Portrait of a Young Man

Braving the deluge-inducing shower with an umbrella double her own petite size, she finally managed to arrive for the art-exhibition of her colleague Tuhina.  Save for a few lone souls, whom she guessed to be the other participating artists, the gallery was starkly empty. Tuhina too was nowhere to be seen - must have gone out for tea or a smoke - Tara thought to herself, looking around and vigorously jerking her half-closed umbrella in an attempt to dry it off its rain dews, all the while.

Dabbing her moist face with the end of her dupatta, she slowly went around the oval of the gallery, pausing to stand before each mounted photograph - inching closer, backing away, and losing herself in the moment of this stolen time here and that frozen space there.

As the sound of the rain outside droned into a lull, Tara’s engrossment inched towards a stupor. The gallery would close in about ten more minutes, but there was still no sign of Tuhina. The others had also left, leaving Tara alone with the colourless streets, animals, buildings and humans of the city, trapped unbeknownst to them within the sleek black frames…when suddenly her eyes met his!

For a fleeting moment, Tara froze! She blinked to be sure, but yes, that was him alright! It had been seventeen long years since she’d last seen him on a rainy evening just like today. From the moment she’d turned her back on him to board S15, she’d decided to never set eyes on him again. For every day since then, she’d roamed her own city with the trepidation of a fugitive on the run: skirting possible lanes and averting familiar alleys, she’d prayed with all earnestness to not run into him. But seventeen long years hadn’t been able to prepare her for what to do, if and when she did.

Even if in the form of a prayer, thus, he had been on her mind for every day since that day. In fact, it awed her to think how even in a city of teeming millions, where people were bumping into each other at metro stations, shopping malls, bus-stops or cinema halls all the time, her prayers had steadfastly provided a shielding nimbus around her…

…Only to snap it open today, here - while she stood, all alone, soaked to the bone – no-one to turn to, no-where to hide. Just like that rainy evening seventeen years ago. His eyes, as they searched hers today remained lost, faraway and just as kind, tired and forlorn. How was it that he’d not changed one bit, while her own skin had wrinkled and her once-flowing black hair was now all short and grey? She remembered the shirt he was wearing from the star-sign on the pocket. This is still there? Goodness, she thought!

Slowly, her eyes moved away from him to focus on the scores of people beside him – some looking at their friends while they chatted, while others looking down as they walked. Somnath was the only one who kept his gaze fixed on her, even as her eyes welled up into a blur.

“It’s my favourite too” Tuhina’s voice broke Tara’s daze. “There was something about the gaze of that man-in-a-crowd that somehow seemed to perfectly embody the spirit of this city, don’t you think? I’d taken this with a film camera almost seventeen years ago…see…” said Tuhina, as she directed Tara’s attention to the date superimposed on the photograph that hung limpidly from the wall…

Like every morning else, the day Etenielle turned nineteen, she could vividly recall her dream from last night. It was no longer a task. For it was the same dream she had had since the day she'd started dreaming. Which was back when she was...she couldn't even remember now. Night in and night out, however, the same sequence of events played in her slumbered brain, without so much as a change in colour, shape, form, length or size.

She would be sitting in the park opposite the great lake, reading Maugham, till the fading lights of twilight would force her to put it down. She would look up, only to see him advancing on a bicycle. He would stop by her, smile and say, 'Happy Birthday!' and hand her a scroll. She would unfold it, read it and sign it with a pen, dipping it every now and then in the bottle of ink he would hold out for her. Once done, he would take it back from her and announce with some flourish: 'Beginning today thus, you and I are bound for life. It is my duty and responsibility from this day onwards to know and fulfill every dream you have while in sleep. Here is my key to your mind', he would pause to produce a tiny silver key and resume, 'that will help me unlock your mind and take a look at the most minute details of your dreams, in order to be able to make them come true. I shall never fail in my task for as long as either or both of us are alive. For if I do, even once, I shall lose you forever. So, my love, what dream are we to begin with...?'
And at this very point, unfailingly, for the nineteen years, she would have woken up.

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"...I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist. I do not know to what inscrutable Nirvana you aim. Do you know yourself? Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that you seek, and for a moment you thought that you might find release in Love. I think your tired soul sought rest in a woman’s arms, and when you found no rest there you hated her..." And at this point of The Moon and Sixpence, she found the lights of November twilight fading, making it difficult for her to keep reading. She shut the book, looked up around her and felt strangely contended at having completed nineteen whole years of her life today. As she pulled the shrug around her shoulders to keep away the chill, she wondered at what point of her fingers could nineteen be marked. 1, 2, 3,4,5...10...she changed hands...11, 12, 13...18, 19, 20. The second mark on her left thumb would be nineteen, and the tip of it, twenty. What after that, she mused: how would she keep counting as she grew older still?
Still deep in thought, she looked up and could vaguely make out the silhouette of a young man walking his cycle towards her. As he reached her bench, he stopped, smiled, wished her a Happy Birthday and handed over a scroll...took out the bottle of ink...produced the key...went down on his knees and held out his hand...

