By Debarati Dutta
The morning media took me aback,
Got a call this morning,
You had departed - I was told.
Flopped on the couch of remorse, I day-dreamt,
Flashes of a decade and a half ago reappeared.
On Saturday nights after work, we smoked on your parapet,
We talked about the stars, music, poetry, religion, chemistry, politics and so much more, We walked the deserted streets of your empty town to the voluptuous fountain in Central Park,
We sat there till dawn to learn your wishes, thoughts, and future.
I heard. I felt. Your dreams were big, unlike mine. You gave me glimpses and trauma of tinsel town.
Your endeavours were like the recycling water of the fountain.
You sometimes hit a dead end and did exactly as a star must do. Rewind. Start afresh. Your valour was in your true will, indomitable spirit, sweet responses to criticisms, witty remarks to sarcasm, and ignorance to cold and pitiless hearts.
You promised to return to the fountain every Saturday night,
But you turned up no more after the run began.
The race to your glory, the marathon of your success tale,
You rejoiced to bask in the feeling of being wanted by your fans, admirers, and attention givers.
Slowly and then quickly you started living for them. Leaving yourself in no time. The joy of your practice and performance was for them.
You hungered for their appreciation, shrieks of entertainment, the urge for more from you, their brazen show of love and desire for you. Didn't you?
On your lonely nights (days might be merrier), of less recognition did you miss me, or us, your home?
I believe, the bosom where the smoke curled up from the Cigar wouldn't have burned the ‘feel’ we had for each other.
You made me believe that I mirrored you.
When people of your origin made you feel ashamed, disgraced, and disowned you for being you, for carrying your Pride, I came to your rescue.
I felt I shared that Pride. I shared you with me. I was you. A mirror.
But mirrors break if hurt.
So did the Spring I felt in June after you passed away.
Your Pride took feathers and my Phoenix, you led your leap, your flight to the sky-rocketing stardom pushing the thunder of miserable balance much lower than your astounding aura. Up you went to the palace you wished for, the throne you craved for, the undivided crown you lived for.
Your tables were full of rosemary to lavenders, glasses of golden liquids, of purest delicacies, But my friend the ostentatious chairs seated so many unfamiliar hearts who buzzed around you without their hearts but for their needs, greed, and pleasures.
They drained out your talent and drank away your vitality.
They paved a devastatingly beautiful grave for you, my love.
I waited for you to return but was our Pride of rising from the ashes, not enough for you to retrace back? I waited for a long time.
Had you stayed to not give up, not to let go, and not to be so far, couldn't we travel back to the yesteryears to redo the Saturday nights of the starry sky on the parapet?
Or walk past the broken lamp post to the fountain where I kept all my letters for you in our treasure trove,
Just like the pirates we role-played as children and not disguised in the mask of unreal glee. The call this morning threw the stone on the mirror of our Pride. I am stoned. I felt all is but a mirage now.
Am I a mirage or you are to me?
By Debarati Dutta
Comments