Reading Time: 3 minutes
Paroma belongs to the typical North Kolkata joint family household with in-laws. She pens down her feelings to her only friend ‘The Diary’. Here’s the story by Gopa, exclusively for Different Truths.
Dear Dairy,
It feels so good to touch you, smell you, as if engulfing the touch of my purono prem (old love) once again. I met Pragya before she left for Mumbai. Dipping our feet on the ghats of Adi-Ganga, (old-Ganges) we kept glaring at the lights opposite the riverbanks. Flashes of our college days over brimmed our memories. The warmth of our childhood days was still there. Our laughter overflowed our cups of hot tea brimming with smoke. But there was emptiness somewhere. We were masked. I want to break this silence between us. How?
***
Today, when he was searching for his car keys he didn’t even turn back? Busy, busy Paroma. Life is not so easy darling. I still remember those early days of my marriage. How he would steal me from my in -laws just to kiss me, caress me. How much I had to plead with him to talk to me for entering late in the bedroom? He would hide his face behind Kori Diye Kinlam, that book by Bimal Mitra, to grab his attention towards me. My acts of man-abhiman (prestige-pride) did all the trick. All our two-lined letters hidden below the pillow are kept in my locker. Believe me, diary, they are more precious than my vault jewelleries. Prakriti, Pragya said I was lucky to get married in a household full of in-laws. My head adorned with sindoor (vermillion), my sankha-pala (conch shell white and red bangles) on my hands, the symbols of a dutiful daughter-in-law was so suffocating sometimes. He has changed so have my dreams. Now I want to live for myself, look beautiful just for myself. I am jealous of Pragya, and Prakriti. I wish I could live their lives. I wish I could break free of the iron bars of my life. Goodnight.
***
Our city Kolkata is being wrapped with colourful wrapping papers, new malls, new cinema halls, new overbridges, new fusion restaurant, and dance pubs. Just like me, wrapped up in duties with rules and regulations.
Today, at the Acropolis Mall, I saw three friends laughing and giggling just like our old days. They were sitting just opposite to me. But I know Prakriti and Pragya would have preferred sitting in the Garer maath with Queen Victoria Memorial behind us. Loudly reciting poems of Jibananada Das and Joy Goswami. Savouring cups of tea in matir bhaar (earthen cups) or gulping puchka as well as jhalmuri. I went out of the mall and bought a thonga (packet) of jhalmuri, before my driver caught me and reported it to my in-laws. But believe me, it didn’t taste that delicious. I think it tasted nostalgic. I missed them.
***
I think I couldn’t accept that the sun had left me, while I was trying to understand where the moon was. And then the letter arrived in my mail from Mumbai, Pragya her Petrichor. Her letter was an eye-opener for me, her pain and her struggles lessened my sufferings. I couldn’t resist calling Prakriti at Dallas, she too seemed eager to share her diaspora journey of life. Diary, I am so excited, we are all meeting this December. I am sure our common topics will be Kolkata, kobita (poem) and kosto (pain). I better dust my old poem copy before they scold me for ignoring it. It is only they who knew for whom Paroma wrote her poems, who the secret lover is…
Note: An extract from the film on poetry, Kolkata Cocktail, about three friends, Paroma, Pragya and Prakriti. Here’s Gopa’s part. We published the other parts earlier. ~ Editor
Photos by the author
