Nope. That will be too much of a pain. Ugly, eh? What is beautiful? Arcs chiseled out of marble and rubbed and nipped and polished and turned into glass? Wow! How delicate! How brittle! How lovely! Yes, one might stare enthralled, the lower jaw hanging loose, the tongue pink and slimy, drenched in excessively overflowing salivation- I know it feels natural that way. But I would rather have the saliva inside my mouth, thank you, around the bit of white gum playing inside, the flavor of mint painting my lips dull.
Jafran is also sweet. Expensive though. They charge it very high in the restaurants. Along with the rice, or mutton, or aloo, or other palatable delicacies. The scent of garlic remains for ages after the tummy has been vacated and new smells have filled the olfactory lobes afresh. Garlic never stinks!! Who said so? Then rose water stinks too. And onions. And vanilla essence. Or say, sandalwood.
Yet, sandalwood incense sticks are so nauseating! My head aches. But then, aches are a cliché too. Every poet talks it wild. Talks and talks and talks it until you drop dead. Death is a little weird thing to deal with. All the dying, crying, being sad, fasting, grief, tears, photographs, garlands, flashbacks, whiteness, grayness, sepia, clothes, bed sheets, diaries, rooms, discussions, silences, strange implications meant to be understood…
Do yawns give everyone a double chin?
Skin-deep beauty is quite costly. But a good chin is a god’s gift. I don’t know his name. But gods are always he and goddesses she. Or is it not so? I don’t care! We don’t have to learn the genders any more.
I told you that I did not want more. I forgot to tell you that I simply detested less. And it is always less. Not always, but often. Many times. At least sometimes.
Sometimes I stand by the window too long. And catch cold in the incoming gusts of rain-wind. It cools my reddened ears. The veins in my eyes relax. And I passionately dig my nose for little chunks of toxins filtered by the hair.
No way. I cannot be pretty. We are too poor for this. And moreover I cannot endure too much pain. Ugly beauty is less painful and more affordable. Can I have a bit of that, mister?
The gray whirlpool of the dead dust has leapt to life again. At last. At long, long last. A strange afternoon, I’d say, of swishing trees and fluttering plastic bags. And yes, the dimming lights of a faded day. It held many stories, mostly unknown, and some, half-forgotten among the everyday sweat… among a lull that brings anything but sleep… among the lifeless groan of tedium and monotony… among dreams that only enhance disenchantment.
Every kalboishakhi is special. Each brings a different darkness. A different aroma. A different tinge in the psyche. A different solitude. A different rapture. A different whisper. The ruthlessness breeds ache and alleviation with the same intensity- twin sisters rocking in the cradle of quivering fervor with the sudden strikes of lightning thunder.
