Bolpur Blues: Episode 10

Shivering under the blanket, and with some Indie-pop band playing in the background, we were sipping cheap whiskey that one of our friends managed to arrange.

We were pretty broke by that time of the month, and had to rely on beg, borrow, steal ways to quench our thirst for alcohol and get our bodies warmed up in that cold.

It had been just a week away since the whole scene of love coming out announced happened, and we were pretty much a couple by then.

Doing the usual things that lovers are expected to do stereotypically- holding hands, eating out together, roaming around the bushes at night talking of stars, exchanging music, having our inside jokes, having our ‘our times’ behind closed doors; the absolute kind that people and friends get irritated with.

But I was in the other side of the river then, and on my side, all the grass was damn bright green.

Anyway coming back to cheap whiskey.

You get know absolutely after five pegs whether a Malayali is really into you or not, because precisely all the Malayalis I’ve drank with, couldn’t remember their name after the fifth peg.

The quirk was no exception. Can’t drink but will drink. So there we were, in a winter that was some 5 degrees down in the mercury level and we were number of pegs down; that amount that makes you forget to count.

So there we were, out on the streets of Bolpur, at around 3 at night, to get our spines screwed and chilled in the winter. Drunk mind usually does not care of consequences or reasons, and we don’t know why me and the quirk lingered around a house, that would look to normal eyes as plainly haunted.

Devil’s hour, and me and the quirk climbed the dividing wall of the house and jumped inside its fence with the sole motive to inspect the interiors of the house, because our drunk minds had decided to buy that house jointly.

Don’t question me of reasons here.

Anyway we went inside, it was pitch dark, and by that time we had forgotten where we were.

After the time, when our eyes have got seasoned with the darkness and were seeing things, out of focus though, we saw a well, went beside and sat on its platform.

The quirk pointed to me stars and my mouth gaped as I was inhaling the chill and the sky.

And there, right there, below the stars, illegally inside a haunted house porch, with so much alcohol in the system that we could hardly see each other, we made love.

To be continued...

Bolpur Blues: Episode 9

‘How do you say lover in Bengali?’ he was onto Google.

I woke up, still trying to process what he had just said.

Messed up hair, eyes squinting from the lean ray of sunlight that somehow managed his way inside through a hole in the window and was falling right on my face.

‘How do you say what?’

‘Lover. Teach me the pronunciation.’ He was smiling, puffed up eyes and a book in one hand.

‘What is that book?’ I felt it to be so bizarre that he had an English book in his one hand, and the other hand was on Google to learn Bengali.

‘In praise of love.’ He held the book close to his chest and said, ‘It’s my favorite Philosophy book; it’s yours from now.’

It took me sometime to process the whole thing- I mean I was just up from sleep, still was staring at him from my left eye and struggling to open the right, and there he was asking me the pronunciation of Bengali words, and also giving away his favorite book; all at the same time.

He read my confused stare, ‘Sorry I get little weird when I’m in love.’

‘You are in love? What?’ I was still considering how someone could say something so huge, so easily.

‘You aren’t?’ His hand with the book was still outstretched towards me.

‘I don’t know. It’s too early, isn’t it?’ I realized a moment later, I had said the stupidest thing possible.

‘You must be hungry. I’ll make you an omlette?’ He smiled and jumped to another topic immediately.

And I realized, love can wait till hunger gets done.

For the next one hour, he made me a breakfast, while I read the first few pages of his favorite book.

‘How did I end up here last night?’ I was gorging on bread and eggs.

‘You came, we kissed. And it was very cold so we had rum, and you fell asleep here. You look beautiful when you sleep.’ He was smoothing the butter on the bread.

‘You were watching me when I was sleeping? Dude, that’s creepy!’ I laughed and he joined in.

For the rest of the afternoon, we digested more breakfast as laziness didn’t let us lift our butts and go for lunch, and I read more pages of that book while he listened to music, often whistling my favorite song to get a glance from me off the book, a shared smile, and getting back to what we were doing.

