Another sleepless night. Another headache, another early morning to myself. The flowers rocked back and forth, gentle rhythmic movements; they sang in a chorus-a soulful symphony. The tune of the Earth, its longing to come alive, sow seeds of beauty in brown, moist mud. I sat with my chin on my knees, hands buckling the legs together. These tenacious blossoms I saw by the roadside-determined to dance gaily, utilising every last resource from dusty pavements and polluted air, thriving on raindrops and throttling footsteps. Now, they were vibrant garlands of a pale violet in my naked front yard. The first sign of life, a face of hope. A promise of a better tomorrow in moments of extreme chaos, an assurance that even filth can find fruition.

They rebelled against adversity, chaotic energy that filled each petal. Devoid of fragrance, they bore proof that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and if anything, flaws make you real. Budding leaves peeked from underneath, soft green resonated with life; birthed through love, nurtured with care and embraced by a mother's warmth.

In my world, the reality was a distorted dream. While I winged through the sky, soaring across seas in one, the other handicapped me into a flightless bird. Hurled to the ground, thrashed and beaten I sought solace in optimism. The results could be horrible, but wretched souls sustain amidst hopefulness. And I refused to hold back, even an inch.

Half of Kolkata still slept behind shut windows and filtered air, heavy curtains and nauseating mosquito repellents. I watched as the sun rose on the horizon-a burning vermillion hue. I perceived the might and vigour of the rays while they soaked the ground with warmth and affection of a doting parent, rising, further high until minutes multiplied to hours and the canvas lit with a bright golden halo.

It was seven-thirty. I knew Mamoni's hysterics had started already. "Where is she? Has she gone somewhere? Babin, go and find your wife, she doesn't know this place!" she would scream, rooms thudding with shrill shouts. Siddhartha would still cuddle the pillows, his first love. "Babin, don't you have any worries? Are you deaf, I'm talking to you for the past ten minutes!"

She would leave no stone unturned, looking through every nook and cranny, even under the bed perhaps, chasing me like a rat. In short everywhere but the front yard, as if my limit was within the four walls of the house.

Wasn't it what they wanted from the very beginning?

Their idea of keeping me safe, protected.

Her concern loud, so keen on leaving a presence; too good to be true. Sometimes I prayed to be wrong, it offered consolation-a kind of relief in the face of searing pain and throbbing wound.

"Oh my God, you're sitting idle here! I have been running up and down the stairs! My heart is beating now."

And who asked you to, Mamoni?

On any other occasion, I would roll my eyes, but these days were different. The more the time spent, the more I acquainted with the coldness that lurked behind an apparent warm exterior. In the city, things differed. Here people rationed intimacy, bonding and relationship. It breathed success and triumph, exhaled expectations and failure.

I treaded with soft steps, the moist soil dented under pressure. Mamoni grumbled about pending chores while I longed for my little patch of heaven-paradise on Earth. Growing up, Ma talked about someplace else-a land of good food and abundant charms. My little mind wandered away, floating on clouds where fairies and unicorns glided past, hopes and aspirations bred peace and harmony. As years rolled by, I modelled miniature heaven, right here on Earth. It acted as a defence mechanism-a never-failing friend. And now, the garden had become my escape, dawn in the dusk, rain amidst a drought. I ceased to believe in promises of a thereafter, I vowed to create it here.

                              ********

My pen scribbled words. I robed the pages with black and blue ink, sometimes a brush of red to add colour; my jumbled emotions breathed with flamboyance, sometimes poetic and most often evocative of dormant wishes. Kash..kash..kash..the sharp tip of gels rustled against dry sheets, like swaying trees after a gust of wind. A far cry from mundane days of pretence. I lived through stories-each hour something new, to look forward to. A mind of their own, they danced on beats. Weaving words into sentences those writings became a world where tears transformed into pearls of hope, manipulation manifested as love and care. Almost two months into the marriage, I developed an addiction-my diary.

20.5.2011

Random thoughts

Yesterday it rained. Violent and crazy, the wind wreaked havoc. The sky wailed like a child, innocent yet throwing tantrums. It's a wonder, isn't it? The many miracles of nature. In the morning I found two koyel eggs-broken. The children are dead, still, their mother sang. Hope-I guess that's what kept her alive, gave her courage. The feeling that rears humans with an idea of a better tomorrow, that same one told the bird to sing, for herself and her little ones, those who will see the rays of the sun, glide through the air.

