Bejeche Gache Kokhon, sheh telephone

I didn’t go to work today. Partly because I was sick, partly because I didn’t give a damn. Anyway, I am alone at home in skimpy clothes listening to Bhindeshi Tara and Ferari Mon and Mon Re in loop.

This has been a bluesy Pujo. I don’t really miss anything, feel anything. Maybe I miss being a kid, but that’s about it. I know being in Calcutta wouldn’t change anything. If anything, it would make me sadder, because I’d think of how wonderful it all used to be. I also have a horrible cold which doesn’t allow me to taste anything or smoke anything. What a complete waste.
I miss the language. When I listen to Anindyo Chattapadhya’s lyrics, I remember the language and it’s comforting and also depressing.

Amar raat jaga tara

(My star, who lies awake at night)

Tomar akaash chhoya bari

(Your home touches the skies)

Aami payi na chhute tomaye

(I cannot reach up to you)

Amar akla lage bhari

(And I feel very lonely)

Okay that was a horrible translation. So much is lost. Sigh.

Empty Rooms

I don’t think I’ll ever fully fathom how lonely an empty room feels. Not like the way my parents do. Maybe if you have kids you should have them ten years apart or something. Or ensure when they’re grown up you adopt a few more. I think being a parent is akin to having a job. Just like you don’t know what to do when you retire from your job, you don’t know what to do when your kids are all grown up and don’t need you like they once did. Could I live with something like that? I don’t know. It’s scary, having kids.
I no longer feel the same excitement about shifting homes like I did once upon a time. I don’t think I ever liked it much, but now I don’t even have the energy to protest. I just think of this horribly muddled up future and then zone out. I don’t want to think. It’s too goddamn heavy.
Leaving home this time, I feel a huge, huge void. Like something is changing forever. My brother’s not here, I’m not here, and there is this huge, lonely house with things accumulated for 30 years, maybe more, not knowing what to do with itself.
I also know when I leave this time, I’ll be leaving behind a tradition with a friend. I won’t meet him anymore. I won’t see him anymore. Not in this city. Not in such innocent dreaminess. It’s the end of something glorious, and I know it. Next time, we’ll all be expats, with noisy children and strange spouses. So weird, so weird.

I feel as blue as a whale. Heh.