1.
In Kolkata residences, landlords do not turn on the motor pumps. They simply scratch their paunch, talk shit about how IPL is ruining Indian cricket and what the ministers have been doing to the culture and tradition of the state by ignoring the basic needs of the people. The nostalgia of Kolkata operates on keeping the past alive for those who want to change for the future. It is how they love to pretend. It is how they stay relevant.
The rush of cold water is a necessity for those who live in the apartments of these urban hemispheres. They need it either to clean the dirt off their bodies or to quench their dry throats. He, on the other hand, needs water to keep the sparrows alive and to not let the plants grow on a dry bed of soil. Yet if the pump stays on for a long time, the landlords do not hesitate in creating a din. Noise confounds him, and it is for this reason that Megh does not heed well-intentioned advice from relatives, who to him are random people operating on satiating their own egos, and most often, curiosities. He learnt this lesson while migrating from one flat to another in search of a home. But a barrage of advice always comes unasked for, from people who are said to have seen the old times. He feels that the chaos of these rules and suggestions cuts through the skin of people who thrive by keeping love as their centripetal force.
He comes downstairs every day when the sun brings the dawn to turn the motor on, and again at dusk, to ensure a full tank. He notices how virtue is found in the tongue of stray animals and abhorrence within people who read newspapers to figure out murders, scams and belittled affairs. They prove how sports, too, is a matter of mutiny. He runs back to his room where Piya sits on a half-made bed drinking a cup of coffee; he notices how even a well-made bed gives him the memory of the promises made on it. Sometimes he only likes to scan the room without moving any part of his body to remind himself of the stories that have been written with voices and gasps in its open center and corrosive peripheries.
2.
Piya comes out of the loo with her hair cascading down her back, like the free darkness of midnight. It was a Tuesday night four years back when Megh first saw Piya looking for a book she needed for her research. He had stopped going to his laboratory of bioinformatics after attending a session of Kabir Suman. When the bard sang, Ekla Hote Chaiche Akash Megh Gulo ke Shoriye diye, he knew he would grow into his own obstacle if his words did not rain well enough. But looking at Piya, he felt that she was not worried about becoming anything. Her hands moved carefully over the spine of all the books. Perhaps she was setting a reminder for them. A reminder of her presence. Each one of them moved an inch. If the librarian brought them back to their position, they would remember the entire process.
Piya, on the other hand, saw Megh bleeding his insides out. It should not have been the first look, but it was. His long legs had bruises of a belief – a belief that democracy breathes the best in a democratic country. She held him by his hand as he rested his upper body on her lap without knowing how she was going to take this gesture. His ribs were swollen and her thighs knew how swollen muscles feel. It has been years she left her alma mater, but what she remembers is the neck of her friend who committed suicide while she was on the other side of the phone. She still tells Megh not to play Whiskey Lullaby,the song that was buzzing in her head when her best friend hanged herself like a star from a Christmas tree. She had touched her swollen neck the next day; now Megh had the same. She could not let him leave. Not with a bruised belief. And she did not. What left from within, in some time, is the immense hesitation they had built in avoiding each other’s direct stare.
A few years passed and texting mediums developed. They stayed in touch to discover what they have within their hearts. Piya found out the way Megh operates. He sits on the back of whatever burns a man down and tries to take control of it. Twenty days of incarceration followed by an order of suspension from his job. She could handle everything since he had no regrets for doing what his heart told him to do. Megh, on the other hand, saw his own reflection in Piya. She includes a character in her books that looks and behaves like him, but never peels him to let the world get any ideas. People in this age make a scandal out of anything. An idea of hate and jealousy does change lives. On a late-night call, she told Megh, I don’t know how I am going to write with all the FIRs against me and my publishers. He was not able to answer knowing that two days back a man threatened him with death in his voice because he protested against those who arrested a man for his appetite. I got that vibe from your last book. You were not loud enough and the ending became dull unlike your other books.
3.
