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The Nineties’ Thing

last update Last Updated: 2021-07-12 11:07:43
The Nineties’ Thing

 

Pehla nasha, pehla khumar

Naya pyar hai naya intezar

Kar lu main kya apna haal, aye dil-e-beqarar

Mere dil-e-beqarar, tu hi bata…

 

The first tipsiness, the first hangover

This is new love, new wait

What do I make of myself, O restless heart!

My restless heart, you tell me this.

 

Do you remember the tragic heart-break scene which followed this song in the movie Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar? The scene, when Anjali finds her beloved Sanju engaged in a celestial lip-lock in the aesthetic privacy of a derelict hill-top fortress? Do you remember, how many times you might have watched that same scene, each time, risking a scandal of a life-time? How many times you might have fanned your hidden desires of having such moments in your own life too? When I had watched this scene for the first time, I was in the eighth grade.

By the time, I saw Junali for the first time, and that was two years later, the desire had already reached its zenith and the most effective way to calm my senses down was to imagine stories weaved out of moments with her. Stories were more rewarding than masturbation. Apart from leaving indelible traces in my notebooks as words, those imagined moments, rather fantasies, taught me how to outgrow my licentious self and arrive at the life-changing realization that the kiss on the lips signified something far greater than mere erotic physicality. Some sort of a yearning. Love.

What else could I care for, as a fifteen-year-old, more than love? The kind of love that led to kisses. I was waiting for that kind of love to happen. On reflection, I feel, the slimy happening of this kind of love is like cinema. It is so full of visual action. Who says love is a thing of heart? I don’t.

In those days this yearning…love…began when after much deliberation and strenuous efforts, the Seeker, that is the person who yearned for love, would succeed in securing frequent unblinking gazes from the Sought, whenever there was an opportunity. It would happen only when the Seeker would communicate their feelings to the Sought. It could be a formal face-to-face verbal proposal or a verbal message or a letter sent through a confidante. It was only when the Sought reciprocated those messages and feelings, with a formal acceptance popularly known as the YES, that love actually happened. A spontaneous, progressive, linear state of eunoia: that was what I had understood about love from the elusive narratives shown in Bollywood movies of the time. It felt like a state where nothing beat the yearning to be accepted in the first place, and to remain accepted thereafter. This understanding only got cemented when Junali Rajbongshi had said yes to me almost a year after I had seen her for the first time.

Inside the six-by-four smoking-room in Kolkata airport, when she was standing in front of me, with a jaw-dropping gaze, I was living a moment, I had forsaken and yearned for, a million times, since the evening we had met for the last time three years after she had said yes to me.

“Neelim?” Her buttery voice hadn’t changed, but her tone seemed more like a question.

“Isn’t she sure that the man standing in front of her is indeed me?” crossed my mind.

The brief exchange of words between us interrupted the nonchalant silence of the smoking room. The others in the room lifted their eyes from their mobile screens to witness a wee-hour drama unfold. I could feel a few of my brain-cells start slithering. Hope was at work.

I managed to return a smile quite as a common courtesy, as she smiled and kept looking at me with an unblinking gaze. Between Junali and me, from the clouds of smoke there now appeared a collage of monochromatic images hovering in front of my eyes. Images of a breezy April morning in Guwahati.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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