Mirror: A 7 years badluck story

Outside, the rain roared. Inside, the street, the king of the back alleys in a local setting, glistened gloriously in some diluted bloody mess. Orange, the closest colour to a city bred insomniac's midnight walks down this back alley of mine, in which shattered glasses and the regular dilute blood rests. Battle, this city, this street, it sees a battle, over and over again, between my mirrors and he.

We are face to face, I, a he, and she, a me.

Rain and glass are what keep the distance alive, so  face offs of laser torches may smile in their devout Cheshirish way.We both love how the rain wrenches eros out of our epidermal existence, and touch, the fingers of ours. Glass, again, and again, and again. The steely glass keeps the barrier alive, while all we ever wanted to was make love when rain made our bed on this street of my inbred city.

We are face to face. She, a he, and I, a me.

Can oceans ever sweep across and away the dirt, the redness of beetle juice, and the cancer of manholes, and burnt cigarette stubs and Pepsi caps, away, away into some far Waste Land-ish oblivion, away from the artery of my city? Or maybe, can the ocean just show pity and wash my feet for maybe an eternity, all the while when rain shall soothe us, you and I?

We are face to face. I, a she, and he, an I.

Bridging gaps between a sorrow sea of lacuna, or am I just too melodramatic, for you? You, the mirror one, the mirrored one. Pistols have been made so we may embrace for the first and the last time. Pistols, have been made so boundaries may see an end, for what is the difference between a hunter and a hunted, really? We're both really dead, aren't we? Mirrors break, and orangeness make rainpuddles seem a bit closer to blood, to flesh, of you and I.

We are face to face. He, a she, and you, an I.

Shoshan Boiraggo

Well, here I am. Standing beside the pyre, it's a cold, cold night. Someone to show me love, in a cold, cold night. And I'm here, waiting.

"Bollo Hori! Hori bol! E bollo Hori! Hori bol!"

Ashe ki amar priye? Seems unlikely. That's more like the one who died holding on to her bedpost for sheer life. Bedpost'ta bhenge gelo.

The pyre burns a bit brighter. Yet it's a cold, cold night. They hand me the Gita.

"Raam naam, satt hay. Raam naam, satt hay."

Is it she? No, no, no, they'd never bring her to me like this. This one, she died because the husband was a hunter. And what did he hunt? The warmth.

The pyre burns a bit more brighter. It still ain't warm enough. Another Gita. Kal giye bajaar'e bikri kore ashte hobe egulo.

" Dot dot dot dot Amaar Rahe, Amaar Rahe!"

Definitely not this one. This is the crazy, green monster. They have shot her. Finally.

I laught out silently. I have three Gitas with me now.

"Arre bol re saathi! Hori Bol! Aro Jor'e! Hori Bol!
Arre Daar gaya kya! Hori Bol! Arre Mar gaya kya! Hori Bol!
Arre Jo NAA bole, uspe bol! Hori Bol Hori Bol!"

Here she comes. The one who made me a Harishchandra. My beloved, for whom I build a pyre every night, and she breaks it down every morning.
In this cold, cold night, my heart prances for the expected warmth.

"Boss, Gita achhe ektao tomar kachhe?"

"Kine anoni?"

"Taka chhilo na."

"Bujhlam. Ta ekhoni ba keno chaichho? Body to chulli'te jabe ebar."

"Sheijonnei. Sharajibon onek boi puriyechhilo. Shesh ichhe chhilo, Gita'tao jaate porate paare."

The pyre, it becomes a flaming pyramid. And it travels high, high up, above the cloud. A stairway? To heaven? If you insist.

Warmth, I take it in. I wouldn't be building a pyre anymore in the morning. I wouldn't need to.

---------------------------------------------------

According to the Hindu rights of cremation, a dead body must be accompanied by a copy of the holy Bhagvad Gita. But this book is not burnt. Everyday, in the crematoriums, hundreds of Gitas are collected, and they are sold back into the market. This way, a single copy of a text helps many crossover to the next innings.

TriRadha

I

I see you Rai, waiting there, on your bed by the window. The morning rain caresses your cheek, subliming the saltiness. The wind, caresses your hair. I lie, and I watch. The early morning is your lover, it may seem so. The real one, the one who made you wait the night? He's gone.

Rai Jago

Rai, he's gone, on his metal stallion. Rai, the lover has gone, never to return ever to calm your unrestful breast. Rai, you miss his touch, on the inside as well as the... You are scarred, the pool in your eyes speak out loud. Yet Rai, when this wind shall stop, and the mewing of the kittens will commence to soothe you, you will start loving me. In the morning, when moons disturb not the bridge between you and I, maybe, you will love me.

Rai Jago

Rai, the wind. Rai, the flowers, Rai, the sleepy stars. Rai, sleep now. Gopal comes not, tonight. Tonight, I protect you.

II

I see how you check out the guy on the next table. No, he's not the one, not the one you wait to seek. Rai, it is me, you fool of a woman. Your bespectacled eyes seek so much, in every man, yet why not in me? I am no less, am I?

Rai Jago

The ice thaws, in your cold coffee, but you, you roam in the abyss of windowless dungeons, seeking a whiff, of maybe a fallen flower. I hate you, I hate you for what you have made me be. I hate you, for making me hate myself. All I wished was the thawing of ice, but your icy palace, Rai, I still am banished from entering their gates. The gates which have opened only once, forever to close after that, it seems.

Rai Jago

You speak to me. your eyes sparkle, your pen flitters, yet I am nowhere nearer to your Mohan, as you are to his heart.

III


We were meant to be together, but we can't anymore. Rai, you belong to someone else's chamber. Your feet, their dirt blesses my hut everytime you beseech me for an attempt to love. But how can I, you are never mine, never ever. I can only be your friend, your guide, never the one to hold those petals between my fingers.

Rai Jago

See how the river flows, we have passed our prime with this flow. And now, I, the husband of Reality, no matter how much I may desire your love, I cannot, for you, you Rai, you are meant for Vasudev. You are an offering, not for me, but to eternal wait for lovely redemption. And sin, I shall not.

Rai Jago

I, the man, can only worship, never compete, never protect. Friend, my Rai, you and I shall only be inches apart, when in need. For the rest of the time, you and I, and the river by our side.