Life of a man lacks breathing space sometimes. I take this as a part of being responsible adjusting to the expectation of this society. Act natural even though you can’t breathe in enough oxygen from the air. Let your aged heart absorb continuous explosions in silence. Put a smile if possible. Solitude then becomes your paradise to take refuge in, grow tough shield against casualties. Beauty in living a lone beast.
Sometimes it’s hard to decide who to turn your back on. Passions you have and goals set for you reside at extreme verges. You just can’t plant one foot in one and reach next with another. Well, if it’s always 2+2=4; it’s not life. Here we lose greater from selfishness than we do from sacrificing for others. Life’s balance sheet is a self-changing most complex maze; seems different from different perspectives. Almost impossible to figure out.
Rain always has a greater significance in my mind. I refrain myself from considering it from mere scientific viewpoint. Especially when the rain represents the spectacular Monsoon; inspiration of millions of literary minds… I can’t help myself. Rain has magical attribute of reflecting the state of our minds. Rain can be sad. Rain can be cheerful. I tell a dramatic story about how rain originates here in this sub-continent. Hear me out, it’s a romantic one. Once Bay of Bengal fell in love with Summer. It was okay at first but as time went by their feelings went sour. Summer being a highly ambitious girl, unsatisfied with whatever Bay of Bengal had to offer; always sent hurtful resentment (scorching heat of summer) to his mind. His sadness (evaporated sea-water) heightened to the sky. One day an amazing girl (cool air above) came into the life of this saddened man. They fell in love with each other. With her graceful touch of love, condensed sadness of Bay of Bengal melted down on earth from his teary eyes in form of rain. Occasionally, it floods here due to too much rain when their love spill over from heart. So, to me rain is tears of joy; symbol of a remarkable romance.
I came to visit my parents at my village home. It’s been raining here all day since yesterday. I didn’t go out yesterday. I stayed laid on bed and read Shattyajit Roy all day. My bed is just beside the window. Last night when raining I opened the slide window. I could listen to its enchanting melody till very late at night. I felt sad. Loads of memories from past came crashing in. That song from Hypnogaja was playing on repeat inside my head:
“Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion
I want to walk in the open wind
I want to talk like lovers do
I want to dive in your ocean
Is it raining with you?”
But Luke Bryan says rain is a good thing not a sad thing:
“Rain makes corn; corn makes whiskey
Whiskey makes my baby, feel a little frisky”
Today I woke up early and promised myself to enjoy the whole day. It went far better than what I expected. Now I want to say to Luke that we don’t have to look forward to this kind of chain course of actions to justify how rain fills our heart with bountiful happiness. It’s easier here in Bangladesh. Trust me all you need to do is ‘Step Outside’.
It was cloudy before dawn. Sky looked like a glowing blue ceiling on which grey cottons were glued in uneven scattered way. Drizzly breeze blowing past me while I kept looking at the sky. Suddenly a flock of black throated divers interrupted my view… happy interruption. They were out on a hunting mission. Wind was chilling. I found myself craving for a cup of hot tea. I asked mum if I could have it. She replied ‘In a minute son’. Amazing woman my mum. We have a boat in our pond. It is used for picking fruits from trees that extend over pond. It’s fun eating fruits while riding boat around pond. I finished my tea and prepared boat to have a ride around. It was fun. Although there was an umbrella fixed on it I couldn’t continue my relaxation due to sudden heavy shower. I ran back to house. As I was standing at the gate and wishing to go on another ride if rain stops I noticed something. First I thought it was couple of bug bitten leaves. When I looked closer I saw a nest of ‘Tuntuni’ bird. There were 4 eggs in that nest cradled safely with two leaves. Beautiful crafting by their parents. I waited at a distant to catch a photo of the nest along with the birds. Well, I failed.
We have a fish project behind our home. To reach there I had to cross a jungle in the middle. People say paranormal stories about this jungle. Some say, once a girl came here to collect dry logs for cooking. She never came back home. When people searched for her in that jungle; all they found was a bundle of dry log and her footwear. No trace of that girl. Some claim to see a lurking white creature half tiger half human roaming around with a skull on his hand. With intensity of trees this place always looks like ‘afternoon on its way’. On rainy days like this when sky hosts dark and grey; this place turns into a mysterious scary heaven of spirits. But these days, people deforesting the area and building houses so evil falling before threat. Whenever I visit my village I never miss to visit the fish project. That area reminds me of an ideal rural area with acres of cultivated land, farmers with traditional dress, young cowboys herding cattle and children playing barefooted on mud and what not! Never fails to serve an enchanting heart-thrilling panoramic view. But now this place looked like a plain sheet of water. The farmers became fishermen; throwing nets from boats, children fishing with small triangular fishing gear while young cowboys brought their cattle to feast on fresh green grass. There were ‘Kadam’ flowers and water lilies everywhere. It was a sight to behold.
It was almost noon. I was roaming around for a long time. I needed a shower. Just when I thought about this, in no time rain started again. I put my phone in a polythene bag and prepared for a natural bath under cloudy sky. I saw a group of boys having good time trolling one another and slipping on the mud. I remember when I was a kid my dad never let me play on a rainy day like this. I could hardly go out. He is a doctor… rest of which should make sense. He was at his medical center so nobody kept me from soaking in the rain. Although I didn’t join those kids cause it would look weird for 20 years old boy like me. But my soul did play along. After taking shower both in rain and in pond, I went back home. I was really hungry after all those walking and swimming. When I entered home I found smell of ‘Vuna khichuri’. I changed clothes and walked into kitchen to see what’s mum had been preparing for lunch. I was right. Vuna khichuri with roasted duck and mango pickle……yummmm!
