Squeks

It had to happen. To quote somebody's words- " everything is scripted". Is it really? Whatever the outcome of the debate maybe, the truth is that it has actually happened. The once cracked open piece of meat carefully stitched together opened a wider crack this time too big for the thread and needle to put it together again. This funnily reminds me of the nursery rhyme, "Humpty Dumpty". As a child the poem read as a tragedy for "All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put humpty dumpty together again". It occurs to be a very silly thought but nevertheless this is what comes to mind for it has happened yet again carrying the message that the situation is beyond any repair.
Since the needle and the thread is of no no use any more, interestingly things inanimate mostly and looked with contempt before came to the forefront from the periphery. A prolonged shower in the enclosed space of the bathroom with the cold water to wash away the excess salt and the white tiles perfect to scratch the nails on provide immense solace. So does the big while roll of tissue torn perfectly along the creases soaks all that is drained out from within and which wells up in the eyes waiting the soft touch of the thing which is white. The only thing which has always remained at the center is soothing melodies which can at times incredibly hold together one's sanity and life giving breaths. The magical voices of particular vocal chords does wonder of wonders.
All these years the effort was to avoid the rigmarole of all these activities which tend to become disgusting habits. Ironically, the effort was blown out of proportion and the avoidable became unavoidable.

Lights Off!

Her large eyes always lined with kohl shone like two brown nuts while she carried his image in them. The image was that of a plump chubby little kid with eyes as large as the moon staring with such pure innocence that she felt like squashing him up and tuck him away in the warmth of her heart for years to come. By and by, the years felt longer as months stretched into years and days into months. Those eyes as large as the moon developed dark circles and became tainted just like the moon. So did hers. Hers took the shape of a dead fish without any trace of kohl in them and instead dried up tears took its place on a permanent basis. The sunshine was gone from both the pair of eyes. The full moon waned until it could wane no more. The light was shut out from her life and a dark shroud engulfed it instead.

Translation of the Assamese number 'Sandhya Jetia Naame' by Angaraag Mahanta

The Assamese Lyrics of the song:

Xondhya jetia naame
Jilmilai Kaasi joon e
Aai loi monot pore
Pokhi jetia bahole aahe
Kulahol jetia kome
Awaxaadey abori dhore
Aai loi monot pore
Obuj aabeg ujai aheey
Sokulu boi baare baare

Esaati botah bolee
Jir jir boruxun poree
Maatir xubaxh bhahee
Bijuli somoki uthe
Goroji utha aakaxh dekhi
Aapun dexoloi monot poree

Xorotor raatipua baat golie jau
Tol xora sewalir mitha xubakh pau
Uru uru mon
Xoixob kalolei
Phool butoli phura
Xunali dinolei
Xewalir xubakh
Heruwar doree
Bedonai muku dohee
Niyoror tupal ashru hoi
Mur sokure xore
(Refrain)


The translation:

When evening descents
and the crescent shaped moon shimmers
Memories of my mother overflow my mind.
When the birdies return to their nests
When the clamor dies out
When fatigue engulfs me
Memories of my mother overflow my mind.
Inexplicable emotions surge from within
The tears run down incessantly,
When evening descents
Memories of my mother overflow my mind.

A gentle breeze blows
A torrent of rain falls
The aroma of soil floats
Lightening flickers the sky
The sight of thundering skies
Bring memories of my native land to mind.

On spring mornings when (I) tread the road
Sweet smelling jasmine flowers
heaped on the ground, fills the nostrils.
The mind takes a flight
to childhood days
to golden days
of plucking flowers,
The loss of perfume of the jasmine flowers
Saddens me
The dew drops turning into tears
Drips from my eyes.
When evening descents
Memories of my mother overflow my mind.

NOTE: I am not too sure about the first two lines of the third stanza. It is open to correction.
This is dedicated to my dear Maa for whom words are simply inadequate.
This piece is also for the 'person' who sings/whistles/plays this song so well that it hurts!

A wet and moist February evening

Right after two minutes of getting into the autorickshaw, the water drops in polka dots joined hands in giving a makeover to the dusty roads and whatever grimy and dull stood alongside, inorder to give them a 'setwet' look. I sat in a calculated place where the unruly raindrops wouldn't be able to reach me to the extent of making me battle with the wet sticky feeling which comes from partially wet clothes. I was just feeling the absence of an ipod when the driver tuned into some channel over which songs of the mid-eighties and nineties monopolized. As a part of a sweet and surprising conspiracy and as a welcome gesture to the weather, 'baarsat ki mausam' blasted loudly bringing a radiant smile to my face. To brace myself against the chilling cold which hung everywhere, I hurriedly put on my jacket which I had carried along in anticipation of a shower earlier in the day when the Sun was present for brunch. The extra layer of covering brought about a certain degree of warmth while I generously let my enjoined legs clad in a slacks material for a jeans feel the untampered with cold readily accompanied by relentless winds. It simply felt awesome. The otherwise annoying distance to and from my destination seemed embraceable in the given weather.

But with a change in the song also came a change in the intensity of the rain. It seemed to be in a sporty mood of free falling. The polka dots were wiped out of vision by long, thick strands of raindrops fiercely competing with one another to be the first one to kiss the dusty surface of the earth and thus relieving it from the curse and transforming the entire world into its real beautiful, shiny countenance. The bus stops sheltering the sundry, fully drenched shirts clinging to bodies who in turn tried to cling to their bikes, large muddy pools speedily taking the form of ponds with concrete boundaries came into view. I felt smugly comfortable comparing the sorry sights although my calculated position slightly turned out to have been miscalculated. I clutched the polybag which contained my brand new pumps protectively and let my mind loose while a pore was left unguarded to register the loud, filmy songs. Once in a while, a ride like this unaccompanied by anyone except for rain, usually unlistened to songs and a mind participating in free falling in tandem with immediate realities is thoroughly enjoyable. On nearing my destination a sense of loss crept in my being and secretly wished for 'many many happy returns of this day ' :) A cup of unavoidable and much needed garam chai put a closure to a wet and moist February evening.