A claustrophobic room. Mouthing the lyrics as if you were 20 again. The heady mixture of grass, lager, old friends and a receding hairline. Poignant guitar strains. For the times that were. Audacious Suman. Pensive Anjan. Bohemian Anindya. Dali-esque Chandrabindu poems. Moushumi Bhowmik, LRB (only one song, please), Arnab and his cute cute Shahana, Kalikaprasad. Remembering Rudra Mohammed Shahidullah. And walks in the rain. Or an autumn sky knowing that you'll be home tomorrow. The long conversations. The sheer madness to love. The misplaced courage to let go. The dead friends. None of whom had a die-able, viable age. Far away from the shopping malls. And faux-pas happiness. And libido. And appraisals. And the hassles of getting (or worse, being) married. Perhaps in Alabma. Or Kowloon. Or Gandhi Bhaban. Or BBC.
I don't really believe in gods, if her name is not Maa. Still, it feels warm from within that one day I will sing to one such gathering. And god will let me do that. Where I will sing for myself. Steal furtive glances to check if all my past ghosts are approving of me. One last hurrah before the curtains fall on the madness of not letting go.
Is that a lot to ask for?
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