Sunday, October 23, 2011

Perhaps-es :


[From the diary of Tanima
about Adam]

He has those deep set blue eyes

He writes poetries
hugely inspired by the likes of Cummings,
but writes good

He walked me to home last night in the chilling winters of Manchester
sans his dinner jacket and still was warm when he hugged me.

He has this wide grin that fills your heart
and an English accent that sometimes makes you laugh.

Jane Austin is just a romantic female author to him
and not someone with socialist connotations

Unlike all men I have known he has no revolutionary Ideals and Ideas

He does not know that Bengal is a place too in India and not just a language

He knows I cannot write poetry but is still appreciative of my know-how of literature

He is too verbose at times
and on others he is a reticent little pup.

He finds me beautiful and curvaceous and tiny

In the last two weeks he has told me twenty six times that he loves me

For him Calcutta is me and Tagore and slums perhaps

For him love happens like accidents or rains

For me love happens like seasons with a slow gathering momentum.

He is still fixated on the Shakespearean idea of love and tragedy

I know that love and even tragedy sometimes just happen
wordless, nameless and unknown they stay.

and the difference is for him falling in love with me
is a natural gradual next step

for me it is like wearing a new soul entering a new home.

And that I want him to find me not just beautiful and curved but like an idea as well
an honest utopian idea

And that I can perhaps love him and respect him but I cannot write poetry for him
as whenever I sit and write it is all about the words that were filled in my ears by him at Presidency

And he does not know that sometimes for me Calcutta is
just a horn rimmed bespectacled young man with vocal ideas

But tonight when he held my hands
and embraced me while walking back it was overwhelming

He kissed me on my cheeks

and told me for the twenty seventh time that he loved me

I smiled

And yet somehow...

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