Sunday, October 23, 2011
[From the diary of Tanima
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
And yet somehow...