I don't know when or how, but one day I will live these pages. Maybe not now, maybe in the next five years or a decade, who knows! But, I believe. It's the way my heart protects.

Light dispels dark. It has and it will.

I rest. The clock struck a bell; a reminder. A bird jutted out-a nest with twigs and leaves, almost like the original. In the city nothing is original. The bird chirped a merry tune; twelve times, the usual noon one.

And with it came Mamoni's call, sharp like the milkman's morning doorbell.

"The doctor advised having my lunch strictly at twelve. Sreya, is it ready?"

I hurried out, the pen fell and splashed some ink. A breeze swept through the pages, stopped at a blank one-waiting to be worded. Some other time, it would have to be put on hold for now.

Downstairs buzzed with laughter and holler. A single house, two worlds, varied people. I enjoyed my company, they preferred others'. Many said I was self-centred, to them the word rhymed differently. Not me. Yes, I centred around the self, my mind swayed to its tune-free and untamed, rest was noise. These people knew nothing but noise, they revelled in a universe of make-believe, everybody trying to put up a show- Look at me, look at me.

The Chatterjee's arrived hand-in-hand. They would talk for hours on end; blabbermouth, that's what Mrs Chatterjee was. "My son bought us a car this weekend, our anniversary gift. He cares a lot", she would say. Yes, caring enough to plan sending these two to an old-age home. We all knew, yet listened with clipped lips. Das uncle waddled in and flopped straight on the sofa, the mattress dipping under pressure. He rubbed his round belly and complained about his wife. "Women and their stuff. Late Kate." This couple always twinned. Still, the neighbourhood hummed rumours—from Das aunty being quite in demand at forty-eight to the legitimacy of her three sons.

Two ladles of dal filled a small bowl, some rice and a mixed vegetable curry devoid of potatoes sat beside. "Mamoni, your lunch."

"Where's my fish?" her brows crouched into a curve.

I smiled, handed over some sweets to the guests and placed a fish head beside her bowl. A look of satisfaction flashed and she dug in.

"Just bland dal and rice?" Das uncle asked.

"Strict diet. The doctor doesn't want any flare-ups in her sugar level. Mamoni's on insulin."

Most of these lazy afternoons my mother-in-law and Mrs Chatterjee indulged in casual chats, old women and neighbourhood tales. At fifty-eight, Mrs Chatterjee fell two years short of being qualified as a senior citizen. Her grumbles for low interest rates on Fixed Deposit Schemes soon became a hot topic and came second to Mamoni's constant blabbers about our family's privileged heritage-the famous Raja Radhakanta Deb and his endless nonsense. As a man who licked his way up the social ladder, oiling the British and aiding in their plunder, pride was the last thing anyone could feel, yet somehow she thought the boastfulness was worth it.

But, today was different. On his mother's insistence, Siddhartha invited her friends for lunch. "Pulao and mutton curry-an an indisputable combination", they all agreed on the menu.

"Delicious! Are these handmade?" Mrs Chatterjee's spoon forked right through the middle of the coconut dumplings, her eyes closing with instant gratification. "Your daughter-in-law is talented, I must say."

"Sreya cooks well. Though I don't let her much, after all she's still new!"

"It's true." I grinned. "Mamoni adores me a lot, don't you?" We shared a look, a pregnant pause, an acknowledgement. I know you to the very bones.

I arranged the plates. Siddhartha rushed in and sat, his typical corner place. A beautiful scent of whole spices wafted in the air once I removed the lid. Das uncle rubbed his hands, took a spoon and dived in. Casual conversations filled the table, the food got lost in the process. I observed Siddhartha indulging in talks, more excited than required, laughing at some lame joke the Chatterjee's shared. How he gulped down glasses of water once the heat from chillies kicked in. I observed how Das aunty nudged every time her husband went for a second helping. "Subho, you have cholesterol", she warned. Mamoni positioned herself directly opposite, at the head of the table—the matriarch, assessing and estimating each of my gestures, never failing to look away.