The evening dropped down, with the typical winter chill.

And I remember walking back home, with the biggest smile stretching my lips to the point my muscles allow.

To be continued...

Bolpur Blues: Episode 8

The night closed on us; the quirk, me, Cohen and two pair of lips occasionally and unreasonably touching at times.

None of us knew why we had the sudden urge to just stare at each other and kiss, but the evening returning birds’ chirps, the dusk coming down, and the trees swinging in the rhythm of the music, had some effect; It had to have some effect.

‘Can I trust you with staying here?’ I cleared my throat, lighting a cigarette.

‘Let’s do the bond thing that people does when they are not sure?’ He smiled, still holding my left hand softly within his.

I broke the embrace and found two little paper pieces. I wrote in both of them how he has to stay back, or else he owes me compensation for all the kisses we had for the day.

He signed in both and kept the piece of paper inside his wallet, in the same counter where he kept his parent’s picture.

‘This paper is as important as them now, I guess.’ He smiled while staring at his parents, and putting the paper inside the space he made in his wallet.

I didn’t find words to give a reply to that; all I knew we have started off something that would go on for long.

Apparently we ran out of smokes, and I needed a tea.

So we got out, for both.

The nearby market is something that has always made me feel good. People, lights; no matter how less they were, were still better than the cruel dark lanes on just the opposite side. And perhaps the best part of it was, it was halogen-lit mostly; the yellow hue is always good after a long day of songs and kisses.

Warmth and winter are sinfully done seductive juxtapositions.

We had a long dark lane to cover, and midway I couldn’t feel my hands already.

No matter how beautiful the winter in Santiniketan is, it is also a little cruel to people at night; when you don’t have the warmth of the sun to back you up.

He had a rugged coat on his body, and I was rubbing my hands to help with the warmth thing.

He stared at the sky, and pointed to me the plethora of stars. I pointed to him the North Star bright in the star-crowded sky, and suddenly, he took my right hand and put it inside his coat’s pocket.

‘That will help your hands stay warm, at least till you get the tea in your system.’ He said, still looking at the stars and walking.

I stared at him, my mind blank, while he stared up at nature’s dotted graphiti.

I asked him, irrelevant, wrongly placed. ’What are we?’

He took some time. ‘Lovers?’

Neither of us spoke for a while.

To be continued...

Bolpur Blues: Episode 7

Episode 6.

The next day, I dumped classes.

Well, when you don’t get enough breakfast, the lunch is flushable, and dinner, well you better wash your hands with it rather getting it down your system, you mostly wake up weak, tired and cranky. I had headaches half of the days to up my cranky-meter.

So, most of the first classes I’d laugh a little about, turn my alarm back to off and sleep through in my uncomfortable bad pillows.

Anyway coming back to my awaken part of the day, we got a little weed again, and suddenly me and my Malayalam partner were very ecstatic about getting our butts high in the same place where we got screwed up the earlier time.

Also, it was winter, the sun shone sweet, the shades seemed lucrative, and the weed looked green.

So, there were we, four of us, three Malayalis, including the quirk and another guy my beat partner dragged with him, and me.

We went there and sat in the shade of a wall that was injected with red concrete flowers; that, with the shade, also gave us a beautiful view.

I was making us joints, while the quirk came around and sat beside.

“You like Cohen?” he asked fidgeting with his phone.

“I’m just a station on your way. I know I’m not your lover.” I sang, copying the typical Cohen baritone.

“Amazing! I love that man.” Suddenly he was gleaming.

“Well, you got some real competition here.” I winked.

After that, some hours from then, we kept listening to Cohen songs back to back, while the rest of the two Malayalis got high on weed, and me and the quirk on the lyrics in baritone.

We were walking back to our houses, when the quirk said, “There’s some whiskey in my house. You want to come over?”

I couldn’t resist the offer of having whiskey and listening to music with someone whose taste matched unabashedly with mine.

Winter, afternoon, whiskey, music; there’s not much you can do to not say a yes!

