• Published : 16 Nov, 2015
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The last time we came to the place

they with curd and pickles us served

at the end, when we're about to close

our little talks with a lot of faith,'

Sweta while chewing a cardamom seed, said,

 

'The last time an afternoon it was

the road outside had fewer cars

and sitting beside the glass wall

we had had our moments just,'

Ornob recalled,somewhat lugubrious,

 

Tomorrow would be the end

of the vacation and they would be

to their own respective worlds sent,

Sweta would be busy with her works

And Ornob too would forget the talks,

 

'What would remain between us?'

Sweta suddenly asked

breaking the beauty of the pause

that kept the two in succulent thoughts,

 

'All these perhaps, like postcards,

or sildes neatly preserved,'

Ornob replied, fully convinced

of how memory works, what it stores,

what it connotes, what it means,

 

'Ah! that's like we are then

two persons in a memory lane...'

Sweta heaved a half sigh

the other half not expressed,

Ornob just smiled, keeping things unsaid,

 

'You got nothing to say?

now that we would go each other's way

you would take the route to south

and I would to some western port go

where would I sit by that beautiful Seine

and throw the keys of our very own lane

into the water that bore all the pains

and happiness of people like us 

who had spent nights by counting stars

and days who measured in dimes and farce?'

Sweta asked Ornob or was it really 

for him to answer such a query?

 

Perhaps not, for Sweta looked at him

and asked if they could go a few yards, walking,

 

'The last walk together?' Ornob joked,

 

'No, for I am not that much haughty

like that mistress in that monologue' 

 

'Yes, and we are always in some sort

of a conversation, I mean, dialogue'

 

The two laughed as they started the walk,

it was invariably the full moon night,

late evening, the last week of a spring;

 

'How many years have passed

Sweta asked, 'since we've met?'

 

'Since Seth wrote that Golden Gate?'

Ornob chuckled, smile on his lips

'You're such such....' Sweta fumbled for words,

'moron' 'that's the word for me to keep'

He added to make her more equipped,

 

She laughed heartily, 'as you yourself talked of Golden Gate,

I think you're very much like man in there, bred,

who swore by the Beatles and Pink Floyd

and noted how trees become in autumn void,'

 

'You make excellent observations

only that those are beyond my station,

now that we are walking the last of its kind

why not we say something more refined?'

 

'What tell me, are the refined things?

literary escapes or drinking binge?

what is that ,that can be called the best

who are the plebeians and who are the blessed?'

 

'Tell me something about Seine

how it flows, in your veins?

what people do there on holidays?

do fishermen sail their boats like here on Ganges?'

 

'People sit on the benches there

and talk about Cognac and Baudelaire 

and those who are too much of a believer

they throw silver keys right into the river,

and there is also a flea market near

people throng to buy cheap saucepans there

sometimes they buy hairpins too

with which they tie their lost billetdoux...'

 

'And what there do you care to do?'

 

'I just go there and sit with ease

and try to catch the ballads in the breeze

sung by urchins who collect coins in hats-

their tones running sharp and falling flat,

I listen to the stories as they sing

of maidens poor marrying kings

and of men dressed up like harlequins

creating comedy in postwar ruins...'

 

'What a way you pass your day

by the Seine as you please you may...'

Ornob said as they came to the point

from where they were to part their ways,

 

'See you' Sweta said before boarding a bus,

they were at the big terminus,

Ornob nodded and waved at her

and smiled thinking how soon 

they would be away from each other,

 

'What would remain?' thought he

while the bus took Sweta away

just like another slide of a perfect memory.

 

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Moinak Dutta

Member Since: 01 Aug, 2015

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