Pritam's Blog
This Characterless Man Has No Poetry To Write
There is a poetry for every situation. And I can’t think of anything new. That’s why I don’t write poetry anymore.
Instead, I write about slices of life that’s relatable to everyone.
So, Pallabi had been to my parents’ place and she asked me if I needed anything from there. I told her to bring one of the books that I had left at home.
She found it and called me up. “Who keeps their Voter ID inside a book? It’s an important thing. You should keep it somewhere safe. It’s because of people like you that people like Modi comes to power.”
“You might have found my PRC as well inside the book.”
“Yes,” she replied, still angry.
“See, I remember. It’s not like I forget where I have kept my stuff.”
“Yeah, right! I also found some girl’s sketch.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know her…”
And even though, I tell her everything, even my most unadulterated thoughts, I remembered this particular poem by Joy Goswami which roughly translates into this:
“It’s scary. I have left the letters inside the drawers of my office desk. Letters from Shyamasri. Those were written five years back. I have been working here for the past 15 years. And there are letters from 10 years back, letters from Shamita Basu.
What if the pacemaker stops working while I am on the road, bus, or maybe at home in the morning, on a holiday? What will happen to these letters? Who will look after them?
All these years, this characterless man Has drawn his peace from these letters, reading them. How can I forget them now that it’s time to leave?
So, while I am still here, let me burn these letters. Let me burn my desire for Shyamasri, my desire for Swagata.”
And I wondered if I have anything in my old memory cards and hard disks, and in those diaries and books, that’s entirely mine. Ekdam private. I couldn’t think of anything.
I went through the gallery of my phone. There were some recent photos from work. Everybody had their masks on. I wondered if I would remember the faces behind the masks 15 years from now. Would I even recognize myself? If I stumble upon these photos 15 years later, I would probably wonder what these photos are doing in my memory card, who these people are. And I would probably delete them. So, it’s better to delete them now and save some space.
But as I was saying, there’s a poetry for every situation. And this characterless man can’t think of anything to write about.