Today I suddenly remember your madness. You rushed to the phone booth in a frenzy and dialed 2441139. You loved the song. On the other side, someone picked up the phone, but of course that was not Bela Bose! And then at the National Library. You would say, that was the best place to fall in love. But that day you came back from the loo with your mouth wide open. At the corner of the reading room you went to my side, took my notebook, and wrote, ‘hey, this is crazy!’ Those ‘obscenities’ painted against the toilet doors, those phone numbers – real or imaginary – scribbled on the walls unsettled your adolescent mind. That day I saw confusion on your face. Then came the blow when jealousy torn us apart, as you fell in love with a certain psychoanalyst. How you fought for a thinker who died long back only to become a handful of books! How could you prefer books over living beings? Did you go crazy? How could you even think of leaving me? Didnt we grow together, Eliot’s ‘you and I’? Won’t you whisper in my ears, ‘If a carpenter can sing a love song, you too can write one’?
Posted on: Sun, 23 Mar 2014 07:29:49 +0000
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