"Dhoro Jodi Hotath Sondhye…
Tomar dekha amar songe… "
- Baundule
The longing, I couldn't help but crave for what they had. Maybe first love is like that; you can't go back and taste it again. You couldn't make the exact same meal for someone different. You can't love different people in the same way, especially when you yourself have changed.
I with All my heart had prayed for this man's wholehearted love and yet, something felt missing. We felt like a pair of mismatched socks, working fine and comfortable with each other yet mismatched, like he did not belong with me. We had so many things similar, yet we were like two newly orphaned kids trying to find solace in each other.
Every time I put on music that screamed "lost love", I could picture them; Him and Her, Their pale, tired, swampy faces caressing each other's whole being for the last time, inhaling each other's so-familiar tear stained, nauseous fragrances for the last time, longing to smell the same person that they loved for the last time. For the last time on a rainy evening, when the day drowned itself in the wet, cold and dark night, they would have watered the already dead, fruitless tree that had once bloomed between them, because of them. Maybe the mere existence of the tree was the fruit of their love in itself.
The more I realise that I will never be given such care or privacy or Our sapling will never have the hope filled eyes of an innocent child staring beamingly at it, my heart chipped away a little, bit by bit it chipped away, like one of the old moss covered rocks is chipped away out of existence by the roaring waves, on an harsh Oceanside. My heart chipped off, like old paint chipped off the tired, burdened walls of an abandoned castle. I realised that maybe what we have isn't supposed to be a tree after all, maybe it is a weed, a wallflower that had grown without love or care, but out of its own sheer stubbornness to survive and his dry acknowledgement of our wallflower's existence. It had only known tired, careless eyes, eyes that knew it was serious the last hope, yet couldn't bring themselves to admit such a tasteless truth, eyes that were too scared to hope, too scared to love or care for anything again, eyes that shut close like touch-me-not leaves as soon as they encounter withered flowers and dried petals at the foot of our sapling.
Legend has it that History repeats itself, it does the Time is witness to it, yet the Time knows that although History would repeat itself every aeon in a macroscopic cosmic way, History doesn't have enough power to repeat itself on microscopic existence. The microscopic beings are never the same again. The Past is never exact to the Future , they could be similar, mirror and mimic each other like twin musicians yet not the same. And with only that unique fact, that our wallflower of love took birth on, it yet keeps growing and yet thrives on the gentle soil of letting go along with the mellow sunlight of silent prayers and sleepless nights spent carelessly in restless crying. Our wallflower still survives, watered by our tears.
Both of us are broken, trying to fill each other's cracks with the golden liquid called Love and the silver of Silence, gurgling up from our the innermost corners of our tired hearts, from the chambers of forbidden longing for something that only exists in our imaginations, unique to ourselves yet that cross each other sometime. And I find myself thinking, hoping, telling myself "some day, in some other birth, you will love me".
What is the real tragedy? A happily ever after or a lost love? What is more tragic to stay or to leave?
Written by: Tripti Biswas
Behind the lens: Krantik Das
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