Inconspicuous Melodies

"Take me then...."

How do you reply to a request that is so brazen in its being? I mean do you blanch at first and then swallow your discomfiture, only to be replaced by a momentary daze where you are still searching for way outs. Way outs from this request that plays the syllables of ' take me then ....' in sharp, clear notes, imparting to it a sense of urgency, a tone of despair. How do you take a person, a person that somehow surpasses the original, stoic definitions of a 'person' through the streets of a city that just spreads out infront of you, a bodyless being, transforming into shapes that constanly change, beckoning you with one upraised hand and disappearing amidst the alleyways the next? It is brazen for this city, Kolkata is reborn everyday, a maiden everyday, a trembling boy of 14 everyday, waiting patiently for his first kiss, a widower everyday, shedding tears but jostling through the dainty,sharp edges of life, a woman everyday, anticipating her wedding night, gripping the mattress tight, lest she should pass out from fear or giddiness. You unwrap Kolkata a bit evryday, love, you feel Kolkata a bit everyday, you die a little inside everyday and so does Kolkata ; little wisps of character blown away, scattered like tufts of cotton on the pavement, the footfalls on their crashed souls resounding in every nook and corner of the city, a death knell that inspires an eternal state of awakening. It is brazen because you, my sweet person, have to make love to Kolkata, tenderly, your lips- the ever patient tourist on uncharted lands, your eyes - devouring her, sweetly,slowly, sweeping over her naked body ,stopping at the smooth curves of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the arch of her feet. It is brazen ,but I am more than willing to take you by the hand, shoving you gently in her arms, until you cage her body in your ever delicate ones; face buried in the nape of her neck, cooing lullabies to her.

Now, if I do take you by the hand, I am not sure where to go. The nuances are different in different streets, different kiosks. You can find no two similar places in Kolkata, it is a dichotomy unto itself. But, how about we take a sharp left and fall out on the intersection of five roads, paths that trade souls, personalities at the expense of cars massaging their
surface, pedestrians stumbling on their unkempt stubbles. From there, I would coax you, a reluctant you who has seen this city, behind a pane of glass, a glass that admonishes the 'child' Kolkata like an authoritative parent, a perplexed you, who has been wanting to embrace her but have stopped each time, the haunts of stale memories slashing away at your emotions. You would most definitely sport a small frown, not neccessarily of irritation but of a queasy feeling that you would try to hide, your lips pursed, eyes roaming the streets with a deep sense of foreboding. Now, another left and we would be at a small, obscure platform overlooking the body of water that has for eons of years accepted the fallacies of human beings, the effigies of creativity, the wails of the homeless, the offerings of the affluent. The ghat, as we call it, is this mortar and concrete creation that acts as a prelude to the song that the river carries, its waves; the meend in the raag. The steps that descend down to the river, stone chips chipped away by the constant thoroughfare is where we would sit. For just this day, my love, you will make love to a Kolkata that is a constant vortex of mud, flesh, human bones and aspirations. This ghat will be your nuptial bed, the bed that you will christen with a fragile Kolkata in your arms, nuzzling the crevices and cracks of the thoughts that she houses. The effigies of the idols that have so been worshipped in places galore, would come down like an avalanche onto the river and she would be scared, shuddering, choking, pleading for release. You,my love will then sigh and observe , the way the idols float on its surface, the river's surface, a namesake for all the toils of artisans, for all the veneration that vanishes the moment these clay dolls plunge into the murky waters of wordless howls and cries pregnant with ecstacy. She hates these, these constant rush of memories, this ever-increasing pile of human pieces that she has to shoulder. She does shed her attire every night, but the faint odour of them still lingers on her body, an odour that saps away her strength, drop by drop, till she screams for love, for new hopes, for a change of view, for a change of the conceptions that people nurture about her. You will, my sweet, brilliant person look at the throngs of people and wonder.....

Wonder whether the screeching sound of the trains halting at the station and the hawkers selling their wares to children of all ages is a call, a call for the mating that you had wanted to stall ,till now. The tubelights of the station and the lights dotting the horizon coalsce to form darkness, yes darkness because they nullify each other. Close your eyes and you will see a faint outline of a girl, crouched in this blazing darkness, her hair sprawled on her back, her form as gullible as a child in its pre-natal form. Do you hear the splosh on the undulating surface?That's yet another artisan's creation's price paid for. The girl on your bed shivers, she does not want to be this monster, swallowing creations, swallowing laughters that frame people's faces.She does not want to be serenaded at, she does not. She is huge, but size should not be an impediment for when you are over the shock of her enormity, you will realize that she's just you.She cringes at the sight of this river, churning, flowing inside her.She closes her eyes for she can see herself in pinprick clarity: streets, lamposts, rivers, railways, ghats, shopping malls and a medley of sounds.Do you now know why it is Kolkata; a person and not Kolkata; the person. Just like you, it needs to be made love to, just like us, it needs to be reminded of the fact that it is alive, a casual offhand reminder that speaks loads. Will you now not traverse the distance then? Take yourself to the bed that she graces, willingly allowing your loneliness, scars to intermingle with hers, pacifying her, telling her, ripping through the dress that refuses to leave her body? Will you not now lie beside her , your bed made of asphalt pillows and a sheet spun out of severed, sewed, yet-to-be-sewed strings of attatchment? Will you not now, graze your fingers along the places where the dress had chaffed her skin, where the river had lashed out at her with it's fangs of puerile water, where the lumps of mud, viscious and vile, had kissed her so hard that she had screamed out in pain, a prelude that had gone bad? Will you not now, humm the same song that the river carries, but in a different rythm, different pace, trying to show her how both the songs are neccessary in its own respect? Just like you are a product of your despair and happiness,she too is a product; a product whose composition depends on you, my lovely. She is your's tonight. Do not treat her like a Goddess, do not treat her like a woman, conversant in the art of pleasure, do not treat her like a person who holds the key to all your questions but treat her all the same. Look at her with love, she feeds off it. Let your hands feel her, every tissue, every inch, every drop of sweat. She is a child, a inexperienced teenager, new to the art of love-making. Kiss her with your lips, your senses, your music and she will fall apart at your touch,imprinting your image ,' you' on her heart for eternities. Guide her into your depths and just as she is about to climax, let yourself go as well. Go- so that you create an inexplicable bond, a bond that is so intimate that you would be loathe to share it with others. Then, my sweet, I would no longer need to take you. Kolkata will take you herself then, clasping your hand, the lines on your palms echoing the sound of her heartbeat, the child in her, the child that she is ,bringing out the sweet joy of parenthood that people yearn for. Then, my sweet, Kolkata will be your's, at dawn, at noon, at flexible twilight, imperceptible evenings, romantic nights and at the fateful blaze of dusk that heralds yet another new dawn. Then, my sweet, Kolkata will truly be your's.

P.S.-The 'person' knows that it is meant for him, the city knows that it is meant for her and well, 'meend' is the embellishment that Indian classical music carries and 'ghat' is the river bank and I am completely sprouting nonsense here. So,once again, if you do chance to find this, read away..!!😊