They both have been talking about Bhutan and how the place has publishers who do not merely sell stories. Rather they give readers moments where they can find something that belongs to them. Megh has been there before to cherish the compassion of Buddhists, knowing little that it is not their only face. They also take detours to reach the weak nerves of their disciples. But Piya knows that it does not matter how the religion of the land operates. She is interested in pitching a book to a publisher who, she heard, accepts a reading of the manuscript before deciding if the book works. It is because the publisher believes in listening to the writer’s love for the book. In love, the texture and tone of our voice changes. She wanted to let this fascinating publisher hear her crescendos and decrescendos.
Megh flings himself on the bed and takes the calendar from the table beside his bed. He has marked today’s date. Today Piya is leaving for Bhutan to pitch the project she has worked hard upon. He watches as she picks a black skirt to wear to the airport.
“Isn’t Bhutan the happiest country in the world?” he asks with an aching heart.
“Nothing like that, my love!” Piya says as she applies moisturizer on her hands. “The people of Bhutan are content with what they have and so they are happy. They don’t seek things they can’t have. And they refrain from worrying about situations they can’t control. It is a place where people dream less and sleep with nothing but the sound of nostrils.”
Megh tilts his head towards Piya as if he is consuming her wisdom. “Then, how will you be able to pitch a book in which a character is constantly dreaming about getting to her dreams and snatching opportunities that do not come to her in reality? She is never content with what she has. The Bhutanese publishers might not relate to it.”
As she powders her cheeks, Piya looks at him and smiles. “You don’t want me to go alone, right? I know your tricks!”
He scratches his shoulder, then nods in embarrassment, and turns towards her. “I want you to go. I will watch you from here. You know, there’s internet! Tsk tsk tsk!”
Piya finds this sound he deliberately makes funny and childish. “Also, the community leaders here are constantly blabbering to agitate our neighborhood against the relationship we have. We need to get legally married as soon as you come back. I have heard the old man living on the second floor asking others about our surname and where we came from. I want you to go and get this book published. Indians are fond of writers represented by big publishers. Doesn’t matter whether they read any book at all! It’s always about one selfie. Hatred fades before their front camera.”
Walking towards the kitchen, Megh quotes from the Communist Manifesto. “The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society.” He rolls the spoon to blend the chocolate with the Mocha coffee that Piya drinks when she is in a good mood.
After he hands her the coffee cup, his fingers brush through Piya’s hair. A white foamy moustache forms on her philtrum. Perhaps this is how class operates; by not allowing us to see what lives to have a touch of love. She licks it back into her mouth like most people draw a secret back into their minds to keep it for those who do not judge them. Megh watches her tongue move; her eyes wrestle with the cream and chocolate of the coffee. She never leaves them alone, just like she never left Megh to fight his battles alone. Somewhere along the way, when we march towards becoming rebels, we need a person who can hold us back from turning into the monsters we are capable of becoming.
“So, what are you going to do with the work that you have become so tired of?” Piya asks Megh as she rubs his shoulders.
Megh’s arms wrap her waist. He wants to keep her warmth with him before she leaves for the land of contentment. “Perhaps I will muscle through the capitalists to have money for us when you return. Also, the landlord is expecting a rent of three months by the end of this month. So, I will have to settle that too. The neighbors have already filed a complaint against the rainbow festival we kept last month for our friends. It is better to shut them up by settling everything with a three-month rent in advance. I need to do this job, love! You know how the poetry community thrives in our country. We need whatever we earn to keep our stories alive.”
4.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three stones break through the glass window of Megh and Piya’s beautiful abode. The abode that is an easy home for the high-flying pigeons. They had customized the glass panes by blending the images of Game of Thrones and One Day. On one side, Cersie Lannister is blowing her castle down. On the other pane, Emma Morley is reading Jane Austen to Dexter Mayhew. The stones hammer a tunnel to the outside world; Megh and Piya lose the illusion they had lovingly created. They get on the floor to avoid the launch of the flying glass pieces. Megh grabs the edge of the bedsheet and pulls it down, and Piya wraps it around their bodies.
