Thought: Fifty.
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A word’s meaning depends upon the craft of its application. The same word appears in different senses within the same bodily frame. What manner of thing is this? Both word and body are sometimes not merely ambiguous, but manifold in meaning. Their color shifts from place to place, from thought to thought. Consider how people say “achcha”—this very word can be spoken in so many ways, can’t it? “Achcha, is that so? Achcha, I too will go there. Give him a proper scolding.” And so much more! The speaker knows. And in the use of the same body, some find the soul, some find only flesh, some find nothing at all—mere habit. The same body reveals itself in different meanings to different people in different circumstances.
Why do such thoughts arise? Everything has its limitations. Conceptual or practical—be it word or body. On some lips or pens, words play ceaselessly as if they had no end. Marvelously fluid, gifted, spontaneous. Some bodies too float with such easy current throughout life. Then again, for some, all application seems exceedingly brief, limited, restrained—whether in words or bodily grammar. This is their incapacity; often self-determined, self-imposed. When one must float not from delusions of grandeur but from the necessity of survival in the fierce tide of desire’s ocean, how can they survive by binding themselves only to the ebb’s pull? Such ebb inevitably summons their death.
These days, my bed feels like my closest companion. I’ve always had few people I could truly call close. And those who remain—I can’t always go to them! Even when it comes to making a phone call, an infinite hesitation takes hold of my mind, wondering whether calling would be appropriate or not, and in all that deliberation, the call never gets made. I’m not much of a phone person anyway, but when even those one or two people I could call without hesitation become sources of anxiety that push me away, then there’s really no one left to call. The phone in my hand might as well be a thousand miles away. Everyone in that contact list remains equally unknown to me. But my bed is my truest intimate—there I can roam freely whenever and however I please, my unrestrained refuge. These days, apart from the little time I spend outside, nearly all my hours are passed in that sanctuary. The ‘me’ that used to drive me through time and circumstance has somehow vanished! Or perhaps changed beyond recognition? I can no longer find that self as I once did, so wrapped in quilts and cushions, I too disappear bit by bit, cheating time. This disappearing, this swimming against time’s current, this performance of keeping myself hidden—all of it is nothing but an arrangement for gradually destroying myself. I know this might be what they call depression, and I feel it even more acutely—this is a kind of murder, a torment more intense than suicide itself. I think to myself: the life in which I’ve left my body, what use could it be to anyone else, let alone to me? Who is affected by my presence or absence? What I did or didn’t do—what meaning does any of it hold? Such a meaningless existence is mine! In a life that has no value, wouldn’t it be better to end that life rather than keep hiding oneself within it? I may disappear this way, and I have no objection to that, but let me at least write down my thoughts. I want to write so many things, but I can’t—everything just becomes blurred, constantly blurred! This is how my hours pass, how I let them pass. I tend to my emotions and affections with such great care, so much so that I sell my own well-being for the price of theirs. Whatever has stood as obstacles in my life, I’ve carelessly abandoned so much of it! I’ve kept moving forward constantly. I’ve always believed that whatever holds you back must be released. I’ve protected that goodness by resisting all obstacles, let go of so many friends—today I can’t even remember them all. The person who never had any enemies now finds people ready to criticize. The threads of trust-bound relationships have snapped, bonds have unraveled in confusion. All in service of that affection, nothing else. Yet at day’s end I am empty, while all around me I hear the conch shells of fulfillment. Everyone has moved ahead—time and relationships advance with them. Wrapped in a handful of warmth within a gray shroud, only I remain alone, solitary, shelterless.
I spent my life smiling and forgetting, mistaking my voluntary exile to the distant island of affection for dwelling in affection’s home!
Thought: Fifty-one.
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From class seven onward, I was responsible for all household expenses—I mean, how much money would be spent on what, how it would be spent, why it would be spent, and so on and so forth. I was the youngest of all, but I showed the most authority! I have always tried to stay on the side of what’s “right” and want to drag others kicking and screaming onto this path too. I can never be at peace with injustice. If I ever find myself unable to understand what’s right, I remove myself from the situation or simply wait. I managed all household expenses very carefully, never allowing anyone to spend money unnecessarily. Though sometimes I myself end up spending quite a bit under various pretexts, I have a special reputation in the family as a “miser.” Compared to everyone else in the house, I spend the least. When we go shopping, I have terrible fights with Mother! The fight is the reverse of what you’d expect—Mother keeps saying “buy this, buy that, buy this too!” while I keep saying “no no no…!” The shopkeepers gape at this mother-daughter spectacle.
