An Incomplete Love Story

Lately, Arjun had been seldom speculative about subjects that didn’t bother him. His thoughts had precisely reduced to things that made his heart skip a beat, or perhaps, bring a faintest smile. Love was almost an unknown territory he had failed to conquer in the last six years of his checkered life, although by now, big words seemed like past things forgotten; like the forgotten Pharaohs of Egypt hiding in royal pyramids. He had tried and tried, to flourish in love; but in vain. The silver lining between love and pain seemed to have vanished already. But now, these things didn’t matter anymore, he believed, or rather he pretended to believe. He was ready to move forward, and look for greener pastures. He believed, life will have its better moments soon; that it was time to forget everything, and have fun, and be free, like a free bird. Arjun hadn’t exactly been searching for anything, but this day, he felt as if, his search got over.

___________________________ 

Ani was quite an impressive character, taking indulged interest in photography, painting, and politics; poetry, peace, and pot. That day, Shome had happily escorted me to Ani’s place to smoke ‘sweet marijuana’, as he had already mentioned. I had intentionally asked him who all were coming. And he had said, apart from us, only a college guy named Riju was expected. Not that I was expecting anyone else, but then, I had heard pretty stories about pretty girls smoking pot in their college. Though, this fascinating fact was meant to be an untold secret.

“What is this place?” …I enquired with a crooked smile, bursting with suppressed excitement. The grey sliding door made of thin plywood, made a grinding sound as it opened sideways.

“This is the room I was talking about!” …Shome blocked a part of my view as he stood awestruck in front of the narrow opening of the plywood door, whispering to himself, “I don’t believe this… What-A-Scene !”, pausing deliberately after each of the last three words. “Who on earth would have expected this today?” …he continued, in sheer disbelief. Shome’s voice sounded so vibrant that I could almost feel a strange pang in my stomach, difficult to explain. Had he seen something which was not expected, I thought. I couldn’t wait to see more.

“Ha, welcome stoners. Come inside.” …I recognized Ani’s frail voice as Shome cleared my vision, resting his stout shape sideways on the door.

“No way was I expecting you, …not in my dreams!”, Shome spoke with exuberant exclamation, looking towards an unseen part inside the room.

“Expect the unexpected brother, when thou art with me.”, Ani recited like a graceful Shakespeare, deeply lost in a translucent white paper held in his fingers, rolled like a fat cigarette.

I hadn’t got a complete view of the interiors, when a sweet but alert voice from inside cautioned us, in haste, “Fast! Get inside boys… For God’s sake Ani, close the door!”. In less than ten quick seconds, we had crammed ourselves inside. And I saw a beautiful girl sitting at the other corner, exuding a faint smile, bright with joy. My heart skipped a beat, maybe two. No way was I expecting something like this, …not in my dreams, I repeated Shome’s words in my mind, as I felt a quick rush of adrenaline through my veins. Unnecessary questions started clotting my thoughts, almost immediately. Will she smoke up with us? Did she know about me? Had Ani told her I was coming? Did my shirt look alright? My mind juggled with the string of silly questions as I hoped someone would introduce me to her, and then, she would tell her name with an expected sweet smile. There she rested, folding her silk legs like a knot, and her head against the shadowy background of the wall opposite mine. I felt a compelling urge to move closer and find a place somewhere beside her. But unknowingly, I decided not to budge, and briskly dropped in a valley of Bengali novels, facing the unexpected beauty, waiting for something to happen. I thought she looked at me, for a moment; or more.

The room was as big as one-fourth of my mother’s kitchen; probably smaller. The Dutch Duke would have had to crouch to stand inside. The width could almost accommodate a pair of Siamese twins. And the longer side was no longer than merely a couple of meters. Probably, prison cells were better. The grayish white hue of the lonely walls looked strange, if not dirty. Heart-rending lines of poetry, lyrics of nostalgia, and painful graffiti etched on the walls added to the eerie surroundings. All four of us had somehow managed to get some space in the devouring mess of unknown books and settled dust; history to photography, painting to literature. I could feel colours inside in spite of the dimly darkened ambience. The scent of Ani’s room had caught hold of my senses already, while I reclined puffing a stick of Classic Milds.