After having lunch I gossiped with my mum and sister about the day, showed these photographs and was catching up all of our stories. My sister and I stay at the capital to study. We study at the same city but we hardly see each other. My parents stay at the suburb. My dad’s hospital is in this area. So loads of stories to share when we reunite. It was raining outside, we were watching through the glass window and talking and talking and talking. Rain does remind us of past so much. When mum tells us about the events took place when we were away, we listen with full concentration. She is such a good storyteller that we don’t even remind her when she tells about things that she already told us over phone when we were away. This is one of those highlighted times I look forward to when I am at the village.
At night when dad’s back, he initiates another episode of storytelling about his patients… illustrating their happiness, sorrows, hopes and agony in our minds. It’s a beautiful thing. He always does that. Sometimes when I visit my dad while he is working at his hospital I have to wait while his patients tell me all about my dad’s heroism and philanthropy. This is one of those factors that contributed to turn my dad into my ‘Hero’. After coming back and freshening up when he is not too busy reading newspaper, we play Snake Ladder game while marching sound of rain and frog’s croaking glorifies the night.
Let me tell you about a cute little pink lump of flesh casted with most enchanting spell of all called ‘life’. It was 75th minute of my uninterrupted glance at this baby while all my thoughts concerning his predestined future reeled on in my head like a film. As I landed on reality runway, I felt his fingers clasped around my thumb, I saw his tiny feet kicking the air over hospital bed and his eyes blinking with surprise while last drop of tear streamed down to pillow leaving trace of salt on both sides of his face. He was not crying anymore. Only blinked. May be he was tired but I’m pretty sure he was shocked about one of those cruel jokes life had pulled off. Before his 75th hour on earth, the angel of death took his mother away a day after this Mother’s Day. Irony. I could not resist myself from kissing him. Then I could smell scent of purity and innocence. Knowledge that Rules of God can neither be bent nor be broken, shattered my heart into shredded pieces. I am useless uncle of this child mourning death of my cousin.
Only that day I was shuffling through the old photos I stored in my cloud account. I found myself giggling thinking the silly deeds we did to bully her husband and to haunt guests on her pre-wedding and wedding occasion. Seem like yesterday we were rowing boat to go fishing. She would catch most fishes and we could only hook crabs or broken tree branches. She made fun of us saying ‘Don’t worry; I cook delicious crab soup with branch stew’. She liked muting corny Deshi films and reciting humorous made-up lines that turned it much more entertaining. She was my indulger of many childhood wishes, she was my company in afternoon walks, and she was pickle in a tasteless day and story in an uneventful time. She was my charming big sis. One day I hope to tell this cute little lump of flesh all the stories about his amazing mother.
I picked him up cradled him in my arms. I started humming with heaviest heart. For now, he shall sleep. For now, he shall glide far away from this predestined tragedy of our accepted destiny.
See what this delusional angel just did! I had fallen for you even before sound of wings faded. Now I live on your love and he is about to come to his senses. That arrow is still pierced I’m injured of love as days pass it dense(s) and feeling intense(s). He will undo the wrong been done. It sounds so daft. Is it his bizarre guilty pleasure? Remember what this delusional angel just did? I bet he was having fun keeping intention well hid.
That night I dreamt of you and me in an American bar. My sleeves all folded showing a nasty scar. You were dancing with the crowd under the neon light looked irresistible with retro looking face. It was indie bar with pensive people needed no wild guess. I was just badass intruder drinking raw vodka sipped down my throat. It all shifted and instead I wished to be left with you leaning onto me saying ‘let it be’, breathing-in your hot breath mixed with lipstick scent, sweet fume of sweat conquering cheap perfume, felt breathless my lung an airless vacuum. I was intoxicated in faded vision. Woke up on my bed with your head lying on my chest, asked, was it just an aided mission? You said, remember what that delusional angel did? I bet he was having fun keeping intention well hid.
Other day, we were walking down French boulevard. Sunray reflected on blue bay, orange and wine, grapes from vine. Air filled with Mozart, papers with Salvador’s art I tried to be one of those men who prophesize with pen. Where love is a habit of romantic instinct you won me from goddess yet heaven felt closest. As the stars vanished, moon disappeared left an empty bottle of wine, and echo of love was all I heard while night stayed shushed just like the time before and time before that… you tanned under sun I drew a hat and said remember what that delusional angel did? I bet he was having fun keeping intention well hid.
Love, song, food… dance for good, it’s nothing but an adolescent addiction embedded in this shapeless fiction. The kinder we become the harsher we get you bet it’s our damn fate that we met before sunset. Deadliest turn to our small barn, they say ‘do you see you were never meant to be’. Destined to solitary confinement, failed voyage for love sends hardest resentment. If you seek the truth, it’s written on our trembling hearts and eager lips… the only lie: ‘We will never say goodbye’. Cause, remember what that delusional angel did? I bet he was having fun keeping intention well hid.