It was another windy afternoon and I was trying to make the
baby sleep, humming a rather incoherent lullaby which can barely reach my
three-month old. Motherhood leaves you enchanted. So much that I can spend an
entire day feeling my baby’s little pink self, his curled fingers, swollen eyes
and the innocent face engrossed in a blissful slumber. Yet the thought came
with the gust of wind and hit my heart taking me back to another rainy day
leaving my little one behind…..
I was riding my cycle on my way to college, post snow and
drizzle. Most hilariously it was the first vehicle I could think of buying
after coming overseas. It was only a week in college and I bumped into Navin for the first time. I have rather an impertinent demeanour
when it comes to accepting my driving fallacies and driven by that I got engaged
with him in a spat instead of a nice sweet apology. Following this were a few
whimsical incidents that led us to speaking terms. No sooner did we become the
best of pals dreaming to overwrite an already decided destiny….. We bonded over
Beatles, Shubha Mughdal and imported wine, we fought over Tolstoy and
Bourgeoisie and we stayed for sleepovers and elongated flight travels all the
way back to home. Our talks became esoteric, our friendship ripened and love
remained beneath its sheath, visible only behind a mist. We were in love only
in philosophy, not in theory.
New York indeed grows
in dreams and talks of thousands of people, and the people here grow while
weaving them. Indians were plenty here then, each having different destinations
all of which were concurrent to the same alley. Hence friends were easily
available even on foreign shores, friends whom you won’t take a second to
remember and again not a second to forget. The days were running fine, the
talks growing louder, the bond only strengthening day by day till graduation. Till
then we had made epic advances in our growing chapters. We had spared Tolstoy
and reached Marxism, we have wandered from Mussolini to Monroe, and Pinkfloyd
has already grooved over the population I guess. Only the wine could not grow any red, and
thus we remained in love, not in theory only in philosophy.
Youth sweeps by rapidly and so does its years. After Oxford
it was Boston who showed interest in me and Navin
went to Sorbonne, by the only journey which he made secluding me, to pursue
liberal arts and photography. Initially there were postcards and epistles, considering
the poem which flowed through both of our pens, which flew between the
continents. However priorities change with time and they soon make you realize
the urge to get over an unspoken love blooming in daylight reveries at the face
more crucial duties. Boston led me to Sid and Sid to marriage which gave the
best creation of God, my son.
The Boston years were not a cakewalk like the times I spent
in the New York attic with Navin. With
amma’s faltering health and dad’s
retirement, life left me few choices to remain like an elitist. I left my
German and Latin courses to save pennies, started working at a consultancy to
gather some more and even gave up weekly operas and Shakespearean sessions. The
only non-curricular tutorial which I always managed to afford was brisk French,
expecting an apparently uncalled letter form a distant Monsieur. My marriage
also came hastily; though chopping the grandeur from it also took away the
sense of ordeal which often comes handy with conjugal occasions.
It was my first post-nuptial vacation to 6th Ballygunge Place, Calcutta during
the autumn festivities. The city was dazzling in Durga Puja pomp with shimmering lights embellishing the rather
sordid lanes, the crowded avenues giving your olfactory perception an aroma of
the ethnic culinary delicacies. At these times I often feel as an erratic
amidst all the surrounding hustle. And on Ashtami morning, when I was going for
the customary anjali to the nearby pandal radiant in a yellow saree, that I
bumped into Navin Banerjee, seven
years fourteen weeks later. The rendezvous was brief indeed, lasted over a few
minutes only enough to enquire each other’s well-being and bid adieu. That was
exactly what we did then, though a million thoughts clustered and jostled through the
memory lane later that night making the serenity outside more like an
oppressive languor.
Soon after our Indian jaunt Sid and I became proud parents
in the following year’s fall. It was indeed like a utopia in hand as I was
coming out of the hospitals corridor to my way back home with my baby cradling
in my arms and on that fateful hour I peeped into the neighbouring coup only to
find my New York mate striving through his last days after combating valiantly for
two long years in acute Leukaemia. It was the first snow of the season that
night and long after my better half had slept in the dreams of our cherishing
future which came with the new life, after receiving goodwill from friends and
fosters, I wept silently amidst a shivering chill for a long-lost bond, the
snow and the darkness being the only witnesses.
I often accuse myself for not being justly happy on the day
my son was born. When I was a teenager, my mother often used to tell how
complete a woman gets to be after motherhood and how unparallel is its essence.
Amma herself was hell of a mother,
friend, teacher and saviour. Thus idolizing her only adds to my guilt. I had
not seen or tried to see my American cohort since that day. Only at times I
have wished to hear from him or reach to him in a lone afternoon. We indeed had
a lot of catching up to do. Today after three months, when I was erecting
another heap of useless thoughts and futile wishes, a beneficiary of Navin Banerjee came all the way from New
York to Maryland to hand me his few belongings dedicated to his dear friend on
the sad event of his demise two weeks ago.
Life gives you ample reasons and moments to lament, lament
about the past and for the present. With Navin
I had no broken promises, no untold truths or unfulfilled duties. His
friendship was more like a jest of lifetime, happy happy and happy I was with
him. We enjoyed a carefree time together that were never to return. And life
after that has also been kind enough to me. However even peace appears to be
punishment at times as I tried to fight back the lump which suffocated my
throat while opening the treasured collections of my dead amigo. They consisted of few antique French letters by Shakespeare,
my twenty-something love and…… a bunch Sepian photographs of mine taken behind
his lens at moments which went unnoticed even by me. I gaped at them as if the
woman in the portraits was not me. As if it was a beautiful apparition of a
girl who was lost ages ago in the cafes of New York. As if the girl there was
waving at me and talking, telling the story of times which were vivacious,
depicting someone more than me. I’m uncertain about the tenure for which that
intoxicating trance was lasting till my baby rescued me from it while the
twilight rays made my lap crimson. I looked at his face as he smiled and
suddenly the wounds healed. I kissed him with all the love that was due on the
day he was born and with that I also treasured my love story which existed only
in philosophy not in theory.
