Dipankar Jakharia
[dropcap]S[/dropcap]he stood still with friends, smiling, holding Breezer Cranberry, under a gray shawl. Her shining boots in black with little dust on the lower half proves that she must have danced with somebody else. But she was not on the dance floor, but outside, from the makeshift disco, specially made for the Hornbill Festival. Kohima winters are chilli, mostly when wind blows and touches the mountain tops, to come back again. And then it becomes uncomfortably cold. That night at around eleven, the wind must have touched the tops. But it was not uncomfortably cold.
Occasionally a friend or two will try to pull her to the latest Bhangra Pop, in the wooden makeshift dance floor. Her eyes were still on the main entrance gate. The Cranberry bottle she’s been holding for last two hours was half filled, and occasionally she pressed it so hard as if trying to get some extra warmth to her hand.
The last text she got from him was at 530PM.“Starting now”
That was five an half hour before. He also told that “let’s meet where we met first”
“Sunrise” the discotic is a makeshift discotic made by her cousins and his friends only for Hornbill festival. It’s hangout place for locals during that week. When all the so called cultural tourist flock the Phesama village, young souls of local bread steps in small get-together places like this. Entry by invitation only and for a small fees. This is where she met him last year. He a banker was with his friend, another banker. She almost missed him as a boring accountant. But she don’t know why, she exchanged her numbers. And that was the beginning.
A poet, a dreamer and a banker or a moon walker? How odd, she thought! If only truth be told (discovered) in words.
All she knows his through his words. All the words she and he have exchanged in last twelve months. But in those words she understood he hides behind a shadow. A shadow of his own. A painful fact, she felt.
As he walked inside the discotic it was almost touching midnight. But he didn’t have to work hard. She was standing before reaching the dance floor and the chaos in it. As equal to his dreams she was wearing a boot to her knees and the gray shawl near the fire place. Passively listening to some friends gossip or maybe more.
She didn’t see him coming and grabbing. Maybe he first picked up the loosened of her gray shawl to wrap her in its artificial warmth. His hug was so sudden she almost couldn’t react to it, and stayed numb and dumb. But his hug has friendly warmth in it. Without knowing it she dropped the bottle of Breezar on the ground and thanks nobody noticed. Everything happened so fast, she felt a little damped and was not surprised, as she was expecting a day of this day for a long time to come.
“Let’s go”
“Where? I have friends here; I wanted you to meet...........”
She couldn’t finish.
In no time he took her hand and began walking towards the EXIT.
“Not interested” said he while leading her the way out.
She wanted to protest and didn’t like the idea of hijacking her and the ease with which he did it. But she couldn’t refuse. As she was the centre of his creative freedom which he never told but she understood. In his poetry, in his prose.
“But where are you taking me?”
“I don’t know, maybe to count the moonlight”
As they approach the parking lot she noticed his car headlights were still on and he must have been in a real hurry.
As Raj starts driving she noticed he was wearing a business suite but without a tie. He’ll feel cold in December chill of Kohima, she thought. Being Friday has he reached here straight from his office? She wanted to ask but decided not to. He started at 5:30 in the evening, which means he came straight from his office.
“Where are we going? It’s past midnight and pretty cold” she asked again.
“To Phesama”
“Wait there is nothing out there. Only in the daytime activities happen there”
“It’s Okay, I know someone there”
She didn’t say anything. Let him do whatever he wants. But he drove slowly in that moonlight. The Hills turned blue in the night she realized. Just then he increased the volume.
“And I could write a song”
“A hundred miles long”
“Well, that’s where I belong”
“And you belong with me”
“And I could write it down”
“Or spread it all around”
“Get lost and then get found”
“Or swallowed in the sea”
Coldplay........... I hate these lyrics. She thought. Dark and Depressing!
“You cut me down to size”
“And opened up my eyes”
“Made me realize”
“What I could not see”
“And I could write a book”
She could take no more. As if a knife ran through her chest. That’s what she is been doing. Being an inspiration to be a character of his book “Pelenio the Mountain”. The book’s inspiration or his. She doesn’t know, she’ll never know. A writer’s creative inspiration? What the fuck has happened to her. She opened the window hopping to dry-up her tears before he could see. She’s feeling like a puzzle with a missing piece. In that hope she’s been helping him in his book being a character bearing it all like posing for a crazy painter. Am I part of a cure or am I part of a disease?
Khonoma without traffic is less than half an hour’s journey but it must have taken a little longer.