But even with all this penny-pinching, it didn’t help much. Long before the month ended, our money would reach near-empty levels. I’d worry about how we’d get through the month and scold everyone in the house equally—it’s because they’re spending money needlessly that all our money runs out. To dispel this anxiety, I’d do something. Studying was terribly difficult; since I was in school then, exams were always looming. Cleverly, I’d think about how many days were left until the next exam—that way the time seemed much shorter. I mean, suppose there were ten days left in the month and twelve days until the exam. Whenever I thought, “There are still teeeeen whole days left in the month!—how will we manage with so little money for so long?”… that’s when I’d think about the exam! Then those ten days felt like two! And when I worried about the exam—”Only twelve days! How will I finish all my studies!?”… that’s when I’d think about the monthly expenses, and immediately time would expand—then those twelve days felt like twenty-two. What relief! Having courage in your heart makes it easier to study for exams. Hahahaha… Now there are no more exams. When money runs out before month’s end, I can’t find any excuse to shrink the days! Money finished means money finished, period. One of life’s most painful feelings is this ‘money finished’ sensation. Either go without eating, or arrange for money—there’s nothing to be done in between……. There’s no one to ask me how I’m doing, so I ask myself. “How are you?” “Health-wise I don’t feel OK, and dress-wise… let’s talk about that later!”
Thought: Fifty-two.
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A delectable poem-particle—of summer.
In this terrible heat—
While bathing……..
Today, water too was spent—
Far too much…….
O Nature! Don’t mind please!
I am really sorry……!!
I promise—
Some winter noon…….
I’ll pay back the water……..
After not bathing for two consecutive days…..!!
Didn’t like that? Okay, fine, you must bathe regularly, thinking—that way, it won’t just work, it’ll run! If not for yourself, then at least for your friends, keep the bathing proper, how about that? Ish! Why so much attitude? Don’t puff up your nose, I’m telling you—I’ll grab you right up and stuff you into a bottle! You’ll become a bottle-ghost. Did you get angry? What will it take to break your anger? You’re not here in front of me, so I can’t grab and shake you to break your anger. Will poetry work? Okay, here, take another one—I’m giving it, but rather than arguing whether this is poetry or prose at all, whatever it is, writing something is easier…….no, I won’t write, I mean, I’ve written, but I’m not giving it. Your anger will just go away on its own. Because, even if you do get angry, I know there’s not an ounce of affection in that anger. Anger that has no affection in it—both its legitimacy and permanence are very little.
I feel a strong urge—to touch the warm breath of a beloved mind. A prayer………may people truly understand, truly comprehend genuine human love for other humans. False love—may they understand it falsely, may they comprehend it falsely. Let love come to the body through the mind, not become body and then false mind. In love, there will certainly be touch—but let the habit of that touch belong first to the mind. May people, by loving other people, remain well themselves, and keep their beloved well too. Along with that, may love itself also remain well. Prayer ends. Applause………
Thought: Fifty-three.
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Life is far too complex—so much so that this innocent word ‘complex’ is no longer able to bear the burden of this complexity—new words are needed. Who made the Bengali word in such simple three letters! The construction of ‘complex’ should have been in a more complex manner. At this four-thirty in the night, thinking about life’s complexity, I myself seem very complex. Surely, the phone won’t ring with messenger’s cring-cring, no one sends me texts—yet why do these hungry eyes stay glued to the phone all the time, I have no explanation for that. Sometimes I actually like keeping my dear mind restless. I do it, I let my dear person know, I torment them. If the desire to share thoughts anytime is rudeness—then I am rude indeed. What else can be done? Sometimes I think—in this world, love alone is false. Again, sometimes I think—everything in this world is false, except love alone. Though I don’t believe any of this and know very well that believing such things is sinful, still, something in the depths gives a twist…..whether I’m nurturing that very fear of the duet between world and love deep inside! I often think, life is a collection of several off-topics, nothing more. Life has no grandeur, all of life’s grandeur is imposed. Life’s meaning is living—whether in love-fullness or love-lessness. Whatever is beyond life’s discussion, all of that is life’s most inseparable accompaniment. Whatever we may think, life is like none of it, life is simply like life…….I don’t feel like writing anymore, my mind is in some sort of state!
Thought: Fifty-four.
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“Excuse me, could you take a picture?” “Oh sure! Why not?” Since I’m incapable of existing without a smile, I beam at this complete stranger with a radiant grin, striking poses in all colors and styles. And he keeps clicking away, one after another…click click click!! His girlfriend standing beside him is glaring at me with daggers in her eyes. I glance her way but don’t really see. Her eyes are saying, “What’s this now? Are there no other boys left in the world? Why must you need mine?” Oh, you simple, naive little girlfriend! How do I explain to this girl: “It’s precisely your boyfriend that I need! No one else will do at all—I need only yours.” Since I usually wander alone on special occasions, I can’t ask boys who are roaming around in packs to take pictures. The whole thing would be both embarrassing and risky. Even two or three friends together—no, that won’t work either, because even if I look like the ugliest girl in the world to them, they might still chase after me, if only for sport! The urge to pursue feminine posteriors is a powerful urge—many boys simply cannot resist it. Dashing types won’t work either, not if they act pretentious! I’m not the sort of girl who tolerates pretense; if necessary, I won’t take a single picture in my entire lifetime. Scatterbrained types…what if they run off with the camera! Then what? Oh my goodness!
