by Akshita Chaudhuri
Meri jaan, what would you tell me if I asked you, “yeh pyaar kya hota hai?”
I wonder if you would’ve told me about the woman living in Calcutta, her love reverberates through the kitchen walls and her love is caged between what she calls a home.
/do you still call it home, if you slip through it everyday?/
I wonder if you would’ve told me about the fakir in Delhi, crooning a song to his lord, he asks, ‘how do we learn to speak about the things that haunt us the most?”, only to receive the silence of the mandir.
/is there a timeline for healing?/
Would you have told me about arnab, who manages to steal some food for the girl who lives around the corner, his back is a testimony to his father’s intolerance and his heart serves as an ode to be a wanderer and yet to have a home.
/and what kind of madness is it any way to be in love with a heart, that was constitutionally incapable of loving you back?/
About your mother, as she weeps in the memory of the man who was never hers, I think grief might only be a circular staircase – to be the remains of body wounds breaking apart between one loss and then another.
/silent screams of despair left the tongue of the helpless./
I wonder what would you tell me if this is the last time I ask you, “yeh ishq kya hai?
Akshita, we are all but an amalgamation of our pasts.
About the Author:
Akshita Choudhuri is a writer from Kolkata, India