For days now I've been catching the sharp scent of winter. Rather than savoring this joy alone, I told Malati Pishi, "Winter's here, can you see it!" She immediately shot back, "'Nonsense! The fan's still running full blast and we're still paying those summer electricity bills; and you're saying it's gotten cold!'"
I didn't bother to argue further. What's the point of discussing the pleasures of winter with someone who measures its arrival by fan bills? Those who can't even see nature changing her sari before everyone's eyes—discarding her sun-bleached, frayed-edged cloth to drape herself fresh and proper in new attire—what could I possibly say to them?
Here I am, sitting down to write at two in the morning. Why? Because words are mingling and creating a commotion in my head. Do writers understand the torment that comes from being possessed by unexpected writing? My eyes were heavy with sleep, so I made some tea. Without tea, I couldn't have written a thing. What agony I'm in! I can't even remember what I sat down to write; what I am writing brings no relief either. With this restless heart, where can I escape to—can anyone give me directions?
Tomorrow morning, after my bath, I'll dry my hair and wear that queen-pink georgette I've kept stored away for so long. I'll paste a large round black bindi on my forehead to match the sari, and tuck tuberose garlands in my hair bun—that's it. Tomorrow's my day off. I'll wander around to my heart's content.
Oh, right—I'd asked them to get Ashapurna Devi's 'Pratham Pratishruti' at Sanchita Library. That'll be my excuse for going out! I just finished Suchitra Bhattacharya's 'Haay Prem.' I keep thinking, at day's end, it's all love... alas, love!
After typing on my phone for so long, I'm forgetting how to write with pen and paper. Well, how would it feel to write today? Everyone's fast asleep like logs right now. The wild habit of writing by hand, that rustling sound, the crooked beauty of letters... I haven't tasted any of this for ages.
I'm really enjoying writing today. I feel like pasting the entire world into this single piece of writing. Such royal silence, sacred solitude, dark muteness—like food stored in a bronze bowl, I want to spill all my stored secrets into this one piece of writing today.
I feel as if someone is sitting with one leg crossed over the other, watching me write. Pouring and sipping strong liquor-laced tea from a flask every so often, preparing to say something to me.
Clearing his throat, this short-statured man says in a deep voice, "What are you looking at, Nil? Your job is to write, so keep writing in your own way. Whatever you can, however much you can, keep writing. In your absence, these very letters will bear witness to your presence. So write... let the pen flow... don't stop... Nilima Das, you write. It's possible that when this spell breaks, you'll enter another world! It's quite possible that this plain, rambling writing might be Nilima Das's last piece!"