Gautam recalls a lonely soul seeking solace in the tranquillity of hills and the cigarette smoke, exclusively for Different Truths, lost in forgotten love.
A long the ago, Mirza Ghalib penned in Urdu:
“Gunehgaron ko hum
pakeezah sazaa dete hain;
Haat nahi uthate hai,
Par nazron se gira dete hain.”
As my lonely, mindless wandering today took me to a distant past, I reminisced a few long drives in the company of a butterfly.
The sweetness of the night air and the warmth of our closeness put us on a different plane altogether.
Talking about responsibilities, futures, children, etc. took away the time, as if it did not exist at all. Amid these, a fleeting touch, a suppressed smile, and a smirk here and there rummaged shivers and sent electrical impulses. These reminded me of some kindling going on. Thunder seemed not too far, but the mild, dewy breeze was divine.
Reminiscing the journey while looking up towards the hills that bore testimony to our frolics, I wondered if it recognized me as being alone today. The fresh breeze, as always, was struggling to find its place amidst the thick curls of the smoke, burning on the Davidoff oozing out of my mouth and nostrils. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear somebody whispering, smoking is not for you… I gave ear, but again asked myself: How do I elongate the gait of time? Passersby were looking and perhaps wondering why this man is all alone; where did the butterfly go?
In a fleeting understanding of my forlornness, I could feel the swinging head of the man, as if he is considering and reconsidering his conclusions on the missing butterfly. In the backdrop of the trucks and cars wheezing by downhill, I could also see passengers staring at my lonely stupor in that spot and smiling at whatever they understood of me.
Suddenly a howling sound broke the reverie, and I knew it was time to leave. The pendulous swing of my mind throughout the last couple of days again brought to the fore a feeling of betrayal, with memories of my love seen in the arms of others. And the pain when someone said that she tried to come so close that thoughts of his children made him chase her away with contempt again reminded me of an old Assamese adage, “Mohila e prem kora aru Musalmane murgi puha r majot kono parthokyo nai” (there is no difference in the love of a woman and the affection of a butcher).
But then the realisation dawns that the extent to which you were ready to proceed and the dreams thought of and the future expected were all spoken as if in a fantasy without any purpose, and just a time pass for the other makes the head swell with pain and heartburn more intense than inhaling the Davidoff.
Suddenly, when the mind rages ahead in anger, at the thought of being an offspring in a civilised culture, the mind recalls a poem and commands it to be hummed:
Keep my anger
from becoming meanness
Keep my sorrow
from collapsing I to self-pity
Keep my heart soft enough to
keep breaking. Keep my anger
turned towards justice, not cruelty.
Remind me that all of this,
every bit of it is for love
Keep me fiercely kind."
~Laura Jean Truman
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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