— Nil, I am one who has been touched by the flame tree's body. Do you ever remember my stories? I don't know how far I can travel, but I'll surely send a gentle caress. My heart says, one day we'll walk side by side into the great distance... Only the houses of silence will be our companions. Why does it hurt so much, can you tell me?
— Sometimes knowing the reason for pain is good—you can find relief. Sometimes it's better not to know—it just adds more. Let's drift instead to some other planet. — Do you really want to go? Are people that unbearable? — Exhausting. — That's what I think too. Actually, the weariness comes from life's mirror of ugliness, but even so, somehow home remains the final destination for us all, unnoticed. — Does everyone have a home? — No; like you—you have no home. You're an exile in your own city. — The homeless have no obligation to return home. But they want a home badly—that too. You could say this is curiosity leaning toward the impossible. — Is home a big part of one's lifespan? No, no—why just a big part! After living a lifetime, I understand: not everyone has a home, doesn't need to have one either. The homeless bird-girl is the happiest one. — At least free. — You can seek dependent happiness. — No, I can't handle such complicated tangles of happiness. — Why not? You can write a story of happiness even in dependent solitude—can't you! Doesn't your abstract wandering man walk in the formless? Or do you keep writing prohibitions across blocked boundaries? Open your eyes and call to sorrow... Plunder all the joy from every sorrow, violin-woman!
— How beautifully you write! — When you become the neighbor of words. So many opposing polarizations of thought exist, Nil... Life is losing its colors, yet still it seems the survivors are doing well enough! — Life loses color, will lose it. How much you can color it again depends on you. When I went home, seeing grandmother made me cry, I wept; when my phone was lost along with so much else, I felt like crying, became melancholy. But I returned to the gardens, found the close people close again, and those two colorless moments didn't matter—life was colorful in the end. The time at home passed well. In human life there's a place for arrangements, those arrangements are multidimensional. There sudden peril can arrive, joy can come and ask, how are you? Memory loss stops you cold, the recovered times can tell colorful stories.
— Such absorption surrounds you! You move through so many folds of life! Come, let's break the dew with bare feet. In the end, let's sell pure air and return toward the sea. — In the garden roses have bloomed in yellow light! At night's end I see maroon colors spreading everywhere! It seemed a bit uncertain; looking closely, I see the splendor of its beauty on the cornice!
— That's a color-changing rose. — Is this change then a representative of multidimensionality? — This could be a qualification in aesthetics, but in life's arrangement it becomes a contested matter. Sometimes even an adverse dimension. The rose changes color to make itself varied, doesn't it! — It could be many things! Perhaps the color-change isn't by its own will... The bright golden color is changing to red all by itself! Maybe this is the measure of its melancholy! Or color-change is nature's signal!
— Why do you hold so much emptiness? — You can only hold when there's emptiness. Full people don't hold anything, they overflow! Full people seem to have no center. The earth's center is easy to know, but a person's center... that's a very hard game, the ancient human's unspoken weapon!
— The old people seem like ornaments of the world! — Those of us who are growing old with time can't become such ornaments. Actually, old people's sustenance connects with nature's age. When nature fostered human development in natural purity, how much can those people and today's tortured nature be one, Nil! I ask, flame tree, whose are you? — The flame tree belongs to green. Green, who are you? The sun's need. Is the sun then terrible? — Depends what nature you want it in! In frozen nature the sun is quite desirable, in hot nature it's pure poison, in wet nature it's again a wonderful performer, beautiful-solitary in rebellion and revolt. — No, you are a person authentic to your own color. Spring has come, has come, here on the mango tree, small small mangoes, yet I haven't lifted my eyes to see this beauty, Nil! Life passes just like this. — You've gotten stuck in the twenty-first century's body. You bought this busy life quite cheaply! People who've moved beyond complexity's body... but across the sea is it the sun-burnt moon's skeleton, or a pure time? — In some places the moon breaks, Nil!
— Unbalanced swaying web of words... Moumita learned to stay well, Mayurakshi forgot how to keep others well! Because Mayurakshi knows, you can never keep artificial people well. How do you match life with the sun, Nil? I search for life's translation in night's body! I understand, Nil, your hiddenness... that which is life's translation, I may never find. Life becomes like a mute watercolor of time, Nil. Before your flame tree I remained only a question mark. Then there's no golden city left... This spring they haven't awakened, Nil! You! That's Bankim's prose, the sea standing in a simple straight line—deep, ordinary... there just a children's story.
— How easy it is to forget someone! But living day after day remembering one particular someone—how difficult that is can't be explained. If you sell something called terrible emptiness, I could buy even that. About you, I'll write those pitch-black midnight words with you and me together... Watch, I'll write them properly. — Will you really have that much time! — Time never lends time to time, some time must be bought by selling pain too, girl! — I'll give you a treasure-filled hut of sorrow and pain, I'll give you silence's black full moon, if you're not well, then all the forbidden remains yours. — I am that primordial forbidden soul! — Only the purest lives become forbidden, I know that. Am I then walking the path of pure mistiming?
— Much waiting silently accumulates in the new moon... You could say I'm sitting in worldly confusion! — Come, let's cut through the forest and walk to the city of love. — You can give very detached responses, Sujan. If you sell the pain of silently withdrawing, and take another story. I'll take the pain, you tell the story someday—how about that!