"Say, Mrs Chatterjee-"

"Call me Puravi, Puravi aunty for you. I'm more than just a Chatterjee."

I like this woman.

"I was glad to know about your annual donations to the local orphanage. Please inform if I can be of any help. I will volunteer."

"What a pleasant surprise! Sure, why not? So, next month is their second anniversary, you want to join? Having young, energetic people on board is a welcome change."

"I have always wanted to, you know. There wasn't a scope before." I shrugged.

"By the way, I didn't know Baba was involved in charity too?"

Mamoni stopped whispering, her look hardened. "I never felt the need to, it wasn't worth declaring..how did you know?" she asked.

"Mister Kaur called yesterday, he wa—"

"Who?" Puravi aunty spoke midway, her fingers still cupping the rice.

"Mister Kaur? Oh, I forgot! He called a day back. None was in the house, so I received..Is there a problem?"

Mister Chatterjee blinked. A brief silence ensued—no sound, not even a clink from the cutlery. It was unnerving-like the split second after a bolt of lightning, just before the sky growls and unleashes its wrath. Siddhartha straightened, his jaws firm. The others sat anchored-their eyes on him.

"What else did he say?" Mamoni enquired.

"Nothing much..introduced himself as Baba's childhood friend, spoke highly of him. Said he funded many children in his organisation.."

"But, that's impossible! He's long g-"

"I think you misheard. It must have been somebody else." As usual Mister Chatterjee completed on his wife's behalf. But, why?

Could she give away something?

"No. I'm quite sure. We talked for ten straight minutes. He spoke of Mamoni and Siddhartha too."

They exchanged glances. The ambience had changed-from noise to silence, loquacity to reticence. My confusion multiplied, two and two didn't add up to four.

A thud..a crash..a grunt of frustration.

Siddhartha jumped with a start, hurled a glass tumbler. It shattered against the wall.

"Babin!" Mamoni cried out. "Someone, please stop my child!"

Nobody moved. They stood like mummies, stoned to death, paled to perfection.

"Bloody motherfu-" Siddhartha kicked the table leg. "Why? Why again?"

With a sudden leap, he flounced out of the living area. His feet stormed up the stairs, stomping their way into our second-floor bedroom. Seconds later, the door closed with a resounding thud.

Mamoni collapsed to the ground. Her body shook with violent jerks-hiccups and stammers. She panted and convulsed, lips quivering through clenched teeth. "Ba-babin..Babin.." she could only stutter.

"Easy, easy, Supriya Di. Hush! It will be alright. He will understand, we are here." Das aunty held her in a tight embrace, mumbling consolations. Her husband scurried into the kitchen.

The incident pricked and punctured, it clawed at my soul. I didn't know what triggered the reaction but, at that moment these people were helpless, Siddhartha—the most. He needed help, any form of support. We were as different as chalk and cheese but, there wasn't any harm in trying! I rushed upstairs.

"Siddhartha?" I called.

"Please open the door. Do not complicate the problem than it already is."

I banged again and again. Twice..thrice. When he didn't reply for the fourth time, a fear began to crawl, squeezing the bottom of my abdomen. I dreaded to think.

"Goddamit! Open this bloody thing! Or else I'll-"

A creak..the door parted, just a fraction.

A sliver of light.

I advanced with caution. My feet crunched over fragments: sharded potteries and clay figurines-the ones Mamoni collected through years. As I walked further, hopping over scattered pens and torn books, the room manifested as a ransacked mess: open drawers and littered floor. For a second, I worried about my diary. A photo lay shredded, pieced with force, whose I had no idea. It reflected raw anger, sheer desperation.

A prick, a cut. Shit! I stepped over a broken vase. I limped.

Water drizzled from the washroom sink. A hint of red on the white porcelain and I knew I had to nurse his bruised knuckles. I grabbed some cotton and a disinfectant, two old band-aids which probably wouldn't work.

I spoke without wanting an answer. "Why unleash this fury on yourself?"

He cowered as I approached, crouching against the wall. Sweat dripped in a steady stream. His eyes were wild-with panic, darting everywhere-frantic and searching for an escape.

This isn't looking good. I scooched down.

"What happened?"

My hand stretched, sat on his shoulders. Another cupped his face. "I need to clean."

He shivered but obliged.

