Yesterday I went to the Dean's. A pious old man with silver hair and silver eyebrows and in a dhoti with golden borders. He was checking their answer scripts when we went.

He is the Dean of School of Humanities in our university. He reminded me of Pishemoshai. He talked to me, asked what I was doing, where I stayed, what I had plans for the summer, where I had gone for school. He spoke in broken Bengali too and warned me that he knew it enough so I wouldn't be able to abuse him much in Bengali.


He gave us tea and we chatted for an hour or so. Later, his wife joined us. And as I was leaving, I touched their feet and they blessed me.

For once in ages in my life in HCU, I felt like I were Home.
'So, you will know where to find us now. You can come back again', he said.

And then, maybe, I never wanted to leave. I do have a weakness for love, I think.

 I feel like a flippant dolphin in the sea.

Every day I forget you a little
Times have changed and
Seasons are changing
And in the arid land I live now
The leaves are changing colours in the sun

Everyday I forget you a little
Like the way you forget me a little everyday

My smell that diffused into yours
Places that belonged to us,
The rag pickers, the beggars, the flies
The tea sellers, the beer-bottle man

Everyday they fade from my memories a little
Like they do from yours, slowly

And that day when you will set free
Remember that I will set free from your roots too
And catch the wind for a new nest 

To be held by other hands
When you are holding someone else's face

Like a cluster of sunflowers in the morning.

No more whining, whaning posts.

You get used to difficulties after a point of time. They become a part of living so quietly under the humdrum and bonhomie and with the passage of time -- that one day you finally completely forget that they once were real problems that used to rake your brains up. They become so normal, so mundane, so you. This is really the saddest thing.

One day, you suddenly find that you have gotten used to your own skin. In fact you feel snug, contained , comfortable in it and from that day, there is no question of self-forgiveness.

You stop thinking. For, the more you stop thinking, the happier life is, the merrier you will be.

It is really, really sad, somewhere.

I feel heavy these days, irreversibly. I cannot fathom why. It could be the pre-exam blues. It could be the recent developments.

I feel uneasy and alone.

But this time, I know life a tad bit more than I used to. The ground under you feet is unsettled and will always be. And life is so unpredictable and brief, you can never guess where the road forks or where the road ends.


I think it is disrespectful denying someone's existence in my life. I think it is stupid to be scared of uncertainties.
I am more comfortable with uncertainties than commitments now. Somewhere the former sounds more sincere and transparent to me.

RELOAD

It is one of those times, when it seems someone just knocked the air out of your lungs. The most difficult tussles are the ones you have with yourself. Forgiveness is toughest when it needs you to forgive yourself.

I have finally chosen to let it leave me. Sometimes when a ship's moving with an iceberg tailed to it, someone or something needs to break chunks from the bigger piece, so it can move forward again, effortlessly.

For, life is too brief, I want to be weightless again. I will let this burden leave me. I will reload. I will forgive myself. I will not carry the guilt. For, it's been so draining emotionally. There has been a time when I could not look into my eyes in the mirror. Not because of what I had done, but how I had done it. I think it is true for most blunders in life, it is not what you do but how you do it.

I know it is sad to let go of old branches, but sometimes when you need to grow, you have to get rid of a few branches to grow taller and stronger. In this case  I have been asked to leave anyways and I need to pack my bags for I cannot do anything to change this; I cannot be sticky to a place  that has forgotten me. I have to forget this place, too.

Or, maybe, more than the place, the echoes of my own laughters and cries that reflected from the walls and ceilings of the place, stunning me by the music created by their own reverberations. 

I have to forget that for once, I thought I had found a nest warmer than home.
And I know I can do this.

For it is not always relevant to preserve memories, specially when they weigh so heavy inside your heart.