পালিক ৭
The Moment After: Nabarun Moitra
H
e stood there abject and forlorn – and as bewildered as if the weight of the world had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. The other man, battle weary and cynical, watched transfixed from some distance behind him. What fascinated him was uncertain; perhaps the heat and dust of the rush hour evening traffic that seemed to pass the other by. They made quite a couple, these two, with their near identical coarse working-man’s attire and apathy, but there was also a whole world of difference between them. If anyone cared to look. Naturally, no one did. If you were waiting at the Shyambazar Five-Point Crossing at six p.m. of an oppressive July evening, you wouldn’t look either. Hordes of them infest the alleys and by-lanes of big cities. They are foul-smelling execrations when they reveal themselves. Otherwise they are non-existent. From the torrid, sunbaked plains and flood ravaged lands of the North they migrate in thousands, each fleeing his personal demon: implacable penury, plundering politicians, an emasculated officialdom, children dead from starvation, the specter of claustrophobic, incestuous love, the inevitability of catastrophe; to live unremarkable lives die unremarkable deaths on the footpaths, gutters and shadows of Civilization. And, yet, today one of such stood fascinated, by he knew not what, at the specter of another of his kind. Abruptly, the first, as if from sudden portent, sat down on the roof of the stunted roadside temple of some obscure deity, his bare dusty feet amongst the bare dusty marigold garlands and the few scattered coins. The watcher was nonplussed for a moment and then the vehemence of his own indifference to this sacrilege struck him. Unconsciously almost, he raised his right hand to his forehead. And so they remained, the Watcher and the Watched, ignorant of space, time, string theory, while in endless chaos all around them the city, the world, the universe pulsated in primal rhythm with its sun-moon-star-clusters, its superstars, white dwarfs, red giants, its baby-faced cricketers lusting after sickly-sweet biscuits in giant ramshackle hoardings, its cringing honesty, its brazen treachery, its malevolent religions, its smirking atheisms, its assertions and denials, its arrogant Neo-Nazi Texan, its avuncular Middle East messiah-mass-murderer toppling twice, his statue one day, his body the other on the end of a secular rope, its body bags and its bags of usurped cow fodder, its ancient tramcars and its gleaming automobiles trailing streams of dog and human blood, its brilliant immediate light-color-shadow tinsel and, on the other side of synthetic illumination, the prospect of eternal nameless darkness. And so they remained, these glorious proletariats, trusting in fate, in Rahu-Ketu, in him of Bamiyan fame, he who not only owned the Government, but also occasionally governed. And the Watcher’s soul involuntarily cried out for a pinch of Khaini. And the rainclouds of Asharh gathered unseen above, touching them all with the mortal caress of unbearable humidity, sweat, pickled odors of long-dead bodies, souls eager to be set free. Then the first drops of rain were beginning to fall, eager and blood warm, and, as expected, the Twins appeared; on this occasion out of an alley that smelt of juicy phuchka-water and human urine, their noses wrinkling as if from the smell of fresh water on stale dust, searching reluctant prey eager for the succor of final release; for malnourished chicken in their cramped baskets, পালিক পড়ুন o পড়ানঃ
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পালিক ৭ straining towards an eternity of endless wine and succulent houris in their final destiny of Murg Musallam. They blended well with the crowd, the Twins, with their wrinkled terry-cot shirts and dusky pants, shuffling along on worn Hawaii-slippers until they came abreast the Watcher. Then they paused, turned and stood facing him without speaking, obscuring his view of the Watched for a moment, asked him to wait for a few years with a momentary shimmer of their horizon-less eyes, and then rapidly moved on towards the Watched One, still sitting on his bird-shit splattered shrine, as if on urgent, inexorable purpose. On reaching him, they stood one on each side of him but a step behind, as though to confer upon him a slight hint of deferential scorn, a brace of nondescript hangmen at the foot of the gallows down whose steps their charge would never walk down again. The rain was gathering momentum and it was getting a little hazy for the Watcher to track things accurately anymore. Also the lust for Khaini was becoming intolerable. A moment, two, and then they were gently bending down and taking him by the arms. As they stood him up, a sigh like the zephyr from a unicorn’s nostrils escaped him and wafted towards the Watcher, embracing him and filling him with an unimaginable sorrow, and then spread outwards until it had touched everyone in the faceless crowd. Then, its purpose served, it drifted upwards into the stars, pausing just a while near the rooftops for one last, lingering look. The trio started drifting towards the mouth of the alley. For an infinitesimal moment they stood face to face: the player, the audience, the grim referees; the Watcher and the Watched, looking each other in the eye. And beyond the common consciousness of greenfields-rivermud-cowdung-ricecrops-procreation, for the first and final time in their millennia old existence, they looked deep into each other’s nucleus. And shuddered in joy, in misery, in perfect understanding at the inexplicable blueness of the skies and the bitterness of the waters they found therein. But only for an instant. Then the Watcher was conscious only of an overpowering envy for one whose wait was over. The trio entered the alley. The Watcher reached for his pouch of tobacco and lime. ***** Rajinder knew that he was allowed only one look back and was determined to make the most of it. So he looked hard and long while his escorts waited patiently. The excited crowd had stopped the Government bus and was busy emptying it of passengers before they set it on fire. The carcass of the pie dog had stopped bleeding. Rajinder’s body lay on the pavement as it had slept on countless nights before, after soul-scorching days. A Hospital hearse would come for it soon. It was one minute passed six in the evening. The eagerly awaited monsoon had arrived.
পালিক পড়ুন o পড়ানঃ
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পালিক ৭
A resident of Lumding in the Nagaon District of Assam, Dr. Nabarun Moitra is a medical practitioner, engaged in private practice in the semi-urban, railway township of Lumding. He likes to write in his spare time, and his musings are often reflective of the fact that Lumding has its fair share of idiocies and idiosyncrasies, much like every other secluded pocket of people engaged in more or less similar professions. Dr. Moitra’s writings focus on those traits which make living in Lumding a unique experience.
পালিক পড়ুন o পড়ানঃ
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