Retrouvaille

 

It was the reign of ambitions, it was the drain of ambitions; it was the birth of passion, it was the death of passion.

As the audience held themselves in their chairs in anticipation for the narration of the next scene, Apurbo Sengupta shut his book ever-so-slowly and placed it on the podium. He took his spectacles off and put it in the chest pocket of his vibrant pink kurta, and reached the centre-stage. His voice started to emanate emotions. Standing there, with a hundred eyes staring right at him, he sipped water from his bottle and said, “Before I go on any further, it is very important to realize that stories aren’t meant to just tickle your hearing senses, my friends, they are meant to raise a chord of emotions, deep down the exterior you carry.”

He sat right on the edge of the stage, faced his glasses towards the dimly lit back-end of the stage, it being a subtle indication of letting people see the characters through his eyes, folded his hands and closed his eyes.

“Take a couple of minutes, guys,” Apurbo said, “let the four folks of the book know you, let them detour your emotions. Only then will yours resonate with theirs, which is the ultimate sentiment for us readers. Dig your conscience deep and feel, feel them.”

Growing up in the hustle-bustle of the streets of Chittaranjan Park, C.R. Park as is fondly referred to, of Delhi, Abhijnan Chattopadhyay always believed in the essence of a Bengali residing away from Bengal, a feeling so void, yet so fulfilling. The faithful charm of an incomplete completeness engulfed him from his very childhood. Every evening he used to sit beside his mother and hear her play the Sitar, while his father sipped on a glass or two of spirit, sitting on a rocking chair under the chandelier of nostalgia. It had been 27 years that spring of 2007 having left Calcutta, and Mr. Chattopadhyay still remembers everything quite vividly, narrating his 21 years old son stories from the past as they sat for dinner. Although Abhijnan had almost filled his bucket of stories from Calcutta, he always had room for that extra connection to a place he had never been to, but only heard of.

“Would you like to go to Calcutta, son?” was the question that filled Abhijnan with joy when he was a child. The answer never changed, not until he was 29.

Waking up to the morning buzz of trams and draped-in-yellow ambassadors had been his routine for the past four years now. To get the senses up and running, he used to make himself a light liquor of Darjeeling tea, black with lemon, and a cup of same for the reason he moved to Kolkata, his beautiful wife, Antara Paul. They met in Delhi when they used to share a common workplace where Abhijnan was a finance officer and Antara served as a legal consultant to the company. That was around six years ago. As time played its course, their syllabi resonated to such intensity that they got married in the winters of 2011 in Kolkata, and permanently moved from Delhi right afterwards, for it was not just a love affair between Abhijnan and Antara, but also between Abhijnan’s bustling emotions and the serenity that the city of joy had to offer to soothe his soul.

Although they worked at different companies through the week, Antara had a lot to uncover about Kolkata to her husband when the two of them had a getaway every weekend. Those trips weren’t exclusive though. They were accompanied by Abhijnan’s school friend Deboshree Roy, who was a painter by profession and her husband Debabrata Banerjee, professor at Presidency. The two of them met had through their respective families, as traditional arranged marriage had them settled in Kolkata.

For the past four years, the four of them shared almost all of their after-work hours. Every evening, Antara and Debabrata got into intellectual conversations striking their political nerves, while Abhijnan discussed about art and philosophy with Deboshree, for she very well knew his mettle in poetry. While at school, he had been a constant in plays of Shakespeare and oration of Faiz Ahmad Faiz’s works. His name still shines in the literary domain of his alma mater. While those conversations continued, Abhijnan and Debabrata often lit a cigarette that they used to share. As they burned one down, and then a few more, the moon and stars moved places to quite a distance, not only announcing the time to exchange fond adieu, but indicating with subtleness the journey of fate about to come their way.

Just the way time played its course in bringing Abhijnan and Antara together, it definitely played an antagonist to rumble the peace-feathers of their matrimony. Although they were in love with each other, Antara could never really have that intricately woven emotional connection to her husband’s art. She appreciated it, but never felt it. That left a critical void in their relationship, something that grew with each passing moment, a little at a time. Every night when they went to bed, he could see his wife murmuring words, but could only listen to the echoes of the crisis within his soul. And all he could decipher from the unfathomable was the voice of her artistic counterpart, Deboshree.

Driving home under the orange air, the cool breeze that day that entered through the open window hit Deboshree like never before. The aura of night scenes of Kolkata made its way through her opened palm she held out into her long, wavy hair, imagining how it must have also ran through the cotton of Abhijnan’s kurta, giving the two of them the same chills. To an artist is their stirred soul. And over the years of their marriage, Deboshree could not find that chaotic peace of mind with Debabrata.

