I've not been able to sleep for the last two hours. There's a strange restlessness within, reminding me bitterly of some nights in 2013. It's an awful beating within my ribcage-  like a tremendous amount of air waiting to escape. I know what they are. They are the remnants of unresolved emotions. The left-overs of moving-ons. The crusts and crumbs which you leave to organically decay after you carefully sweep away the toxic garbage.
It's been 5 years. 5 years since I have had zero contact with someone whom I shared the most of my childhood with, someone who was once my best friend, someone who I eventually fell in love with, someone I had my first kiss with, someone I fell in and out of love with, but somehow, never stopped caring about.
I grew out of love, and watched that hurt him with a horrified heart. But I couldn't help it. He didn't understand me. I was too young to compromise. The timing was wrong. I was scared. He was naive. There are a million reasons, all of them validating my decision 5 years ago.
But that's my part of the story. I never knew his. I don't know how my memories have convoluted in his head. I don't know how he remembers me. I don't know if he does at all. For the most part of the last 5 years, he wasn't really on the surface of my memory. Things did not end well, and the Herculean amount of ego that made him up, helped both of us separate and grow away from each other. There was zero contact. There is zero contact. Zilch. I won't pretend it wasn't a huge discomfort. He did go out of his way at times to make me feel uncomfortable. For a presence that huge and continuous, the sudden stop was shocking. But I had my ego too. I wouldn't break down, I was better off. I soon did fall madly in love with someone else, had a tumultuous relationship, had my trust broken, and decided to part ways again. This separation had visibly broken me. I developed insomnia and anxiety issues, and I came to hate with a vengeance. It took me several years to move on from that relationship, if not that person.
However, coming back to Him. We've physically crossed paths several times in the last few years, considering we live literally not even 200 metres apart from each other. The silence, the ego, the walls have naturally required stronger efforts to sustain. But somehow I managed to do it. I possibly got the strength from his resilience, I knew how obstinate he was. I wouldn't be one to bend over either. He'd surprised me with his nonchalance far too many times for me to take any step for reconciliation. I figured I did not need any. Fuck that. He's living his life, I'm living mine. Plus, I didn't know what he thought about me. I wasn't getting humiliated, no way.
I wish I could tell you this story had a better ending. I wish I could tell you 5 years was enough to redeem the 9 years before that. There have been numerous moments I had wanted to reach out, this in itself is a frantic effort to calm myself down. And the fact that he is literally 200 metres away from me as I speak, helps this in no way. There isn't much to lose if I reach out, but would I be able to console my sentiments if I'm pushed back? I'm not sure I can nurse myself. I'll wait for a hint, let's see.

Earlier this year in April, Sikdar Uncle passed away. The year before in September, just after B's birthday, he was diagnosed with a malignant tumour which eventually got the better of him. When I think back to when I first got to know of the diagnosis, to the day I learnt of his death- I was certain of one thing- the relentless suffering. No matter what would eventually happen, the pain couldn't be avoided. I knew that. And that is what I feared the most.
He passed away after travelling 1500 kms away from home in the hope for a cure, after numerous hospital trips, after a few futile surgeries, after flying back home, after nights of losing control over limbs and organs, after days of near-paralysis. Earlier, when he was better, over my childhood days,I remember him sunk into his armchair, sometimes reading a newspaper, sometimes aimlessly looking into the TV screen, and sometimes trying to crack a joke. I remember him in his humour- awkward, reticent, loud, humble, honest.
When I heard he'd passed away, I was in Delhi. I remember waking up crying to my mother's text, heart trembling at the thought of calling B. What would I tell her? Death means an agonizing absence.
I got tickets to Calcutta, and flew in to hug her.

This year, I could barely make it home during Pujo. I landed on oshtomi, after Didi pleaded and coaxed. B was there, so was Aunty. Minutes before I entered home, she swore to those around her that she could hear my voice. I wasn't talking, and nobody at home knew I'd be turning up. She'd always had one of my soul-strings.

Growing up, there was a shiuli tree in our building. Still is. Every year during Pujo, Ma and Aunty would sit beneath it, collecting shiuli from the ground, and talk about things they couldn't share in larger groups of superficial conversation. We'd look at them and smile- they were so similar. For my mother, sensitive and aesthetic, Aunty was her only real friend.

This year Aunty seemed a little lost from the moment I entered. I caught her tearing up more than once, and at other times, she too seemed sunk inside, lost aimlessly in an invisible TV screen in front of her. On dashami, I saw her wandering near the shiuli tree, and that's when I noticed that  there were no shiulis this year. 

You,

The first stranger I wrote a poem about. You made your way into a lot more than a poem. Thank you for that.
You calm me down,always have. But I am so scared, so scared of how things will turn out. I have stopped idealising, long back. And although that means I kept my measured one arm emotional distance from you( which by the way I now do with everybody), I can't help but feel so so grateful to you. You're the closest to have almost breached that distance. But since the distance is only just going to increase, henceforth, I think I have already started regressing. Already started piling the bricks up, already prepared myself for all the hurt so that I eventually don't get hurt. It's slightly amusing and actually quite terrifying how that is happening so naturally now. Anyway, I remember having a gut feeling about you. And I'm glad I wasn't wrong. I'm glad you're such a beautiful friend. I believe in a fundamental instinct that drives us towards everything- It's both the heart and the mind. Deep down in your gut, you always know. And I know we aren't done. I know things will change. I can only hope for the better.
Till then, thank you. You've brought out the best in me. Heck, I'm writing after ages. Thank you, so much. Thank you for remembering my kaalboishakhi. I'll always remember you remember me. Thank you for making me feel so damn special.

I wouldn't mind
Wading through cigarette stubs
pretentious poetry
flitting from one heart
to the next
searching
searching
a little desperate
summer afternoon tears
and midnight claustrophobia
the dreaded l word
and all that it means
and mostly doesn't
all the cliches,
all the highs
and the devastating
lows-

if it means, in the
end,
that
I find you.

I can't imagine home without you, dadu. You're lying in the next room, lifeless, and ma has forbidden me to refer to you as a body. Thank you, it has been a brilliant 23 years. thank you for the stories, thank you for the love, thank you for your blessings.
I swear i'll eat more fruits now.