Here we go! Now it’s the ladies’ turn. A bunch of girls together—”Could you please take a picture of us?” They’ll start looking at each other as if figuring out exactly who among the ten will take the photo is some kind of difficult maze. A puzzle destined never to be born or solved! Two or three ordinary girls—”Could you take a picture, please?”… OK… Click click!! I’m in the photo, along with someone else’s free hand, leg, or head! Now, an aunty type. Click click… I’m there, my picture is fine, but the very thing I wanted to photograph with—that alone is missing! Now some stylish or fashionable lady. One click, plz!? Yehhh… Click click… She’s taking the picture with such affected airs, as if—standing on the other side of the camera isn’t me, but some handsome young man! If she can’t show off to that young man, not a single grain of rice will digest in her stomach for a month—it’ll all stay in lumps just like that inside her belly. Tremendous agony! Ugh ugh ugh…!! So, couples are the best! But among couples, it’s the guy, not the girl! The girl often takes sloppy pictures! One girl doesn’t know how to take a good picture of another girl, or doesn’t want to. Looking through the camera, the moment she sees that the girl on the other side looks fantastic, she deliberately tilts the camera a bit and quickly fires off a few perfunctory clicks. And the guy (ah, what a good boy he is!) takes pictures very carefully, mixing in the sweetness of his heart! If unfortunately his girlfriend looks (even) uglier than me—then he’s done for! The poor thing can’t even dare to glance at me a second time—not when he has a girlfriend with him! The guy keeps fuming inside. All boys feel utterly helpless when they go out with their girlfriends or wives. Completely playing the saint, casting a kind of fake ‘disgustingly intolerable’ look at all the beautiful women in the world, they have to tread carefully like domesticated animals. Hahahaha… I feel tremendously happy-happy having been able to write this. I feel like I should be given several Nobel Prizes for writing this! In my joy, I feel like combing my hair. Speaking of which, you know, I’m the only member of the entire female race who never combs her hair! Isn’t that amusing?
Thought: Fifty-five.
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Heyyy listen! Come quickly. Quick quick!
What, tell me! I’m working…
Ah! Come here!
Just tell me, what? Do you need something? Can’t you remember to take everything before going to shower? What would you do if I weren’t here? Who would you yell at from the bathroom before you got married?
What happened? Why are you babbling so much? I don’t need anything, brother, just come here!
What? What’s the problem? Why do you torment me so? What’s happened?
Nothing. Just put this on for me!
Ugh! Can’t you apply it yourself even once!? I won’t be able to. Let my whole body crack! Let it crack and bleed! That would be very good.
I could! But you’ve spoiled my habits! (Delightedly!) Put the lotion on me, sweet baby!
Hmm, I made a mistake. I’ve spoiled you with all my affection and made you helpless.
Now, pay the price for my mistake!
Must I pay this price my whole life!?
If I remain alive…….
(Holding tight and covering the mouth before the whole sentence could escape) Aiiiiii shhhh! What are you saying? Just because I spoke that way, did it hurt you?
Hmm…….
Oh my poor darling! I won’t say it anymore, never again. Absolute promise! What do you mean ‘if I remain alive,’ baby? What are you saying? Where will you go, leaving me behind? Hmm? Who will apply lotion for you there? If you leave, whom will I apply lotion for? With whom will I quarrel?
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Behind the veil: embracing each other, kiss upon kiss, bathing together in the salt-water of tears of joy…….then…….bathing again!
(Ahhh! False dreams of happiness around the beloved…….alas, how many people like me, having nothing, still know how to float in the bliss of having everything!)
Reflection: Fifty-six.
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Love has three stages……
In the beginning, love is fluttering; it comes, but doesn’t stay—that type…..for this kind of love—one cannot sacrifice much…..
At some point, love—begins to deepen…For this love, one wants to abandon even the oldest and most trusted things in the world……. religion, society, family, everything……all of it……
Sometimes, love—becomes so profound……then, for love—the very idea of ‘giving up’ something seems trivial!……Then love reaches such a stage—where love itself grants everything else permission to leave……it no longer keeps the option of making anything else sacrifice for its sake……
This third kind of love is rare—many cannot comprehend it….some misunderstand……and on the other hand, some cruel hypocrites even take advantage of it……leaving one completely empty and destitute, they walk away with a smile……..