“Since that day, fortuitously, things started to change,” said Apurbo. The audience gave a mixed reaction to his statement, with one fraction showing subtle joy towards a possible serendipity, while the other sympathizing towards Antara and Debabrata.

Abhijnan and Deboshree were amidst a nonchalant hurricane of their own, while the other two were completely unaware of the turbulence that was about to come their way. Even though they were not in absolute acceptance of their feelings towards each other, in the further meetings, the two of them started drifting considerably away from their respective partners. They knew what was happening, but it seemed that the mid-life emotional crisis that left a void in their lives was filled by each other. Interestingly enough, they did nothing but going with the flow. But then again, love or attraction is not just a feeling, but a state of mind; a state of bursts of happiness mixed with mild to severe excitement. Although they had not yet reached the state of severe excitement full of rapidly pulsating beats, tandem if ever heard together, but the mild state was enough to make Antara and Debabrata furious.

“By now, the spark turned into fire. Things had already changed,” said Apurbo with the slightest of grins. “You see, friends, the state of Abhijnan could be easily related to because of one simple reason; we at some point of our lives or the other face a certain level of identity crisis, when we get frustrated with ourselves for not being able to be who we actually are deep down inside. And then out of nowhere life brings us something or someone that brings out the real us. On the other hand, there might even be some Deboshrees in this room who fell in love when they were not supposed to, if not similar situations, but similar emotional experiences. But as someone in love would say, you do not go after love for it will find you when it is meant to. Looking at the other side of the coin, there are many people who might have felt the deprivation of love in their lives even when they had one. My personal advice to people of the latter category is that this is how life treats you sometimes. It is not biased, it is just circumstantial. Take a moment to breathe, shred it off and move on.”

The morning of 22^nd October 2015 seemed rather unusual to Antara. Although it was her birthday, she sensed something was wrong. The moment she entered the hall, she saw a lot of gifts, waiting to be opened. She scanned the stack in entirety and it took no more than a glance to sense the unusual. Amidst a wide range of presents on the desk was an envelope with Abhijnan’s handwriting on the top. It was unusual because in almost four years of their marriage, he had never, ever, written a letter to her. Trying to control her rapid breathing, she opened the envelope and began to read. As she read on, thunder struck her. The chilly wind turned her skin cold. She sat on the edge of the sofa in sheer horror, as the content of the letter reverberated in her mind.

Dearest Antara,

The moment I first met you in the office cafeteria still lingers in my mind. It was the best of days. The moments we shared had never been captured in a camera, for we decided to have them in our hearts, always. All those have been suitably ours this entire time, but unfortunately they aren’t mine anymore. Waking up every day seems like a drag, the mask that I have been wearing all this time has taken a toll on me. I am tired of my exterior. I am tired of the superficial love that we have been sharing. Love is not when you need whiskey to share your feelings; love is when your partner is the spirit themselves. Love is not what you hear, but what you see in your partner’s eyes; love is not what you say, but what you feel. The synthetic connection we have between us can never be able to compensate for the natural love that, if not us, the universe deserves.

Love was never meant to be limiting, Antara, it had always been about liberation.

I have found my freedom, I have found my solace. Hope you find yours too.

Not yours anymore!

Abhi.

Antara tried to call Abhijnan, but in vain. She was too furious at Deboshree to call her for she knew the reason behind her condition, hence she dialled Debabrata’s number too. Not to her surprise, she got to learn that Deboshree had written a letter to Debabrata, not the same as Abhijnan’s, but of similar essence; essence of betrayal for them; essence of emotional fulfilment for the other two.

As Antara and Debabrata stayed in gloom, Abhijnan and Deboshree found peace sitting beside the Ganges. Holiness that flowed cleansed their conscience. Dusk broke, not their conversation. “I had a huge, huge crush on you, Debo,” he whispered in her ears as the early winter fog in the horizon and a smooth chill of the breeze conspired to romanticize the ambience.

 “Although I could never see you, and might not even be able to do that ever, I can definitely feel your emotions, Abhi. Thank you for accepting a blind,” said Deboshree.

“Let me be your eyes for the rest of our lives,” said Abhijnan.

“The story ends here, but life starts here itself,” Apurbo said. The crowd clapped gleefully, with a girl cheering the most from the back of the audience.

Apurbo took the book in his arm, supported his glasses on his forehead and reached out to the last row of seats in the room. He holds a pretty woman by her hand, who grabs his arm with a firm grip, symbolizing the comfort she found in his aura. As they move towards the exit gate, a reporter asks him about her.

“Deboshree,” he mentioned with affection.