“Who reads this stuff?” …I quizzed Ani turning the third page of an unseen booklet by Jackson Pollock, making a conscious effort not to stare at her. Ani uttered something in reply, but my ears, curtained with thick hair weren’t quite listening. Her bare hands rested on her knees like sandalwood branches. She would ask me something, I hoped. Or perhaps, maybe say something; anything; about Jackson Pollock’s abstract art, or Satyajit Ray, or even her favorite book The Da Vinci Code. The well defined eyebrows threw a rare but elegant character to her glowing face, I thought. And her red top looked so bright in the fading dusk-light penetrating through the tiny window.

The window looked like an aged hole carved out during Independence for the purpose of installing an exhaust fan. It was located somewhere near the top right corner of the wall facing me. “This was supposed to be the puja-room. But I hijacked it.”, Ani continued sitting on top of a square wood-colored table just in front of the window, hiding a part of the yellow sky. His throne remained carelessly decorated with pieces of his precious menagerie, most common to mankind. Three and a half piles of thick and thin text books protruded against his back; a bunch of black and white stationery lay scattered like tin soldiers in a battlefield; and loose pages of modern art sketched with beautiful quotations, longed to flutter in a fresh breeze.

Two empty cigarettes playing with the tin soldiers, rolled away to a distance as Ani exhaled a thick stream of azure smoke from his mouth. Leaning forward, he passed on the unfinished cigarette to Shome as he posed a wry smile at my face, still maintaining his awry posture. For a moment, I feared he had sensed the whirlpool of tingling emotions inside me. After all, he was a student of art, quite obviously expected to perceive more about human feelings. My gaze turned from Pollock’s abstract strokes to the wet mascara on her eyelashes. It looked like velvet peacock feathers dancing to a rhythm. Our eyes met for the first time, though for less than a second. We never spoke, but it seemed as if, a thousand words were exchanged. I felt I knew her for years, perhaps in my own fantasy. The moment was long enough to observe her striking beauty, almost omnipresent.

“Happy stoners, I think its time to shoot the stars!” ...Ani announced gleefully and continued, “What say Arjun?”…I smiled back, taking a paused second. My fingers dropped Mr. Pollock on my lap and started groping for the treasure buried in one of my cargo pockets. Both the chillums had been bought from the uncanny neighborhood of Nimtala Ghat, after a sweet long bargain over two rupees. And this treasure was the principal reason for today’s celebration.

In the next few minutes, one of our expert hands rushed through preparing a perfect blend of weed and tobacco, while the patient silence was overpowered by discussions on Presidency College and IC, the ruling political party. By now, Ani had descended from his untidy throne and secured a place beside the door to my immediate right. One of his knees had pushed back an array of framed canvas standing against two skeleton legs of the table. Shome to my left and Ani to my right, their lips moved incessant, pronouncing words that never meant much to me. I just listened, swinging my head to and fro, like in a tennis match of unknown stars. She listened as well, but with a lighter heart, as if she understood the few words which I didn’t.

Her dreamy eyes, as calm as the swan, was finely outlined with black kajal, rich with oil. The prolonged discussions went unheard as her sweet smile lingered in the purple haze of smoke. During breaks, she described, almost like an innocent child, how she had crushed the green herb in her mother’s smallest mixy, and how much score she was still left with, and that Mangal Singh had told her, gahnja is good for health. She was not necessarily talking to me. In fact, I think she just wanted me to listen, and smile. Like me, maybe she also made a conscious effort not to stare at my face, or even my nice blue shirt; and maybe, say something stupid by a mere slip of tongue. And her mellifluous voice continued to enthrall my senses like never before. Like the Queen of Nile, she curved the free flowing locks over her eyes till behind her ears with the index finger, while leaning over to see if the pot was ready. Her sweet magic had captured the moment, already.

