For the eternal Autumn: A letter

                                       

Dear,

I don’t know how to address you now. So much time has elapsed that your name on stone has turned to smoke, then which cage should I use to imprison that smoke? Words are beings and I never learnt to play this game. It pains me to death to frame one single sentence; writing one word, erasing twenty others and always using wrong words at the right moment. Linguistic blunders, I say! Words are emotions, the more clear you want them to be the more obscure they become. Meaning slips through the distance between the words but it also makes them what they are. Their obscurity leads to clarity and in this time of enforced amnesia, they bear witness to our existence and to our erasure.

People say we are under Siege but when were we free? I was born under this siege, I grew up with it but it surely will outlive me. This siege has been too long and too brutal; we have been passing from one eternity to another; eternity devoid of meaning and coveted by no one. We live so that we can die at the proper moment. Life here is reduced to metaphors and structured by absences; we prepare for our funerals, compose self-elegies and carve our own epithets. Epithets! And I think of you.

Ye sauda kya bura tha/ gar hamari qabr ke katbe/ tumhare aur hamare naam se mansoob hojate.

Do people ever return once they leave? How long shall I wait? You disappeared in the mist never to be seen again; mist that has turned crimson, the bleeding wound of sunset; mist that now resides in the chambers of my heart, licking its corners. You are nothing, you become everything. But how long shall I wait? As long as the stray bullets fly between your arms and legs, and the reckless stones refrain from exploding your head. But how long shall I wait? Till eternity passes away! But what is Eternity if not now. How long shall I wait?

Kar sa myeon nyaay anday, maer mandey madan waro.

They say this is the land of forgetting where memory outlives the living. And here I shall eulogize you! This is the place where the wail of one shattered heart becomes the slogan of thousands. And here I shall sing for you! Here and not ‘there’. Here sorrows are neither very long nor very great. They are disrobed of their longevity by the mundane habits of the ordinary or an end is put to them by sinking under their weight. And here I shall mourn for you! This is the Promised Land where the dead bloom into flowers and the living rot in cells. And here I shall plant roses for you! This is the place where belonging melts into longing, where life is roasted on the embers of wasted love. And here I shall wait for you! This place called home.

Here we suffer from an incurable disease called hope.

You left in autumn promising to return in spring. But here autumn is eternal, trees never stop shedding their leaves, its crimson never changes into green. Here autumn lives in you. Your memory rises from the fog of autumnal mornings and floods the moonlit road where we once parted; the road that branched off into countless roads, ripped us apart, only to meet back at the beginning. But as long as beginning is alive in us, there will be no end. And here standing on the threshold of Time, we shall start our journey again, a journey that knows not where to end.

Out beyond the ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make any sense.                                                                                                           

Yours I don’t know what.