Thursday, February 12, 2009


I fear the cuckoo sing. It brings fever. And phlegm. And unwanted footbaths. It’s very tricky you know… makes me rush to the window, stand clutching the railings, look at the resurrected krishnachura tree, inhale the pollen-rich happy-go-lucky breeze, gulp in all the light pouring onto my window sill and then…

I miss my childhood springs. Times when Ma would read out slices from different texts- English, Bangla, History, Geography, Life Science, even Physical Sciences and I would lie under a bed sheet groaning in fever. The Annual Exams were always such a pleasure so. I could jolly well manage excuses to fail. Or rather, to do badly. Or… umm… rather to do not so well. I fear gratifying expectations too.

The cuckoo brings my favourite sun.
So I really fear the cuckoo sing.
Suns are too infectious to escape. They bring light. They shoo darkness. They inflate me with smiles. With bliss. With confidence. And hope. I die to jump and snatch a lump of the beams they rain.
But sunlight burns my eyes. I thrive on antibiotics. And vomit. Am very bad at swallowing things. The vomits are often green. Even pink. Or red. All depends upon the cough syrup I take. My windows are kept closed to the sun. But some lights always manage to peep in. I fear intrusions too.

Fevers are like dreams. I easily catch my pet butterflies once again. The moths that were butterflies to me, that is. I gave them ants to eat. Both red and black. And I can once again teach the red ants to swim in empty ice-cream cups and help them out with a piece of wool. I can’t remember the colour. Only the ants come and go and tickle my fingers and caress my palm and jump into the water and struggle and swim and climb up the wool back to my finger once again. I miss the insects these days. Really. But the dreams persist. Nothing less than occasional violent shudders of cough can keep me awake in these times.

The cuckoo is a lovely bird. But I don’t like it sing. It reminds me of some old paintings. Some songs that I never managed to sing and so killed silent. Some cravings incomprehensible yet. Some myths that faded half way through. Some stories that were never woven. Some soliloquies that failed to find any readable expression. Some cold clouds that always bring fever.

Ah! I just realized. I fear long pent-up thoughts as well.