Friday, 21 November 2008

to sadness.

There is a strange sort of sadness in November, even when you are happy. It is something that is intrinsic to the month, a symptom perhaps, or a property. November for me is unbearably sad. Some would say it is hemonto. Those orange rays of sun, filtering through the leaves of trees, towards the fag end of the afternoon. That is inarticulate pain. That is a feeling that rivals no other.
Yes, being in love is painful too. As if life was perpetual November. We could promise to say nothing, promise to try to be apart, promise to think only of tomorrow and never today. Today we must work, and look ahead, and meet only on stray streets that are definitely not cul de sacs but fork into two roads, and two different roads we take. It becomes slightly easier.

But I can't...I have to be near. I have to see everything! Hear everything! Be there, and sing, and hear you sing, and cry and watch movies, and dream, and hug, and pinch cheek, and generally be happy. See, no more elaboration here. But these things are not happening... okie phine. So go away, become Ole Father November, or sumfin! I know it's not your fault, it's nobody's fault.

My heart would burt sometimes with music or mortality. In those days, when I did not know this sort of love. Life is very strange, and always deals us cruel blows. I want to cry sometimes, cry so much. Cry at my innate idiocy, cry at your innate idiocy, the innate idiocy of our mutual friends', acquaintances, and everybody else. But there's nothing to be done. Just nothing. Because tears are cheap and easy to come by.
This is not a little bit of a lovestory. Do not think this even a story. It is merely nothing. November, remember, is always full of nothings and nothingness. That feeling of futility and melancholic beauty is too cliched to merit much discussion. We could talk Shakespeare, or Keats. But we choose neither. We could mention Robi Thakur, but no thank you. There is no profundity left when even oblivion chooses to shun us. Hemonter roddur chokh dhnadhaye na... hemonter roddur ekta adbhut jinish. The sun's oblique rays remind us that between the cold beauty of winter and the humid love of monsoon, lies a strange twilight zone. It is that time of the year when things change. For the better, for the worse? I don't know. I am such an awful judge of these things.
I don't know what's worse. Love, or November. Or both.


Oshtorombha said...

Eta khub shundor likhaychhish.

Reminded me of these lines by Faiz:

"jis ne aafaaq pe phailaayaa hai yun seh’r ka daam
daaman-e-waqt se paivast hai yun daamna-e-shaam
ab kabhii shaam bujhegii na andheraa hogaa
ab kabhii raat Dhalegii na saveraa hogaa
aasmaan aas liye hai ke ye jaaduu tuute
chup ki zanjiir kate, waqt kaa daaman chhute"

Bidi-K said...

lovely ode to my month of the year.. khoob shundor.

What's In A Name ? said...

What's 'Sweet November' then ? Justa filiim ??

March Hare said...

Mostly November. Just a little bit of love, maybe?

Baudolino said...

When I was young, I could not guess when it was hemonto at all. Perhaps, I was too preoccupied with the prospect of wearing blazers to school. Now I know.

Elendil said...

Fuck, this is a fantastic post. And I completely agree. November has always been sad for me, and always a time of change. It's something in the air. Go read the blog post I wrote on Noevember 14th, last year. It is a prose-poem about similar things.


storyteller said...

A lovely quirky post.Very lovable.Quaint too.