Something of Myself
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Black and White
They used to frequent the pubs fairly regularly. She used to have vodka and orange juice, and he stuck to his 'Pint of Carlsberg.' They never conceived it as a 'date' but eventually seeing them, everyone would come up and compliment how wonderful a couple they made. Race sells after all!
She was the quiet type. He - forever boisterous, thinking but loud. He couldn't help it, bongs were supposed to be like that. He used to admire her. Never did he for once feel that he loved her in the traditional sense of the term. There was no lust and there was no love lost. And that was pretty much the end of the story. However, nothing is as it seems...text messages were exchanged, glances remained unrequited, half-words died somewhere between the vocal chord and the receptors. It was magic. She said it so many times. He felt it at times. But the very possibility of a romantic relationship with a white girl was shocking. Jaat noshto hoye jabe. Bangla bujhbe na. Culture bhujbe na. Lakkhi pujor din mod kheye badi phirbe. Durga pujo te hangover niye shuye thakbe. Baba manbe na. Ma chomke jabe.
But it lasted. For 20 years. They kept in touch even when he left the shores. He didn't get an opportunity to bid her farewell. He had so many things to tell her. He never told her how beautiful she was. Although he broke down many a times in front of her, he never quite got to share his deepest secrets with a white woman who would understand the pain of being a black man. The contrast was evident - on-your-face - black and white.
He called me last evening - wept; for he was missing her dearly - she was the one person who would listen to him for hours and hours, even after dinner was cooked and it went cold during one of the chilly London nights. Donner Kebab and After Shock. Raj India chips and the sweet smell of Christian Dior. When she bought a dress for the ball, he was the first to know. When he triumphed in his battles, she couldn't resist her pride.
They were one of a kind. Friends forever. But there was this underlying, unsaid, undiminishing tension in the chemistry. Sex or celibacy? Love or friendship? Desire or admiration?
To admire you have to stand a little far away. Desire gets you closer.
She is travelling now. In a Virgin train. From Birmingham to Plymouth. Dried leaves lie on the track. She reads a book. It's called, Anna Karenina.
They used to frequent the pubs fairly regularly. She used to have vodka and orange juice, and he stuck to his 'Pint of Carlsberg.' They never conceived it as a 'date' but eventually seeing them, everyone would come up and compliment how wonderful a couple they made. Race sells after all!
She was the quiet type. He - forever boisterous, thinking but loud. He couldn't help it, bongs were supposed to be like that. He used to admire her. Never did he for once feel that he loved her in the traditional sense of the term. There was no lust and there was no love lost. And that was pretty much the end of the story. However, nothing is as it seems...text messages were exchanged, glances remained unrequited, half-words died somewhere between the vocal chord and the receptors. It was magic. She said it so many times. He felt it at times. But the very possibility of a romantic relationship with a white girl was shocking. Jaat noshto hoye jabe. Bangla bujhbe na. Culture bhujbe na. Lakkhi pujor din mod kheye badi phirbe. Durga pujo te hangover niye shuye thakbe. Baba manbe na. Ma chomke jabe.
But it lasted. For 20 years. They kept in touch even when he left the shores. He didn't get an opportunity to bid her farewell. He had so many things to tell her. He never told her how beautiful she was. Although he broke down many a times in front of her, he never quite got to share his deepest secrets with a white woman who would understand the pain of being a black man. The contrast was evident - on-your-face - black and white.
He called me last evening - wept; for he was missing her dearly - she was the one person who would listen to him for hours and hours, even after dinner was cooked and it went cold during one of the chilly London nights. Donner Kebab and After Shock. Raj India chips and the sweet smell of Christian Dior. When she bought a dress for the ball, he was the first to know. When he triumphed in his battles, she couldn't resist her pride.
They were one of a kind. Friends forever. But there was this underlying, unsaid, undiminishing tension in the chemistry. Sex or celibacy? Love or friendship? Desire or admiration?
To admire you have to stand a little far away. Desire gets you closer.
She is travelling now. In a Virgin train. From Birmingham to Plymouth. Dried leaves lie on the track. She reads a book. It's called, Anna Karenina.
2 Comments:
Fantastic! you r right, some relations are more than conventional love stories, they are forever!
Hmm...Pleased you liked it. Thanks for reading!
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