Better.

I blew air into the wound, dabbing the wet cotton, putting mild pressure. He quivered.

"I know what suffering in silence feels like. Care to share?"

He exhaled-a long breath, rested his head against the wall and then looked at me-distant and vacant. Then, turned away.

"What are you afraid of, Siddhartha?"
He needs to speak. Anyhow. Somehow.

I sat beside him, quite close. He shuddered at the intrusion of space.

I took a long breath. This is going to be difficult. "I fear confined areas. You have seen our house, right? It's big..there were two more rooms, now they're in ruins and remain locked. I had once complained to Baba, something Dada did, I forgot what. I was six, maybe. Dada was ten or eleven. He said we will play hide and seek, and I got inside a cupboard. He knew but locked it from outside. Still now, I have this trauma..claustrophobia."

"Our society fosters bond through family, relatives..friends. At the same time, it preaches self-reliance, independence. All those shit aren't always for humans, it's okay to be vulnerable. It's perfectly alright. Masculinity is a quality, but it shouldn't define who you're, who you can be." I squeezed his palm-an assurance.

I'm here, with you.

We sat for hours, the process therapeutic. It lightened a burden, one I carried for years. The raw intensity, the pain of loneliness, the ache of not finding another one like you-an injured soul. Now, all Siddhartha needed was time, space and most important, himself.

I got up.

"Wait." He tugged. "Please, wait."

His voice wavered, it buried cries for help-just like mine. The feelings we both hid, I felt them transmitting..from his fingertips to mine, our joined hands-warmth and hopelessness all at once, a feral concoction. Our naked emotions came together, took a shape-from the unmanifest to the manifest. The joy of being united, in sorrow, through shared afflictions-akin to meeting a lost friend. We gazed at the distance. The balcony overlooking the pond-a stretch of blue above, murky green below. Small ripples, fishes, the sky, the water and us. No words, no hugs, no comfort, only tears.

I closed my eyes, relishing the intimacy. And for the very first time, I attained a realisation-we were both insecure, inhibited, frightened and lonely. Might be, what we needed was each other..just, might be.

**********

We slept, together. This time no line separated. No, we didn't have sex. It was more than just love-making. Love isn't always about touching and groping, it's an emotion that transcends physical boundaries. The body is a mere accessory that seeks gratification through pleasure often misinterpreted as love. I felt it, he did too. Now, we stood at the edge of our limitations, at the boundary of what we wanted and what we got. A push...a shove..it was all we needed, all we lacked.

But, I was glad, didn't regret an ounce of the effort invested. He put his head on my lap-a child with his mother. Might be he sought consolation, comfort. To an extent, relief too.

But, me?

I'm broken! A wingless butterfly.

Two bleeding hearts trying to find solace..with each other or from each other? I dared not think, wanted these moments to last.

"And then what?" I asked.

"Nothing..can you keep a request?" he whispered.

I kept quiet, we never shared an equation where I could say yes without even blinking. I wanted to, but somehow there was this nagging feeling that gnawed at the back of my head. A voice murmured-This isn't gonna last.

'Fuck you.'

"What?" I said.

"Ma should never know of this.."

Your mother's a bitch.

I sensed his dormant sadness, anguish, the dejection. The brimming tears that meandered down in a slick stream-I resonated with the regret, the agony of growing up with an overbearing parent.

People like us are a sucker for love. But, deep down we are screwed. We think we are normal, the problem lies with the other person. The truth is harsher. We camouflage our insecurities because the reality is-we are some goddamn fucked up people leading some fucked up lives and fallen into fucked up circumstances.

And this, I was sure he agreed.

We connected through our fragility-so similar yet so different.

Astonishing!

Thus, I concluded-the longevity of this would be one single day, just this night. For tomorrow, he would carry on with his usual life, I with mine. And all these would vanish. Pooff! Into the dust-a day's trash, emptied into the junkyard.

I yawned and stretched. Sleep beckoned but, I hoped to dream-me and him, of us. I cherished the moments before they blew into fine grains of dust. I prayed for sleep to delay so that once again we could weep together, come closer and closer until our thoughts beat in unison.

Because no matter the adversity, the heart still longs, a rose blooms, a wish generates and love blossoms..I wished ours did.