“Pearls of my eyes, today I seek over again to solace you. Be
still; I won’t let you sneak out through ages of love homed in my eyes.
Be gentle; ease me off to sleep, for I am awake since you left me. I am seized
in the wait endless, staring forever at the skies.”
Mr. Partho Ghosh mumbled these words, his voice heavy, and
eyes strained from insomnia. In between closing and reopening of his eye lids,
he stared at the night sky through the open window close to his squealing bed.
Stars displeased him.
He wanted sleep to take over him, but she had been meanest and rudest to him
lately. This sixty two year old man, with his mind mused in some belonging he
cared to keep alive forever, lived in a small one bedroom flat alone. His flat
has a leaky roof and it damps after rain. People in general would hate that,
but Partho loves it. He loves rain.
I watch Partho every time. I wish if I could help him out.
But I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.
II
Mr. Partho was a poet, not by profession but yes he was very
much passionate about it. His wife used to be the agonist in all of his story
telling poetry. Things haven’t changed even today.
“Hello Mr. Partho, how are you doing?”, greeted Mr. Kashyap
at the grocery store.
Mr. Kashyap was the fresher for the job from which Mr. Partho
retired. Mr. Partho never accepted his promotion. He retired from the post
which he had when he joined the company. He knew promotion brings ‘transfer’,
and he never wanted to leave his home and his wife. He wanted to be in this
town for ever and ever. Because it was here in this town where he met her for
the first time.
“I am fine Babu Saheb, just the mornings have been a bit
cruel to me. Nights are also no different”, replied Mr. Partho.
“I suppose you are not getting sleep properly. Your eyes tell
the whole story.”
“I am sure they do, but I tell you that the sweet and
memorable part of the story they don’t tell, and you will never know of it”,
replied Mr. Partho.
“I see. But I suggest you that at this age you must not live
alone. Moreover your health has been consistently declining.”
“What should I do then? Get myself registered at
Briddhashram? I mean what you call as Old Aged Home? Hmm?”, questioned Mr.
Partho stiffly.
“No no. I didn’t mean that. I mean you should invite your
relative at your place or go to live at theirs sometime.”, replied Mr. Kashyap.
“Hehehe. No thank you. I have only one relative, and she
visits me every year. I think that time of year has already arrived.”, and with
this Mr. Partho walked away.
Mr. Kashyap kept trying to figure out what Mr. Partho kept
mumbling as he passed across him.
Pains of Partho weaken me. I feel trembled. Even though I
know what the old man wants but I can do nothing. After all I am also a mere
toy in hands of the almighty.
III
I can see him from here, Mr. Partho has resumed with his poetry.
Perhaps his diary of poetry can turn out to be the best seller if published,
but Mr. Partho would never want to publish them.
“The chill, now the wind has contained. Kissing my neck with
the breeze some sweet some sour. And in this breeze I…”,
Mr. Partho was gumming these words but then stopped as came
the knock on his door. Mr. Partho walked towards the door. And the knock came
for the second time.
As the door got opened, there she was holding a dishware;
perhaps she had cooked something special and thought of sharing with Mr. Partho.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes. Please do come in Mrs. Dutta.”
Mrs. Dutta was Mr. Partho’s neighbor and his only friend. She
was a year older than Mr. Partho.
“I know it’s a special day for you. I made something on this
occasion. Wouldn’t you like to taste it?” asked Mrs. Dutta.
“Why not Mrs. Dutta. Its 11th of August. Even if
you ask me for poison, then I am ready to try that too on this day.”, said Mr.
Partho laughingly.
“Why would I ask something like that Partho. Do you think I
am mad? It’s your wife’s birthday. I have made a cake for you.”, replied Mrs.
Dutta.
“Do you know Mrs. Dutta, I went to grocery store today. I did
buy the ingredients. But when I started the work in my kitchen, I couldn’t put
together all what Barkha used to do for preparing the cake. She used to cook so
well, the vanilla puffed cake was her specialty. She never explained me how she
used to make those lovely cakes. Neither did I care to learn. I used to think
my wife will never leave me. She will stick to me till my breath will last.”
Mr. Partho got carried away. His eyes moist, and voice got
heavy as he spoke his words. Silence prevailed in the room, and it seemed as if
it’s going to last forever.
“Don’t say like that Partho. She never left you. It’s all
destiny. God loved Barkha so much. And that’s why he…”
“Don’t you think I loved her too? I loved her more than God.
She should have stayed here with me. Always. Forever.”, cried Mr. Partho,
almost on the verge of breaking down he was.
Silence existed for few more moments. But it ended as Mrs.
Dutta tried to fill the void.
“Now come on. Lets cut the cake. Its Barkha’s birthday and
you are not going to disappoint her. She was a lovely wife. You must not sadden
her by saddening yourself like this. Nature and its laws, we can’t go against
it. Don’t you think so Partho?”
“No Mrs. Dutta. I
won’t cut the cake. I won’t celebrate until she gets back here. I want to get
drenched with her caresses of love”, said Mr. Partho.
“Have you gone mad Partho? How can she come now?”, questioned
Mrs. Dutta with surprisal.
“You don’t know Mrs. Dutta. I have been waiting endlessly for
her arrival. I have been calling out her name, looking at the skies all day and
night”.
As came more of his words, the more he started to turn weak. It seemed as if he
is going to fall down. But then Mrs. Dutta helped him to settle on the chair.
“Oh Partho. Please be seated. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry”
“Barkha!”, yelled Mr. Partho.
IV
Two hours swept on the clock. Mrs Dutta had left. And Mr.
Partho was still on the chair, baffled and dejected. Suddenly tube light in the
room flickered. It started with the lightening in the sky. As came the cracking
of thunder in the sky, Mr. Partho woke up from his trance. He came to the
window and glanced at the sky. A gush of adrenalin rushed inside his veins.
Rushing outside of his flat, forgetting of the locks that he left open, he
hurried towards the lawn.
It had started raining. As drops of rain touched his
forehead, it seemed to him as if he got hold of his departed love from his life
once again. Memories that his old eyes had preserved afresh, seemed to revive
into existence. Pellets of rain, skinned over love and compassion from heaven
solaced him.
Moving by the kitchen window of Mrs. Dutta’s house, he cried
her name.
“Mrs. Dutta. Oh Mrs. Dutta. Come out and see. Barkha has arrived.”
...
As I told you before, I watch Mr. Partho always. I watch him
closely all days and nights. But I am devoid of any emotions now. God turned me
like this. Reasons are unexplainable that why he did so. However, I know what
Mr. Partho wants. Every wife knows what his husband wants. He wants me back in
his life. But how can I? I am also a mere toy in hands of the almighty.
Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I am… (sighs)
I was Barkha Ghosh, wife of an angel in reality, Mr. Partho Ghosh.
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