Wednesday, 7 November 2012

what causes sorrow

It is hard not to come back, not to come back to the moments of your own creation. I have been trying of late to be far more analytic than I have ever been. It's hard when I close my eyes and dream of golden afternoons which existed an eternity back, in another life it seems.

"Au-ho-naa" has become Ahona, nobody knows it's "Pahndaa" and not a bear? Ahona sounds foreign, un-Bengali, I find myself foreign sometimes, I don't recognize this person who speaks in a neutral accent which sounds a little British at times (Watuh! Remembah!), a little American at times (Reeelly?), I don't know who this is, who stands here, with a firm grasp of historiography, but with no sense of history, history is slipping away, and I am helpless, helpless as another world has embraced me, a world of grammar and logic, of arguments and catfish. I struggle alone in my apartment, often battling hunger and despair, because I hate shopping for groceries and cooking.

Ahona. Who is Ahona? The novel lies unfinished, tired and weary. There is no time to think about such trivial things. Will I grow old without seeing my fiction in print? Will my heart grow tired and disenchanted and disenfranchise that aspect of life? I don't know. So many old faces jostle in my mind, their contours trouble me, and mingle into each other. How much I thought I had loved! What fools we are...fools of time. Time erases, erases the past. Remembah, remembah, remembah!

I don't know, I don't know how to deal with the blazing memories that threaten to incinerate my very being. I close my eyes and imagine a mythical future, but always, always, my mind returns to a few recurrent images- orange november calcutta sunlight filtering through husky green leaves, ma putting her hair up in a bun just before going out, hiding my head in my grandmother's lap chupichupi (so tired, shhh thakurma, babu ektu ghumiye por, 40 winks 40 winks suddenly it's evening, conch shell blows, but will god bless me?), baba saying hey are you mentally retarded or what OR Babahaveyoupassedthatexam? Wow! How did you manage that! Little Plato being born, that seems like yesterday but yesterday was more than four years back, that goddamned math exam, autumnsmells, my first kiss-stolen, surreptitious with a symphony of trainsounds, reading reading reading all afternoon, summerwinterafternoons, Gone with the Wind. Pather Panchali, and  Goopy Bagha! How do we forget Goopy Bagha? (What causes sorrow?) I know what causes sorrow. Childhood. We do not know when we experience it, we do not know that our minds are being formed, we do not know (but perhaps we sense) dukkho kishe hoy, what causes sorrow, what causes sorrow.