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.