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For every day of the past one year since that chilly November evening, Sharnok would come back from work, ask Etenielle for the keys, open the tiny latch just beneath her temple and peer down closely to inspect her dreams. Sometimes, he would take notes in his small pad; sometimes, he would frown and mutter 'impossible' under his breath; while at others, he would break into peals of laughter, annoying Etenielle no end! For ever since she had taken to surrendering the keys to Sharnok, she could no longer remember her own dreams, once awake. But at the end of every such inspection, he would do everything to make them come true. Once, when she had dreamed of a camel ride across the Alps, he had had to sell his mother's jewellery to arrange for it. One other time, when she had dreamt of making love to his friend Joshen, he had gone to the farthest ends to make it come true. What a task it had been - convincing Etenielle, getting Joshen drunk enough and watching it all as his heart broke into pieces through it all. But he couldn't bear the thought of losing her...                                    *******************************************
It was unusually chilly that day - exactly a year since they had met at the park - the day of Etenielle's twentieth birthday. Sharnok had gotten off early from work, so made it to the florist's, bought the prettiest lilies, had them wrapped and headed back home. There he found Etenielle sitting, reading by the window, looking radiant in the fading twilight of November. She faced to turn him, smiled and held up the cover of the book she'd been reading. He tilted his head and read 'The Moon and Sixpence...ah, I see you haven't finished reading it in one whole year!'
'I'm actually reading it from exactly the point I'd let go off, from last year', she smiled, put a bookmark and put it down. 'Let me get you the key' she said.
He would have to get over the dream-inspection quicker today, he thought as she went inside. Make quick notes and get on with the celebrations, is what he had in mind. When she handed him the key, she put her arms around his neck, tiptoed and kissed him, whispering a barely audible 'Thank You' in his ears...
He ran his fingers softly through her hair and said, 'Let's see what Little Missy has been dreaming about ...let's make them true, now, right?' They both smiled.

Gently he turned the key, opened the latch to her mind and peered down.
There she was, sprawled against their newly purchased carpet, blood spewing out of her throat, the tip of her left thumb desperately trying to grow longer. As she wriggled and writhed, he could make out the form of a man with blood-soaked hands kneeling slouched beside her - a sharp knife in his hands. Even as pools of sweat gathered around his brow, Sharnok peered closer into her mind, waiting in a fit of desperate urgency to see his face. The man in her dreams looked up to face him, his eyes tired and diffident.
Sharnok froze as his eyes met his own.

'What's taking you so long today? While you're at it then, let me read out to you..."You had no pity for her, because you have no pity for yourself. And you killed her out of fear, because you trembled still at the danger you had barely escaped” - Etenielle's voice wafted in ever so tenderly....

It was a perfect concentric circle - hollow, made of steel, without a hint of a dent anywhere. She tried slipping it on each of Her fingers, but not even the girth of Her thumbs would accommodate it. For the first time, She felt a tinge of disappointment with Her dainty fingers. She would have to try it on His fingers - She made a mental note.

The roundness reminded Her of the small circular patch on Her grandmother's kitchen garden, inside which She would settle with Her toys - right in the middle. It was a grass-rimmed patch of soil, so perfectly round, one would have thought it was mowed to perfection. But no, it had existed ever since She was born, almost as if in waiting her for Her to fit in. Tucked away into the north-eastern corner, under the shade of the guava tree, this was Her haven - secluded, secret and safe. Come rain, come sun, this is where She would sit with Her dolls, Her books, Her Walkman, Her letters, for everyday of Her vacations, till Dida called Her in for lunch or dinner.
As She'd grown older, She had spent hours lying on the rug, dreaming with eyes wide open. While ants crept around the rug with some trepidation, She would be sprawled, carelessly chewing a blade of grass, imagining motifs of curtains for Her Round House, that could replace the starched saris of Dida, that She used as makeshift drapes. With time, motifs of curtains gave way to planning for frames around Her Lautrec posters or mentally arranging the Bhooter Raja cushions or redoubling Dida's kolshi as a flower-vase...

He had only heard of Her Round House - for by the time He had come, Dida had gone. As had the house, the kitchen-garden and the Round House. Listening patiently, He tried to co-imagine, as She animatedly took Him through it, inch by inch, dream by dream. The Round House - He had remembered, never to forget.

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Slowly and carefully, She picked up the Godrej key and put it inside the round key ring She had been toying with. How neatly it fit! She now dangled the key-ring holding it up by its single key. What beauty minimalism was! Was it the key now that was the protagonist or the key-ring? She couldn't decide even after prolonged philosophical rumination within. She would have to ask Him, She made a mental note.

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Fifteen years hence, She could distinctly remember the clinking noise the key made when She turned it round the lock to enter their first apartment together. It was a rented two-roomed flat, with white unstained walls. The bedroom that overlooked a rickety guava tree had a semi-circular verandah! She had leaped with joy when She'd seen it, thrown Her arms around Him and kissed Him!
Hours later, as they lay wrapped around each other's arms on the cold marble floor, She had tried to slip on the key-ring on His fingers and they had both laughed at how it had stubbornly resisted all attempts! Her chin on His chest, She had waved the key in front of His eyes in sinful simulation of Dr.Hazra. Playing along, He had laughed, pulled her closer and finally admitted being hypnotised successfully!

