I clung onto her, like old men, to positions of power. my pride looms large, like – their polished ivory towers.
ask me for reasons, and like them, I too shall cower, and make feeble attempts to justify, this frantic infatuation to power.
Like moths to fire, this too seems like our innate desire.
for honestly, neither of us really know. maybe, we simply cannot take a no. maybe, it really is just the ego. for love and liberty left the table, a long time ago.
now, partisan zealotry masks- the elector’s reluctant sufferage, our marriage masks- her loathful suffering. but it never really was about the voter, or her.
it was always about us. us and our unending explanations: society, expectations, systems, expressions, all to dodge our own truths, to deflect an act- long overdue, for them to retire and for me to let go. to start forth – anew.
I am a culmination of the people, I have met. some, unfathomed encounters, most – thoroughly planned. each, leaving their own mark: some – scratches on my favourite watch, others – transient imprints on sand.
my character is, but an eclectic assimilation, of rhapsodic emotions: that to me – they have bared, that with me – they have shared.
fits, misfits and re-fits that almost seem to fit, but don’t. i have faced it all. though rights, wrongs and the uncertain middle, i have made my judgment call.
sometimes I fit perfectly, with ancillary pieces, yet – in the bigger whole, I don’t belong. so i detach and reattach, until I find that right fit, that place in the puzzle, for which – I have always longed.
sometimes, in unthought jest, one flips the board, leaving me – in a mess. I dreaded, having to starting over, but in retrospect – maybe I would confess: it really is true, what they said – everything that happens, always does for the best.
on a sunny noon, by the river Parvati, I sit. staring- into the fierce battle that rages within. most days her waters are a gentle calm – a shade of breathtaking blue. but today – she roars a revengeful brown. today – she flows with an anxious fury, of a faltered lover’s frown. crashing, into every rock, as if – all her despairs, she’s set out to drown.
some say it’s just the rain, but beneath her spiteful wrath, I see the pain. the vengeful vexation, of a woman scorn’d.
but to wrestle against, the majestic mountains, was harder done, than thought. she knew- persistence was the virtue, impulse was not. thus, relentlessly, she trickled on. through crevices and cracks, carving out dogged tracks, until there was a brook.
time rolled long, until that’s where the brook always belonged. yet, she refused to cease, as she flowed on, and- on the face of her persistence, even the mountains surrendered, and split for her, to recast herself into a river.
oh, i can’t help but wonder, what if the brook thought? ‘there is no way I can cut through these rocks.’ but she chose not to let adversity, wear her down. seeping through every nook, and corner, through the unyielding peaks, she recast her own ground, until she was – the pious Parvati.
she knows her end is certain: a traceless convergence into oceanic coexistence. is it tragic? I know not. maybe, nor does Parvati, yet, relentlessly, she flows on.
as by the river Parvati, I sit – in awe. on the face of such odds, what if Parvati thought, she cannot?
Strolling down the garden trail, Tracing the descending summer dusk; I spotted tiny, twinkly lights, Dot the near horizon. Like- The milky way itself, had descended from the yonder gaze. And with it, bought a wave, Of nostalgic reminisce of bygone days.
For once, these fluttering flickers, Danced away every summer night, Like a million fairies, out- On a moonlit date. I yearned to reach out, but, I remember my neighbour’s endless admonition, To let these little beings be. For- Their death brings bad omen. So I did, and in awed silence, We watched. As they- Drifted into the porch, Wandered, explored and escaped. The delicate balance of the wild, And civilized, left untampered.
Yet, I seldom recall, Watching these fireflies fade. But- Nor do I remember the chatter, Of sparrows, die down. Yet, now that I notice, It’s been a while, since- I’ve seen them around. Then again, I barely even recollect, My beloved neighbour moving away.
Maybe that’s the thing about change. It’s far too subtle to be felt, Until it’s too late.
Evenings meant the smell of sandalwood incense sticks and Maa’s voice echoing through our corridors;
Muktitonispriho jitu, hei hi bhokoto ko nomu, Roxomoyi maghu, hu bhokoti, Homosto mosto, ko moni, Nijo bhokoto ro boisyo, Bhozu heno debo, Jyodumoni.
It’s 6PM and maa is serving me maalpua.
The busy for nothing lanes in Delhi somehow embedded these tunes far too deep in my memory. Evenings have started to mean the smell of chotu’s cutting chai now.
Funny how life has reached a point where I need to book tickets to go home. Days have stopped being segregated into breakfast, lunch and dinner for now meals reach the door only when the tummy roars – or if there is a budget friendly Swiggy coupon.