I went, and well, we didn’t drink.

We just sat on the ground, with nothing under our butts expect the cold floor, in the front porch, and kept listening to songs; his choice and my choice, alternately.

And he suddenly said, “Actually I want to kiss you. Can I?”

“Well, when did you drink the whiskey? I didn’t see.” Litmus test. All girls do it.

“Not the whiskey speaking. I’m sober and genuinely asking. Can I?”

And with all that amber-lit sky, the perfect afternoon, the music, it had some effect on me.

“Yes, but on a condition.” I said.

“And what’s that?”

“Will you stay here with me for the next one year?”

“Done. Now may I?”

What happened after that is what I remember by the best kiss I’ve had with anyone till date.

So much so, that the panting after the kiss left us on the floor and with the most comforting laugh ever!

“I really like you.” He was in sweats.

“That came fast.” I wasn’t expecting that.

“You knew it, all this time, I know.”

I laughed instead of a reply, and we kissed again.

To be continued…

Bolpur Blues: Episode 6

Episode 5.

I slept dead that night; dead from all the walks, calm from all the anticipation satisfied.

The next day was special for two reasons;

My quirk has come back, with all the weirdness I was looking forward to get entertained with.

And also, one of my favorite actor’s movie’s first trailer was releasing by 11am.

Here in Bolpur, you don’t have much to look forward to; hence you resort to things like your dog’s video call, your actor’s trailer launch, someone to do something stupid so the whole neighborhood can gossip about it for a week.

All of this typical not-asked-for lifestyle was happening to me for the first time, and needless to say, I didn’t like.

Anyway, I woke up around 10 in the morning with a phone call from the quirk, about going for lunch together.

After lunch, we sat under a shade in Kala Bhavan for a smoke.

Wintry afternoon and a tourist-crowded Kala Bhavan is an eternal love saga you’d know if you are a regular in Santiniketan.

We sat, smoked in counters, and gossiped about the tourists that believed everything the guide said, was ecstatic touching a leaf that the guide linked something with Rabindranath Tagore, but we all knew they were cleverly made lies to fool them.

Anyway, the afternoon was going smooth, in smokes, and in conversations, mostly laughing at people.

And suddenly he said, “Can you sing for me?”

“You need a song to digest the bad lunch?” I laughed and tried to shrug that off.

“Just sing, please?”

“Two lines only, Okay? I don’t want to wake up all the dogs here from their siesta.”

I sang the first two lines of a Dylan song, and in the middle of that, he held my hand.

Few minutes from then, he kept holding my hand, and that started getting a little uncomfortable, after a kid from the tourist family started staring at us.

I removed my hand, and we started walking towards the canteen of Kala Bhavan.

And just then, just when he was about to pass a tree, a thin line of waterfall happened from the leaves above.

Apparently, he missed a monkey piss by a fraction of inch.

That gave us our dull life to laugh upon for the next two days, and occasional embarrassment from his side.

Days started going on, more meals started getting done together with him, and life in Santiniketan started being a little less boring.

One afternoon I wanted to show him the place, which has been my evening regular for the last two months. So my Malayalam beat partner and me, we took him to that stretch of outgrown forest behind the theatre house.

Golden hour and that place, with all the silence offered, it catalyzed more conversations.

I don’t really remember what we three talked about, but I thoroughly remember the eyes being filled to brim with passion, and happiness.

The night closed on us, like the days here usually do.

Three drunken pairs of legs, drunk from all the golden hour engulped, we came back for a cup of tea to the marketplace.

Life started getting better here, but well, it was just all about the beginning.

To be continued...

Dear muse

Dear hills,

Writing to you while I am sandwiched between three unknown people who looks like they belong from your territory.
Writing to you while I stoop forward in the last seat of the jeep as it slips down in one of those snaky curves of your green lush body.

I see you taking houses butt-way sticking out from your pine forests. I travel through you as people dig through your skin and put cement and sand to seal that pattern. And you stand, protest-less, mute, observant, still peaceful, still a mother.

