time passes. When people grow tired of moving with time's current, they sometimes look back. They ruminate on old happy moments, filling themselves with a kind of pleasure. Three years later, on a rain-soaked evening, when oriental instruments were merging with coffee steam in the garden shade, Prosun suddenly felt like taking a walk on memory's veranda. Tearing a page from his diary to write and then tear up and throw in water, he began writing.
I never learned her name. She had an address, but didn't give it. "I won't tell you who I am. Never." She never told. To me she was simply a Facebook ID. Yet, couldn't her feelings ever be grasped? I would keep her affection within myself. She read my writings. She would read each letter several times over. She loved every letter I wrote. I never found such a reader again. Did I ever love my own writings as much? I wrote many pieces just for her during that time. She knew everything, could understand my heart. She could effortlessly say many things in my mind before I spoke them. At first I would try to find explanations for this. My body and mind would be completely possessed by an inexplicable mystery then. Later I didn't try, out of fear. She often said, "I can't give you anything, so I send you the songs I like, I send you my voice, my most precious thing, for you." Yes, she would send me her favorite songs and instrumentals. I still haven't found anyone with such impossibly wonderful taste. There wasn't a single song she chose that I didn't like.
I love floating in melodies. Every day she would carry me away on new tunes. Her free movement through Bengali and other languages' songs and melodies—I never saw even a trace of poor taste there. She would say, "I love you because you love music. Even if nothing else, I love your writing, so you can love me at least for that, can't you? Why must you know me, hmm?" From a strangely named ID matching my name, she would contact me through inbox. Every day she'd recommend at least five songs/instrumentals, would sing and send songs herself. I would wait with eager anticipation for her melodies. When I didn't write for a few days, she would say, "You will write."
"Write whatever you need to, however it comes to you. I'll arrange it in my own way and read it through. If I can't read your writing, I simply can't breathe—I lose the very oxygen I need to survive." I knew that what I wrote amounted to nothing much. Yet for someone like her—such an unfamiliar stranger—to say even that much to me meant everything! Sometimes I would write just for her. The nobility of her thoughts and her extraordinarily refined taste moved me deeply! In her I could see Mujtaba's Shabnam, I could find Sunil-Shankha's Marguerite, and I could discover my Shatabdi completely!
This was how things continued. But she would never reveal herself, never told me anything about who she was. I asked for her number—she wouldn't give it. Never even told me her name. But she would talk, tell stories from the realm of arts. She understood art in a way I'd never encountered before with any girl—whether met or unmet. She read voraciously. Watched good films. And music—well, that goes without saying! I had never seen anyone else lose themselves in melody the way she did. Only one thing I couldn't bear—her hiding herself away. In such cases, I never continue chatting, never. But I couldn't let her go. She was like an addiction to me. So I kept her on that list—the list that carries no obligations of rules or convention. And she was the sole inhabitant of that list. Even now, no one else has joined her there.
Then suddenly one day, something snapped! I could no longer accept her staying hidden like this. Despite all my countless pleas, when she refused as always to reveal her identity, I behaved terribly—far, far too harshly. I wrote and sent whatever came to my mind. I was absolutely awful to her in those messages. Yet even after all that, I never saw her get angry! It was I who lost my temper and wrote such hurtful things, blow after blow! Even now, thinking of those words fills me with regret. She kept saying, whatever I did, please don't block her. She couldn't survive without reading my writing. Her habit of sharing the songs she loved with me—in her own voice or others'—this habit was what kept her alive each day. If I could just let her live, even in non-existence! I refused to listen to any of it. In rage and wounded pride, I blocked her. Long afterward, I searched for that account. No—I couldn't find her anymore. My musical, temperamental friend had vanished somewhere!
Even now, my feelings for her remain as they were that day. Do hers remain too? They shouldn't, really!
Friend, please forgive me. I often think of you and feel remorse. Only ego kept me from ever asking forgiveness! Today I'm asking. If you loved me even a little, please forgive me.
.......he wrote, folded the paper with great care, then tore it into tiny pieces and flung them into the rain-soaked wind! The speaker was then playing Prosun's beloved seventh instrumental from Shatabdi.