Rain, memories and a distant tune...

It was a wonderful evening. As the silent rain spread all over, we made our way back to the apartment after having a quiet dinner at a nearby restaurant. When I was struggling with the last piece of the bland naan and trying to figure out why the daal was called Daal makhani when it actually tasted like sambhar, my three years old loyal Nokia cell-phone rang with compromised clarity. It was Mum.

Barely ten days had passed since I came to Chennai. I am doing a Post Graduate course in Journalism in a premier institute here ; and we have been allotted decent flats in a grand building at Kodambakkam, called Jain’s Antariksh. It was the sixth night of our stay in the building. Normally, on weekdays, I stay back in the college till 8.30 in the night, going through different books in the brilliantly stocked library. Then I have my dinner in a nearby Bengali hotel (which serves good food and is easy on the pocket too) and come back to Jain’s with a friend of mine.

As it was a Saturday, the library closed at 5 p.m and we had to come back early. The morning’s plan to go to the Eliot beach after college was cancelled . It was fortunate as for some obscure reason, I was feeling a bit low. The clouds had already started to gather when I was in the auto, coming back to the hostel. Before entering the building, quite involuntarily, I looked up at the sky. It had started to drizzle and the grey sky with looming clouds projected gloominess all around.
As the dabba food system was not yet arranged for our dinner on weekends, ten of us decided to have our dinner in this shabby looking restaurant, right in front of our apartment. There wasn’t a better place nearby, so though reluctant at the beginning, we had to settle for it.

“Hello Beta ! shob bhaalo to ?”, (Hello Son ! Is everything ok?) spoke a starkly familiar , distinctly near and crystal clear voice on the other end of the phone. Suddenly, I was gripped by a spasm of terrible physical weakness but I held on. The conversation lasted for a couple of minutes, where my mother enquired about my well-being and asked me to be careful in the city. I did not miss the wet hoarseness of her voice, deliberately trying to conceal it, towards the end of the conversation.
All my friends around me were discussing, animatedly , about some issue and cheering over it. It was all an audible incomprehensibility for me as I pushed the phone inside my jeans pocket, heaving a deep sigh of emptiness, lingering somewhere.

Ria asked me that who was on the line. I smiled and said that it was Mum. As we made our way towards Jain’s, I could feel the cool distant wind brushing past my hair, caressing my cheeks and it sent a shiver down my spine.
Now, the sky was black and so was the road. The mood slowly plunged into me as we sat down on a bench near our building, to chat, which is a regular affair before retiring for the day.

I tried my best to participate in the conversation and look interested but soft, almost tangible memories flashed through my mind, each time I put in an extra effort. Scenes flashed rapidly – my cosy bedroom, the torn yellow blanket, my neighbouring aunt’s smiling face, my mother preparing a wonderful dish for me, my father’s voice on the telephone, the crowded Howrah railway station, the chicken roll at Shiraz, the fun-filled college days…an evening walk to the market, holding Her hands and careless whispers in Her ears, the last time I saw Her before coming to Chennai - those eyes which spoke in volumes, clinching me, desperate to put up a performance of silent courage… everything was coming back to me in fast forward.
Suddenly, I found Devjeet asking me why I was so quiet tonight? I brushed it off with a casual non-chalance and broke off into an artificial giggle, trying to sound convincing.

It was tough. It was very tough to hold back. Every time I thought about my home, my family, my friends, my Love – my heart wrenched apart and a dry lump formed in my throat. I was so far from them, physically… I was feeling breathless and terribly weak. My heart – It was a kid, a lonely naked kid, running down an empty dark street, crying uncontrollably but the screams could not be heard. The doors of the houses on both sides of the street were locked and from the windows, he could see dim illumination inside, a warm glow beckoning him…

Suddenly, the soft strains of “Saiyyan”, a song by Kailash Kher (One of the purest, I have ever heard) filled the air around me and a deep, distant call of melancholy stabbed my heart.
I had promised to myself that in these 10 months, I would never listen to any kind of song which had a strange, pure romance in it – songs which transport me to another world of fantastic reality, of floral dreams and clear skies, of sparkling waterfall and soft wind, of a setting sun , of a lone cyclist riding through a dark maize field, of the pure, majestic moon – songs which lay my heart bare, an inexplicable pain gripping me, a convulsive shivering, a grinding feeling of nostalgia and a touch of numbness…

I was not able to take it anymore. I could not hold back my tears. I buried my face with my palms, my ears turning hot sensing the surprised faces around me. Quickly getting over their fluster, some of my friends comforted me, while others were reminded of their family. I was feeling extremely embarrassed and frustrated, not being able to control my emotions. I made myself steady soon, and found that everyone around me had a sombre expression on their faces, staring at a distance. I had opened a passageway of memories for them, that night. No one lingered around after that. I returned back to my flat, straight, weak but more in control.
As I lay on the bed, I tried to think about the morning lectures in an attempt to escape from my wandering thoughts.

The next morning, we were all fresh faced, greeting each other. That day, we enjoyed a lot. But deep in my heart, I still bore the promise…Nowadays, whenever I hear the tune of any special song, I escape from the place before it tries to enter my soul.