Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Our Infant Air
I saw her as a little girl in that large house which became the hotbed for Naxalite activities. Her narrations of every walk of life were so vivid that it empowered me with an interesting ability to visualize the unknown. I witnessed the old para as she spoke; with buildings glued to one another where if one calls by a singular surname, it echoes and not less than 250 people respond. Her words drew a close parallel to the most thought-provoking first fifteen years of my being. It was impossible to overlook the similarities and wishes that both of us had when I was young and she was younger. She used to head for her old address to tie her hair in the late afternoons and would never be home before night time. I held on to English tutorials in the neighborhood of my old house only to walk past the oli-golis of my dearly loved Paikpara. My juvenile days were a dense miniature of hers except that hers were more beautiful than mine. I can not bring myself to not love someone as beautiful as her, even harder to not love a person who has one cup of laal chaa without biscuits every hour.