November Retold
When I wrote my “November” did I ever know that things will change thenceforth? I thought I’m one of those people who hate changes, but see how things never stay the same! You’d be glad to know that the rain did fulfill its promise after all…but then why don’t I feel intoxicated by it anymore?? Have I already coaxed myself out of it? Why does it seem like a distant yesterday? Did I just wake up from a twelve year old reverie??
Meanwhile… spring is here.
The ridge beyond our flat seemed unaffected by the wintry chill and had maintained its greens throughout. I’m glad the bougainvilleas are in full bloom again- glaring stridently under the sun: in its majestic magenta. There’s something in the spring air that makes me bloom too. Perhaps it reminds me of dad- with his spade and axe, tending his blue and pink carnations, and me waiting for my birthday…
Nas, Tapu and I were having out famous tea-session, when his letter arrived. I don’t remember how I reacted at first, but my friends later remarked that I froze and then I trembled-as if someone has just proposed!! Preferring to read it later on in solitude, I somehow gulped down the tea that was already turning cold. I hate cold tea…iced tea is a different thing though.
As I tore open the blue envelope, his tiny careful handwriting spilled forth. Though things between us have changed, his commitment to the scented Fort Fx 0.6 hasn’t. I know, how he must have wriggled on his inherited pre-historic teak-wood chair, fighting with words…and how his scented Fort Fx 0.6 must have fidgeted between his left thumb and index. He’s a lefty. But there wasn’t much to share… Seems, we’ll need time to make up for the lost time. .. But then sometimes gaps turn fences. Don’t they??
This evening, when I was clearing up some mess in my old trunk, I came across one of my college notebooks and I casually flipped through its pages. Some three years back, bored to death by K.B’s take on “death of a salesman” I had written at the inner back cover of my notebook:
Forget the bygone, I will not.
But think of it again, will I ever??
As I stared back at my own lines, I struggled with my see-saw: memory and forgetting…memory and forgetting… When did I write it? And why? In what context? I had forgotten all about it. But, seriously, the gap is too wide, and the gravel less…the walk’s long, but d moon has betrayed…let them know, it was beautiful...but now: very late.
Let me assure: forget the bygone, I will not.
But think of that again…I’ll neither.
Let the old game begin: the struggle of man against power and the struggle of memory against forgetting…
p.s. …And I pulled out my cane chair to my beloved balcony and continued reading Milan Kundera.
