A Story

A story that revolves around dialectics of desire,commitment,conscience and the law

There was no serene beach in the surrounding with water kissing your feet at its gentle best, neither there was any charming blue river intercourse in a valley of flowers. It was very hot, humid and stagnant all around. Yet it happened. It happened one more time as my hands went up to nimbly remove Kamini's dense hair off her white smooth shoulder. It should have been usual for me by the time and counted as just another encounter. But this time it was something totally ecstatic. It was eternal and precisely speaking it was like those fine grained manipuri weed which slowly intrudes through your mind, then heart and finally soul. Your addiction crosses the threshold of conviction and you take it inside you once again .It traces the same path unless your feelings ejaculate in the form of joy, love, pain or hatred. Then the world is so alluring that you laugh out of pain, cry out of joy and you are midst of sky, diving nonchalantly leaving all your stress, fear and agony far behind in the distant sky.

But during each rendezvous whenever I opened my eyes I could find an empty sky drowning her in the horizon. I could find water tracing its path back to sea or an empty boat perhaps waiting to take me away. I wanted to open my eyes to see the moonlight reflecting in the sea, or the clouds doing a foreplay with stars. Incidentally, Kamini always had the sophisticated side. Though I don't think she ever dared to open her eyes to face the reality.

It happened some more time after that , sometime at my place, sometime at her and sometime on open terrace(!). We started to get into the habit of sharing the common space to breath. But one fine day I ran away again. This time I ran for the sake of running. Now eluding from shackles of commitment has become a practice for me. I ran to become desolate, to enjoy loneliness and be at my creative best. Also perhaps, I wanted to keep my doors open for invasion of new stories-crisp, boisterous and shamelessly commercial. I kept my most valuable poem with her. It was not a gift; just that it would have been difficult for me to carry belongings without the owner. I took the last train from the lonely hill station and I didn't turn back to bid her a goodbye. I ran from prejudice, responsibility, stagnancy and reminiscence. I ran through meadows, lustered pastures, through bedrock, cobblestone and suddenly landed in an overcrowded hospital with humans scattered around the floor like pigs. I discovered myself fallen down on the floor of reality from a bench of memories.

Samarpita's condition was very serious and the hospital authority requested her relatives to stay around. I was not a relative in terms of blood relation but over the years I was her only acquaintance and she has been an elder sister, friend and philosopher to me. I was following up with doctors on a regular basis after she faced a cerebral attack a week back. She was only 32 and a cerebral attack at this age was surprising. I peeped into the ICU where she laid still and I could just manage to take a look at the abruptly changing ECG. But Soon I was forced out of the place by nurses reminding me that anyone is not allowed inside.

I sat back on the bench and tried recalling memories of Kamini but those golden frames seemed very distant and blurred to me now. Instead I could very well remember many of my evenings spent with Samarpita and her family of pigeons and cats. I could recollect how Samarpita used to pacify me when I was getting rejected by almost every publisher one after another. She gave me shelter, supported me, and always encouraged me to continue writing about life. It was at her house on the 5th floor of an old and destitute building, I wrote many of my stories about commitment and sacrifice borrowing from her life. She was rejected by family, avoided by neighbors, blamed by friends for having a catastrophic affair with a man, who was eventually married. She never seemed bereaved or heartbroken and always had a utopian smile at the corner of her lips. But I could always see the tear drop which she withheld behind her appealing eyes.

Dharma was the man, whom I considered as one more bustard like me but I never found Samarpita blame her fate on him. She always continued to believe that Dharma's love for her was genuine. She always used to say that Dharma has its own compulsions. God can change his mind but Dharma never changes. It remains still like a stone unperturbed by worship, pray, love, blame and hatred. Dharma stayed true to his principles and his responsibility towards the world remained intact. One day, Samarpita showed me a portrait of Dharma and I don't know whether it was Samarpita's exquisite painting skill that made Dharma looked extravagantly handsome. Their stories never had sign of any lust or stinginess and the wheel of Karma was bound to surrender before them. I used to sit comatose listening to their stories crafted by an artist of some heavenly expertise. The fat cat sitting on Samarpita's lap would stare at me heatedly unless I gave the deserved share of biscuit to her. She was not as polite as Samarpita. Apart from that it was the most peaceful place on earth for me.

The doctor came out and explained me in some complex medical terms which meant that her condition was deteriorating drastically and anything can happen at any time. I was few pegs down yet the feeling of losing my sister drenched me. My eye lids came close to each other as a combined effect of intoxication and tiredness, but anxiety, tension and fear made them apart. I took a walk and sat down again on the bench gazing at the ICU while my mind went into sleep. I saw a man walking up the stairs. He was tall, fair and was looking calm and composed in a white kurta. He waited for a minute before the door of ICU adjusted his specks and moved in. To add to my surprise no one stopped him or complained about his illegitimate entry in the ward.

I felt no strength in me to walk up and enquire. But I could very well recognize the man whose portrait I have seen in Samarpita's house and his looks justified his name. I could not witness his departure. The next morning was cloudy and the sheet of clouds covered Samarpita till her face. Perhaps Dharma gives everyone their deserved farewell.

Vivek was reading the last lines from one of his story in his book launch event when a little angel cried out from the crowd. Perhaps she wanted to play around in the area and was really annoyed, forbidden by her parents. Every one stared back at her and she got scared for a moment, but the other moment she came running to Vivek with a piece of paper and asked him an autograph. Vivek enquired her name to write a message along with signature. The girl replied "Samarpita".

 

Vivek was stoned and as he gave his autograph gazing at the girl in trance , she went running towards her father. His father waited for a minute, adjusted his specks and they slowly disappeared holding hands as roars of clap filled the space appreciating “A story”.