TIGHT-ROPE MIND
-
Mohul Bhattacharya (India)
There is an inexplicable sense of diaspora that
almost always goes on through me. That seldom changes even with outside
stimulus.
I love my girl, like a sailor would love his
sea. I would travel a thousand times on her, yet there is not really am anchor point
where I can just lie down. She is home, and floating at the same time. What
happens when a human is caged for too long? Do they die away like birds?
I stand at the city square, waiting for a bus
to take me home, or the next stop where I would like to get down. I could not
translate this chain of thought even if I wanted to. I see the buses burning,
the windows ogling flames like they were hungry for centuries. Yet the
passengers are all so calm. They fight over seats, over stopping exactly where
they want to get down. The buses move on. Century old gargantuan boulders
rolling and rolling some more.
It has been 30 minutes, yet I have not seen the
familiar numbers on the head of the buses which indicate it reaches somewhat
near my home. How much longer do I wait before I move on too? Maybe complaining
is all it takes, or me running out of patience. I got on the bus; I don’t think
it takes me to my home. Yet I have got on.
I have quit smoking; the only part I miss about
it is the charring of my fingertips. That made me feel like a sailor. Maybe I
am moving inland. Away from my sea. This inexplicable sense of loss does not go
away. Maybe I do not want it to go away, holding on to the last bit of
chocolate in the melting sun; drops of sugar following me down the cobblestone
steps.
The bus is too crowded. My skin feels like
burning amber. As if the flames are just under the skin, I cannot see it yet I
feel the burns. There are too many people in this bus. I have to get down. I
step out into the inception of wintered Kolkata. The winds are slow but I can
feel the northern mountains sending the icicles; soon it will be jackets and
shawls, wanting more coffee, and warm fluids.
Where am I exactly, I do not know. I have yet
again effortlessly lost my sense of direction. I have reached the epicenter of
the older city. There is a statue of a war hero. Pompous and mighty, on his
horse. Bare without context of what happened, or how he became what he is now.
There are bits of snow on his horse’s snout. Claustrophobic crowds surfing into
narrow marketplace to haggle over jewellery. God there’s too much tragedy! God
there is too much rain for one man.
I have to get back home. Maybe
after I finish this cup of tea, I will find my sea again. My future awaits me,
a settled secure future. How ironic, like the Vitruvian Man I am spread. Alone,
signaling time itself. What religion does a settled person have? Are there any
quintessential gods left, or are all gods now mighty and strong and herculean?
****