A Letter from the Mountains

 Dearest,

             I made a promise once, that I would write to you from the mountains. How long has it been, since I came away here? I don't remember dates, days or months anymore. I don't remember years. I don't remember the countless people I had chanced up on, when you and I were in a city, full of life, full of laughter, filled with cursed pain of separation, the poisonous memory of you turning our familiar corner, one last time. But I remember seeing you, for the very first time, and then, every time since. Your unabashed smile brightening every room you step in, your words bringing calm to every heart that listens to you.

            Here, I am at the mountains. I still cannot figure out, how long it has been. There is a thing about living here. Being a man, who was raised up as a boy down in the bustling streets of Calcutta, where the sun scorched our backs all through the afternoons as we ran rampant behind the small rubber ball in the North Calcutta galli imagining ourselves to be a talent akin to some Pelé, some Kaká, some Maradona; the walls around us draped in Bangali pride. Still dominant the shades: green and yellow of Brazil, white and light blue of Argentina, red and yellow of East Bengal, maroon and green of Mohan Bagan. 

            I miss summer. The Calcutta summer. Remember when we used to talk a lot, right after a day or two of knowing you I blurt out: you're like the calm of a summer breeze. You probably rolled your eyes. I couldn't look into your eyes, anyway. They had always seen right through me. Would they still? But, you could sleep on with light raindrops dropping on your feet, which you carelessly put out through the grills. And then the blank face, when rain would drench your room, and you would hurry to mop it up before anybody else could find it out. Winters were so different, though. I, as always, had my hands deep in my jacket pockets, and the north wind would blow over us, suddenly. And you, walking by my side, would take your arm, and wrap it around mine, and smile; that priceless smile on the most beautiful face that had walked into my life. The north wind could sweep our faces again and again, but the glow of that face, kept me warm on the coldest nights.  

            Remember, how we spoke through the nights as the skies turned pale. And then, again after the sun had set, painting the horizon a stunning pink. And then we would talk of writing letters to each other, and you said you would wait, impatiently. And today, I write to you. We would talk about so much more, and so many things. Opening up to you, was opening up a locked room, which was locked away for good through years on end. You were determined to take unearth intangible things from within the swirl of dust that had settled like a thick blanket of disregard. And it was a trip down the very clichéd memory lane, like the innumerable walks we took through North Kolkata thereafter. Yet, times change, people change. People move on. You did, and so did I. I did, and so did you. Quest for new homes, new shelters, new nests, and of course newer opportunities. Nothing could derail your determination. And determined you remained.   

            I have always wanted to be here. Among the clouds. I am now. But like Dr. Sinjini Bandopadhyay said of modernism: It fleets. It's like staring at the peaks, imagining you'll hold the clouds in your hands. But when you are there, at the top, with the clouds, they surround you, like your consciousness, but you cannot scoop it up with your hands. Our memories, associations, images, and these clouds, all betray our desire to feel superhuman for once. Yes, I know that this existence of mine, among the clouds, as I wished for, is fleeting. Because, maybe, what I dreamt of, a home, still eludes me. 

            As I have said, countless times before, home is where the heart is. And my hearts beats somewhere, lighting up, and completing someone else's home. But, in the end, happiness is what counts. And happiness is what I wish for you. Hope this letter finds you in the best health. 

            I hope to set out soon. In my never-ending, futile, search for home, and the heart. I will write you, when I am unsuccessful again. 

Once yours,

Anurag.

PS. The picture is of Kangchendzungha, from somewhere near Kalimpong. It is where I picked these wildflowers from . As you see, I haven't forgotten. I'm sure you've found them clipped with this letter. Hope you find them familiar.