Fiction
A letter unread . . .
Prologue:
He does not expect to get a letter from her as he did not ask her to write one. Then again, how would he? No one writes letters these days. Or perhaps no one has written letters in a long time. Letter writing has become old-fashioned, obsolete and almost extinct. But she cannot help writing one for her own sake and also because of the fact that that she has not yet grown any fascination for electronically produced mails to be sent through the speediest of a much valued technology of communication. To her, it seems as if everyone, for that matter the whole world, is always in a state of emergency and that is how sending and receiving messages of whatever form that be has become the mainstay of our life and work. She fears that one day, maybe sooner rather than later, the telephone might be dislodged as well, if not completely then to a considerable extent. This particular thought in her evoked queer feelings, prompting someone to comment that, under the circumstances, she would definitely be regarded as an 'illiterate', at least in America. It was a phrase she thoroughly enjoyed. Expressions like 'colour blind' and 'tone deaf' began reverberating in her ears along with 'computer illiterate', ascribed to her only recently. She even aspired to get her name down in the Guinness Book of Records under this category. The guy was outwitted momentarily. Contemplating, once again, writing the letter, her imagination took her back to visual flashes of the mind where she recalled the words, 'Someone somewhere wants a letter from you', inscribed on the body of the bright red mail van --- On Her Majesty's Service --- that she would watch with much fascination in the early Sixties and still remembers with much fondness. She wonders how much one's feelings and emotions metamorphose with the passage of time. Perhaps very little, perhaps not at all, she thinks. Then she sits down and starts writing the letter, however antiquated the practice might be, with as much vividness as her heart can put into it, but succinctly. Since she calls him 'Priyo', she writes 'Dear Priyo' in salutation, only to realize immediately that she has committed a tautological error. She crosses out 'Dear'.
* * * * * * *
Priyo,
Having got used to my course of life and that too over a very long time, I became somewhat like an insensate rock, losing much of my feelings, be they of happiness, well being, pain or whatever. Dead to the world, I reached a stage where I developed an imperviousness to such sensations and have grown quite well adjusted to it the way one copes with one's circumstances and ultimately learns to be helpless. A kind of fatalism sets in. Ironically it suited me. After all, are not human beings endowed with that unique characteristic of adaptability that makes one life different from another?
Then you came from nowhere, most unexpected, least to be seen and believed, raising a riotous storm in the season of winter. There must have been a shower of rain as well at that time, which is not unlikely in winter. It increases the temperature, the cold urging a need for warmth. And exactly this is what happened in me. Nazrul's romantic song, pashaner bhangale ghuum / ke tumi shonar chhonwaen, aptly describes my feelings at the time. So does the theme in Tagore's celebrated poem Nirjhorer Shopnobhongo where, observing the beauty and radiance of the gradually rising sun, the poet finds his heart fill with a celestial joy that, penetrating his heart, dispels the melancholy which had kept it covered so long. And the joy goes on flowing like a waterfall, he explains.
Priyo,
I couldn't but borrow from these great masters because I am not adept at expressing myself with words as you do. Oftentimes I wonder how these artistes of words weave all kinds of emotions into a tapestry of life where lies something for every state of human life to draw from.
Perhaps I have digressed from what I was supposed to tell you. You brought sparkling mountain water to a land of drought. The thirsty, parched stretch of land drank all of it, desiring more and more. You became my oasis in an impassable journey through deserts. But deserts do have their own kind of storms, much severe, much harsher than the nor'westerlies that we experience in our months of Boishakh and Joishtho. When we met, it felt pleasantly warm in winter. Came spring, wherein there is a very special occasion to celebrate on the first day of Boshonto every year (your birthday) that soon is to be followed by the advent of the season heralding our own new year that brings along all its fury and turbulence.
You could not bear the jolt of it and took out all that went in you on me. You became aggressive and oftentimes vengeful. As much concerned as I was, yet I did not lose heart and was ready to go through thick and thin. I never made the mistake of misunderstanding you. I couldn't, even if I tried. For me it was love, a love pure and sacred. And that is why when in your extreme anger you would denigrate me, I would still miss you and feel the pangs of separation. As society came between us, you became a changed person. Your emotional involvement tapered off. And mine?
My innocent belief, innocent love and supreme faith in my commitment to life centering around you remained as it had from the beginning. Whatever might occur, thoughts of you would remain uppermost in my mind. My naivete would be misconstrued as foolishness or carelessness. Amidst all such tumultuous episodes, I remained steadfast in my belief, which belief turned into and remained one-sided for a long time. Meanwhile you veered away from me and revived your old relationships to keep yourself going. That reminded me of a real life story where punishment was meted out to someone who did not know what his offence was. My Achilles' heel is my habit of speaking the truth that comes so naturally to me.
Priyo,
Does is sound like I am flattering myself? I am only narrating the obvious. I am writing this letter to you to relieve myself of the agonizing state of mind I have borne so long. Winter, spring and summer passed. I waited for the onset of the rains, wishing that the downpour would merge with the outpourings of my heart. Much remained pent up in you, I recollected. But it did not work that way. It turned out to be a most tantalising season when I vacillated between hope and no-hope. I suffered and endured much in the process, learned to believe that it was pre-ordained. Once again I tried to derive solace from nature.
Then came autumn. All of autumn is another gorgeous season that more often than not passes rather unnoticed, perhaps because of the profusion of colour and beauty in the floral landscape of nature in spring, about which all of us become so eloquent. I guess if spring brings a variegation arousing awe, autumn creates a marvellous combination of white and blue, giving life to an azure, crystal texture to the sky --- with its floating clouds of pulverized white, shiny cotton. To me, autumn stands on an equal footing with spring. It is my favourite season, if you will remember it.
Once again, I am afraid, I have digressed. But you will allow it in a letter that is personal and perhaps a bit too expressive than usual, won't you? Those pearly drops of dew could not bring back that 'you' in you. You would not call me or answer my increasingly fewer phone calls. It felt as if you had freed yourself of me. A great silence descended at your end, making me feel like an accused. A constant feeling of separation gnawed at the very depths of my heart. Your silence said it all. It exacerbated the condition.
******
Time would not stand still. It appeared in a most unexpected way. Even as I was bereft of hope, it shook a magic wand for me, one my ears could not decipher at first. An auditory illusion went on ringing a bell.
Yes, that was you! An undercurrent of emotions was about to overflow my heart, brimming over in quiet passion. My patience had shaken the magic wand, creating a brilliantly bright yet mellow rainbow across my horizon. You may see it as the final scene in the play of my life and feel glad about it.
But, Priyo, I am afraid I cannot end my letter on a happy note.
Yours,
'R'
* * * * * *
Epilogue:
She frantically searches for a word approximating 'biroho' in English but does not quite get it to her satisfaction. It is an enduring feeling she experiences, whether he is far or near. She wonders if she will be able to cross this divide of separation in this world. At this point, Nazrul pensively reverberates within her: 'Hey priyo / tomar amar majhe biroher parapar / kemone hoibo paar'.
She loves this song because of two reasons. One, it tells her story. Two, she calls him Priyo. She believes, though, that this state of separation is only fleeting, that in life after death barriers will be no more.
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