“I didn’t get your name.” …I rehearsed in my mind, as the goose bumps on my spine reached a state of frenzy. I knew I wouldn’t ask her; at least, not now. What if she wasn’t expecting any conversation? Perhaps, she would just tell her name, and never say a word after that; and suddenly her smile would dry up; and she would stop glancing in my eyes, even for those few precious glimpses of time. I pondered, reclining on to a set of cracked drawing boards behind my back; and Shome sprinkled the finishing toppings over the pot, filled already, almost like a devout Rastafarian.

“Time to shoot! Arjun, your privilege” …the pot brimmed up with brownish green weed, as Shome forwarded the chillum towards me, his face gleaming with a concealed smile.

“My privilege …my pleasure. Let’s shoot…” I took the pot close to my face and closed my fingers around it, in a way done by potent devotees of Shiva. Two matchsticks were lit together and I puffed on like the chimney of a steam engine. And then, …a blank moment of indulgence passed, in silence. The heavy white smoke escaped through my nostrils slowly, as I thought aloud, counting birds in the yellow sky, “Where are we going after this round?”

“We are going to the moon!” …she answered in joy, as she came a little forward, resting her elbows on her thighs spread like a lotus, palms on her flushed cheeks, looking straight at my face.

“But moon isn’t that far away…”, I replied instantly, before anyone else could, without thinking, as my gaze turned from the yellow sky to her jet black eyes, sparkling with timid anxiety.

All of us were already laughing aloud at the humour, in amused merriment; and the burning pot passed on. It was our first sweet little conversation.

The pot went round and round, from me to Ani, Ani to her, then to Shome and back again. And the holy smoke churned up in swirling motion, like confused eddies, as we steadily indulged in sheer happiness. It seemed as if, the stars will never fall from the skies again; and the flowers will never wilt; and the clouds will never come. And that earth had moved far away, farther than the moon; and the skylark’s song was the sweetest symphony; and her placid beauty would never fade.

Everything else seemed so less important, and the first round had just finished, with plenty more to go. All four of us were already lost in translation of petty things never thought about by lay men. We acted like philosophers in our great minds, while we had traveled to the moon already. What better time and what better place to have a sweet long conversation with the sweet naive beauty, I thought as my sublime mind groped for subtle humour to start with. I knew girls were fond of humour, sometimes more than anything else. Or maybe, I should merely start with simple questions, to be on the safer side; questions that didn’t mean much, questions that didn’t reveal my effervescent enthusiasm about her; maybe something like, was she on Orkut? Or, when did she start doing pot? Or, did she like bungee jumping? Whether she painted or not? Or maybe even, which cuisine she liked the most? And the questions would bring in answers, turning to conversation, then to a discussion, and then, perhaps into a bond… called friendship? Maybe, maybe not. I lit my last stick of Classic, and had just decided on my first question, when the plywood door interrupted with a grinding sound, again.

Riju, almost a cynical cipher of a character, much heard about during the unfathomable discussions of Shome and Ani, peeked inside, trying hard to see each of us in the stuffed chamber of dense smoke.

“So you came huh?” …she uttered, with a huskier voice, and continued dreamily, “Brother, you’ll have to walk me till the junction.” This was the first time she spoke on a high. And her voice oozed a strange appeal in a stronger sense than before. I was as if, enchanted by her soft melody, and almost forgot the new face by the door.

The next moment, I saw her hopping like a blissful grasshopper, searching her way out of candid captivity. Her careful legs whizzed past my shoulder as she squeezed herself between Ani and me, skittering towards the open door.

“I didn’t get your name.” …I asked, almost in urgency, this time without any hesitation, or the nervousness, or the goose bumps. But my heart surely skipped a beat, maybe two; once again.

“I am Amrita”, she hopped out, and did not turn back. In a couple of moments, my lady in red slowly vanished down the stairway with her beloved brother Riju, leaving a trail behind, unseen by other souls.