I keep coming back, like a little kid does, to the garden where he finds his favourite flower. I keep coming back, guilty to wipe out the last drop of peace you have to offer; but then you dont have a last drop. You keep refilling.

I keep coming back like a voyeur to see how you make love to the clouds, all through the day, from the first drop of sunlight that dilutes all over the sky till the darkness of the night kills the last bit of the sun.

And then there are people who choose you, over advantages of a city, over privileges of an easier life.
I see them choosing you over everything that every other textures of the nature can offer.

And I feel more guilty.

I keep coming back and you keep smiling, arms out with your rhododendrons, mosses out from rocks untouched, valleys that are slowly turning into lifeless cemented snakes.
You breathe into me calm as birds return back trading through a golden sky changing leads, as squirrels carry nuts into one of their holes in your soil that they call home.

People call you an escape. People call you a momentary vacation. People choose you selfishly only when they want to breathe little different from their luxury-spread sofas back in the plains, and I choose you as homecoming.

I choose you because you make me cry just by being there, just by groping the sun back into your curves, just by showing me that after one uphill road of sweat comes another easy downhill of leisure, just by whispering into me oxygen when all my mind can think of is violence.

I have so much more to write to you but just then the jeep passes dangerously almost-hanging the cliff's side, and I see clouds possessively trying to hide your curves with it's shadows from the sun, which shines selectively through the clouds into your valleys.
I have so much more to tell you but just then it begins to rain and I see every bit of you celebrating the showers.
I have so much more to say but your beauty numbs me, and this numbness is so addictive, I keep coming back.

And finally I realise why 'hill' and 'heal' sound similar.


From someone,
who drinks shamelessly from your valleys, the elixir of peace;
a drunkard.

Little aesthetics please?

Mine's been nearly a year in Bolpur. People keep saying there is something very addictive in it's air; once you're here you keep coming back hopelessly for another little bit of dosage.

Well, I can't tell you anything about that. Almost a whole year here and it's been not addiction for me, but a habit, like you brush your teeth in mornings, and let me tell you, some days I simply hate brushing my teeth.
Anyway, the only thing I like here is how disturbingly quiet it is, and how disturbing silence can be for nights, in a place that merged solitude and loneliness for me.

I have a lover here, and a bicycle that I took, borrowed. So, afternoons of cloudy days, or days when the sun is just little less hard on us, we ride away slowly to places undiscovered.

The lover is always the one doing all the labour of circling his feet on the paddle, managing the balance, and also carrying this weight behind him who is mostly shifting in her seat screwing his balance scheme, asking bizarre questions; answering which demands some mind off the street and into contemplation.

I usually have nothing to do, except gazing at slowly fading landscapes, people, trees that hug the sky and lush greenary.
This whole idea of writing came to me when my lover told himself in half consciousness of appreciating a golden-hour lit stretch of green beauty, that how perfect a village it is.

And it occured to me, that indeed it is; a perfect village. Sad that it forcibly keeps trying to change to a town. Imagine the failure a poet would get if he tries his hand at cricket!

And for the most of the journey, I kept looking at how perfect it is. How perfect the sunset looks with the green farmlands in off-focus, and how awkward the smoke looks that is puked out by a nearby factory that the village could do without.

I pass mud houses set in the middle of the stretches randomly, with perfect petite black windows, mostly closed. And when they are open, they let in to the visuals of dark walls with marks left by raindrops that ran down through leaks in the terrace, Hindu devotee pictures in ornamental attire whose brightness has been smudged by regular smoke from incense sticks, polythene bags randomly hanged from hooks on the wall.

I keep passing, and the sky grows darker.

By the time I reach the nearby market, each shops have electrical lamps put up, and I wonder how aesthetically correct it would have been if they had fire-lit lamps put out hanged. How aesthetically soothing it could have been if the perfect evening had a perfect halogen flavour to it!

How perfect it could have been it the perfect village would not have tried to be something that wipes away the remaining beauty from it?!