Funny how we spend the first two decades of our lives in the pursuit of going out of home and the rest of our lives – longing to be back.
The metro halts, I get off, take the stairs down and turn left as muscle memory. I can do this blindfolded.
The world paused for an instant as the smell of the sandalwood incense sticks reached me.
I can see a young me frolicking about watering the garden in her blue frock as Maa called me for the evening prayer.
Muktitonispriho jitu hei hi bhokoto ko nomu, Roxomoyi maghu, hu bhokoti, Homosto mosto, ko moni, Nijo bhokoto ro boisyo, Bhozu heno debo, Jyodumoni.
As reality resumed, I reached home. I ordered food as I pondered, home is seldom the four walls we grow up in, rather home is what we make of it. Somewhere in the smog of this city, I have myself gutted my roots far too deep for me to reach.
The door rings.
It’s 6PM and Chandan from Swiggy is serving me Maalpua.
“… and that’s why this city – your city – came to be called the ‘Stalingrad of the East’”, he paused to look around the class. Not much had changed in the past hour. A couple dozen dreary looking faces stared at him in equal amounts intrigue and disinterest. Prof. James Jasokie was not used to this treatment in his long years of teaching Modern History at IIM Shillong. But once a year, he was mandated to take a trip to Nagaland to deliver a Memorial lecture to Undergraduate students at Alden College in Kohima.
Prof. James (or “Jimmy Sir”, as his students liked to call him), was a man stuck between multiple cultures. Jimmy was born into a Christian family of the Angami Naga tribe in nearby Dimapur but he grew up into a man neither Christian nor satisfactorily Angami. He had barely ever been to Kohima apart from his annual visits there for work. He loved the history and culture of the city – one that he studied and cherished – but even that wasn’t enough to pull him towards it.
After finishing the lecture around dusk that day, he retired to the peace of his hotel room for the night. A few hours in, Jimmy was still unable to find any sleep. Mumbling curses at the city’s undying noise, he decided to walk down a steep road adjacent to the hotel instead. The city was still in, what one might call, a festive hangover. The Hornbill festival had culminated just a few days ago, which meant that more than half the stalls and makeshift bazaars were still active or winding up. Jimmy walked through the bazaar, glancing at the various handicrafts and condiments on sale, with absolutely no intention of buying them. As he approached the end of the main street of the bazaar, his eyes settled on a necklace made of beads and glass, tucked beside each other to give off a tribal and an austere wind to it at the same time.
He knew immediately, Priya used to wear the same. His late wife loved wearing anything that had its own character to it. Their marriage was a coming together of contradictions. He was a reserved academic man while Priya beamed of seemingly inexhaustible energy. She was from the Phek district of Nagaland but loved Kohima as if she belonged to the city. The last time he’d been here with her, he now remembered, was around 7 years ago, only months before her death to cancer.
He would tag along during her midday stroll through the city and complain about the long distances that she made him walk. There was not much of that since her passing. Jimmy bought the necklace, thanking the seller-woman in Pochuri and left the market. Still stroking the necklace with his thumb, he found himself at the gleaming public square right at the end of the market. He looked up at the huge watchtower and the bustling crowd around him, suddenly realizing that it wasn’t the city’s noise that kept him awake that night but it was Priya that did.
the other day i got a tattoo and it reminded me of you. i didn’t love you, the calculations of holding hands, the angles for the perfect kiss the equations of likes and dislikes, all of these, goes above my head. i was never good at math anyway. i didn’t like you, the oceans of your freckles the country of your fake accent the earthquakes of your temper, i never understood any of them. geography wasn’t my forte either. so you see, i don’t wish for you to be back. i don’t hate you for leaving me for the other girl. ours was a summer romance, and there i had a fling or two, and a relationship which lasted three springs long. life comes full circle, with its own adjectives: enigmatic and somewhat bemusing. it all started with my search for an escape. it all started with you. i found you, then him. and then that other guy. so when i seem desperate to you or when i call you once, twice, thrice or knock at your door a little too hard, don’t run away or don’t come too close, neither. neither. you’re not the only one i miss you’re not the only guy i kissed. my sleepless nights, my losing appetite, all of these and all of that, is part of my pursuit for happiness. contentment. you’re a part of it. all of them are. but goddamn, i don’t have explanations to this insatiable hunger to this unquenchable thirst, and answers to why my mind keeps going back to you why my body craves for yours or why ever word i utter sounds like your name. i was never good at learning or knowing things.
life comes full cirlce, and didn’t my life start with you?
Libëranté. 