Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Critical review of a boring half abridged book-
1 (The Beginning)
What we could never know throughout the course of the story
is the actual color of her eyes
he once momentarily writes though
about the evening sun in French Vineyards
or the beauty he found while reading Rumi.
He mentions of the smiles that lingered around him
when he walked in the middle of December
near a small chilly Hamlet in Uttaranchal
and the Tolstoyic description of the female protagonists.
2( In Between Somewhere)
Throughout it all her eyes remain a mystery to us.
We know that she giggled
while they talked of tiny little things
like Alice, through the looking glass,
the way she hated eggplants,
how she found him 'oh! so cute'
when he woke up in the mornings,
that how happy she is when he tells her most mundanely
to 'take care' over phone
and ofcourse PGW.
But not her eyes.
He once glances past it in his story
when he tells that
she had tiny little feet
that did perfectly fit into the gap just beneath his joined knees
while she lied over him
just to listen to his heartbeat.
And he while telling her about Morichjhapi, Naxalbari and his childhood
slowly caresses the skin above her eyebrows
that feels a little rough like Styrofoam
especially when you consider the softness of her eyelids
but not the color.
And as the story ends we see that he ventures around the idea
of her as a fresh painted wall
or a newly washed bed-sheet
that he loved her presence and sometimes her thoughts in absence
and the way she called his name as if her life depended on it
through the broken alphabets in her chocolate brownie inviting voice.
And just after that
he thinks of all good things in his life
that nobody mostly knows about
like the joy of reading Salinger
or listening to Beatles
or walking upstairs to fourth floor to meet Nando and fly kites with him
or his first written unread poetry
or to see her smile while trying to speak her broken Bangla
but not the color of her eyes
Because no one
absolutely no one
deserves to know the color of your eyes
as no one can love you the way I do.
And we are left with
a half empty
unfolded rumor of a story.