Kal S.K.M Sir ashben to take a class on Elizabethan poetry.
( translation: The dessert authorities have decided to plant a temporary fresh water source as people started gorging on cacti thinking it to be water-melon)
Traduttore, Traditore!?? Oh yes.
I’m starved of his presence. Starved of ‘gaale-haath-diye’ wistfully staring at him with sublime awe and incredulity, of his sudden question thrown at me “Jude the Obscure kobe published hoyechilo? Ki? Kobita?” with a hint of a pride in his foreknowledge of the certainty of getting the answer.
I’m starved of his voice reverberating through those mid-nineteenth century architectural wonder chambers that we call classrooms, of his constant and strikingly coherent references to Rabindranath no matter what text or what period he takes up, his nonpareil dexterity at fleeting across time, history of English literature, Indian nationalism, philosophy and of the history of Presidency College….dates, names, biographies, critics, critiques, authors, publications, letters, poetry……and almost always a class of fifty minutes would be antithetically both too much and too less.
I was not supposed to write so much. Not a word after ‘presence’. But somehow I don’t want my ‘revelations’ / observations/ fixations to be cryptic anymore. Ingenue is what Ingenue does! ( Woe to me! The mindless plagiarist). I’ll mention myself, the people close to me, people who are ‘further away and closer still’. I need not mention the man I admire in connotations anymore. I need not bother that they might get it all wrong. They might talk, they might call it ‘romantic wish-fulfillment’.
Oh it is. But only romantics would ever know what pleasure such indulgences spill. I’ll mention all I want to write about...
…except for the Sea.
He wanted it this way. And that's how it shall be.
And in any case some mistakes are too grave to edulcorate or repeat.