New pouches, pockets and boxes were devised, sewn or bought for the key-ring even as newer rings began to come in. Three keys for the almirah, two for the main gate, one for the terrace. For each of her "initiation sessions" as She called them, She would carefully clean the new key and delicately slip them onto the key-ring. She would kiss them gently and invariably whisper a soft 'Welcome Home' to them. Sometimes, when She would sit alone in Her new Round Verandah, She would take out the bunch, caress them gently and make mental notes to tell Him that they seemed happy together.

Once when He had bought Her a key-ring shaped like a dog when He felt that the round ring looked too bare, She had kept it away saying, they'd use it for their car, when they bought one. He never understood what affection she felt for a single un-embellished metallic ring, that had, with age, also begun to rust. Sometimes when She came to bed at night after her days chores, He could smell the watery smell of rust on her fingers...

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One by one she took the keys off the ring and placed them on one of the many newspapers strewn around for packing their stuff in. The landlord had given them his notice. He had feared She would cry and so hovered close by. But She seemed unfazed: Just that, it was difficult to disentangle the keys from the ring, as fifteen years of closeness had, at one and the same time, corroded and fused them irreversibly. Was this a physical change or a chemical one, she made a mental note to ask Him...

Daddy, please buy me a DSLR. Yeah, those heavy cameras you have to manoeuvre with both hands, twirling its fancy snouts with an attention that is directly proportionate to the seskiness of the passing boy/girl. And I promise, I will visit Kumortuli at the drop of Autumn. I will take pictures of ALL the pandals in the city with ALL its deities. I will pay equal attention to ALL the insects sitting on the faeces of ALL species. I will make optimum use of the zoom and the Macro facilities on the camera and make the mundane 'phuchka' look like Jupiter. I will have at least a dozen pictures of women in red-white sarees, their faces smeared with 'sindoor'. I will use the self-timer and take pictures with my friends outside the pandals holding up bottles of beer. In short, I swear I will conform, for now and forever, to ALL visual cliches.
And I promise, I won't even ask you, what DSLR stands for.

Was suddenly reminded of this incident: A few weeks down our marriage, when all our meals would still be sent over from our in-laws', breakfast arrived one particular Sunday - just one plate of sandwiches stuffed with cheese, chicken and a whole lot of other goodies. Embarrassed and miffed, the husband instantly called the mother-in-law up, in a bid to stand up for the "basic rights" (read roti-kapda-makan) of his newly wedded wife. "Why have you sent just one plate? What do you think Paroma will eat?" Mamma-in-law very coolly replied, "It *is* for Paroma; you always have luchi-chholar daal outside with your friends, so we didn't think you'd want any breakfast at home". I rue the fact that I couldn't photograph the utterly zapped look on poor Sourya's face that day, as I chomped down my yummity yum sandwich, without bothering to share! 

Was suddenly reminded of this incident: A few weeks down our marriage, when all our meals would still be sent over from our in-laws', breakfast arrived one particular Sunday - just one plate of sandwiches stuffed with cheese, chicken and a whole lot of other goodies. Embarrassed and miffed, the husband instantly called the mother-in-law up, in a bid to stand up for the "basic rights" (read roti-kapda-makan) of his newly wedded wife. "Why have you sent just one plate? What do you think Paroma will eat?" Mamma-in-law very coolly replied, "It *is* for Paroma; you always have luchi-chholar daal outside with your friends, so we didn't think you'd want any breakfast at home". I rue the fact that I couldn't photograph the utterly zapped look on poor Sourya's face that day, as I chomped down my yummity yum sandwich, without bothering to share! 

Parar je goli tay aalo taman teebro noy, du-ekta cycle chhara gaari-taari-o beshi jay na, badminton er net tangiye khelar prostuti cholchhilo dekhlam; full shirt er haata khanik gotano dekhe mone holo eder keu keu office ferta pothe CCD te girlfriend er sathe 'appo' korar cheye akhana khelte beshi bhalobashe. Sheeter Kolkata. Bhaggyish kichhu janish paltay na

"Na dada, I don't want this pair, I can't wear heels, I'll fall if I wear them", I tried to reason, somewhat sheepishly with the shoe guy at Gariahat. 
"Nonsense! You HAVE to start wearing them. You *cant'* be this "unsmart" all your life now, can you?" came the instant admonition in FULL public view. 

I came back with the shoes. 
Seated at a revered distance from me, I swear I could hear them sniggering away, even as I sulked and sulked and sulked some more.

Marketing honchos, take a cue. 
Take a bow.

Its unwise to remove that rather crucial space between boy and friend. Its there for a reason, I realise.
Remove it, and the latter begins to get squished under the weight of the former. IMHO.