“You bastard! Come outside. We are here to teach you a lesson! How dare you write a poem for an anti-national?”
Piya looks at Megh, “What did you do this time?”
Megh rubs the sweat off his forehead, “I just wrote a poem on the woman who died on the street after she was paraded naked by the hooligans near my hometown. How can it enrage anyone? Isn’t it supposed to make people aware of what’s happening on the side of the country that’s least known?”
Piya clutches Megh’s wrist. It’s shaking with anger and fear. “Hold on to it! The window is closed. They don’t know we are here. It is still eight in the morning. I haven’t heard the ring of the sweeper’s bicycle. If we stay silent, they’ll go. It saved a few of my seniors from the university. Stay calm!”
Megh hears the roar of the aircraft that is going to land at Kolkata airport. He observes Piya getting uneasy because they know that in a few hours a plane will leave for Bhutan. “Could I book a ticket now? I need to be with you. Who knows how dumb I will become after you leave.”
“You stupid boy! You don’t have to ask. Just do it. Till then I’ll pack two pairs of your jeans and two tees in my bag. Don’t ask me to get anything else. You can charge your phone with my charger and I am installing the Digiyatra app for us to get inside the airport faster. Now lift your ass up and just move towards the door.”
Megh releases a sigh of relief and smiles somewhere in the core of his heart. He will investigate that part after getting into the safe space of the airport. He points his left hand towards Piya and asks her to keep her head down. Their shadows aren’t yet visible and the clouds have always been their friends. They run towards the stairs and to the back door. On the way, he peeps out to see how hockey sticks are bruising their car. A few neighbors look on unconcerned from their windows. Violence sometimes distracts people from doing the expected so that they are able to pee and poop better.
5.
Piya and Megh dodge their gaze and reach a place that’s damp and cozy. The roof allows dew to turn into puddles here. The stink of asbestos marinates the fresh air that wants to come inside. It is the spot where they kissed after they had the first look of the apartment. Perhaps in love, we become less afraid of losing our senses. This is a loss that neither affects the share market nor nurtures the pride of hateful leaders. It only simplifies what keeps our heart beating, lungs functional and stomach churning. Now this place is sheltering them from people who enjoy living off a pile of bodies. Piya books a cab and they wait on trembling legs for it to come.
“Have you taken everything that you need to pitch the manuscript?” Megh whispers in Piya’s ear.
“Yes!” Piya nods with fear in her head and love in her chest. “Now tell me, are you hungry? We can go to the lounge and eat something.”
“We’ll decide on the way. The cab is here.” Megh raises his hand and asks the cab driver to turn off the engine. “Hold my hand and come! Let’s get out of here.”
“Why are they after you? What is their problem? They can’t tolerate a single person who points a finger towards their mistakes?” Piya finally explodes as they enter the cab.
“They are satisfied with what they have and whatever they have achieved.” Megh braces his left arm around Piya’s left shoulder and gives it a calm rub. “They want power but not having it wouldn’t disturb them. They’ll simply live by the image they have created by becoming gundas of their lanes. It is a matter of contentment. We want everything in this life since we know that there may or may not be another life for us to live in. They know that the possibility of having another life cannot be nullified. Our desires only make our pen bleed. Like Tina in your book says, ‘Only the spoilt brat of a society knows how good it is to not have an empty heart even after it keeps on breaking’.”
They can see the airport. They can see the trees getting fewer in number and class becoming more pronounced with the attire and vehicle of the passengers. But for now, all they know is that they are going to a place where everyone is content with what they have. One of them is going to pitch her manuscript about losing sprouting morality and owning her desires. The other is going to listen to clenching muscles, rabid tongues, and perhaps a few people who want to hear her just to imagine a life where, wanting anything earnestly is not a matter of disrespect.
Photo by Heera Ramesh on Unsplash
