The Clerk’s Tale
The moment before leaving for the office is always a mess
— the doorway, the rush for the public bus, a half-wave to the wife, sometimes
forgetting to kiss the kids. Off I go, in daylight, through familiar streets,
towards familiar pain, a member of the government employees’ union. Being late
for the office doesn’t sting as much as Shibu-da’s tea with sugar too high or
too low — that rattles me. I hurry, I bruise people on the way, God knows how
many relationships have gone stale. Mejokaka warned me: these are careless
times. Who knows which houses store so much pain? Or maybe I carry it myself —
I’m alone too.
Mrs. Dastidar’s tight blouse — her breasts bound and high — I see them in idle moments. Sometimes I think how a certain depth of cleavage can raise gooseflesh on a body. If a stranger called to me from the street, would I come to the window? I never imagined so. Loneliness has broken my manhood the way drudgery breaks the body. The heart stays tired.
Once I slipped and played the wrong cassette — Shankha Ghosh’s poems you had given me — and I stood there like a solitary shepherd, immersed, until the song was cut off by the switch. Poetry flapped its wings in my private life; I needed to stop it. Stopping was necessary. I wanted peace in the body, not festival, not frenzy — peace. But in these times, even peace spreads its wings and turns into fatigue.
At night, blindness dissolves in strange seepage — I can’t find myself in bed. Sleep falls over my eyes, and it’s best to hide the past: the fights, the trespassers into my department, the flag in my hand, the revolutionary moods — better not to speak of those embarrassments. The present is enough: chest out, living on. Thinking of the future only makes me tired. Excitement is gone, nothing startles me, nothing delights me anymore — except Mrs. Dastidar’s aging breasts, bound tight, slightly open at the front, the only thrill left in my life’s fairy tale.
Morning comes. Even when the body quiets, the fatigue never leaves. Sometimes I don’t even want to speak; I feel like staying silent, looking for some other dawn — the way Comrade-da rants on stage, or the way I’ve held emptiness like a child in my lap, keeping it with care. Not love, but something like phlegm in the chest — a daily purging of sin — in the useless pursuit of life. Waiting for evening. That’s how my days pass.
Mrs. Dastidar’s tight blouse — her breasts bound and high — I see them in idle moments. Sometimes I think how a certain depth of cleavage can raise gooseflesh on a body. If a stranger called to me from the street, would I come to the window? I never imagined so. Loneliness has broken my manhood the way drudgery breaks the body. The heart stays tired.
Once I slipped and played the wrong cassette — Shankha Ghosh’s poems you had given me — and I stood there like a solitary shepherd, immersed, until the song was cut off by the switch. Poetry flapped its wings in my private life; I needed to stop it. Stopping was necessary. I wanted peace in the body, not festival, not frenzy — peace. But in these times, even peace spreads its wings and turns into fatigue.
At night, blindness dissolves in strange seepage — I can’t find myself in bed. Sleep falls over my eyes, and it’s best to hide the past: the fights, the trespassers into my department, the flag in my hand, the revolutionary moods — better not to speak of those embarrassments. The present is enough: chest out, living on. Thinking of the future only makes me tired. Excitement is gone, nothing startles me, nothing delights me anymore — except Mrs. Dastidar’s aging breasts, bound tight, slightly open at the front, the only thrill left in my life’s fairy tale.
Morning comes. Even when the body quiets, the fatigue never leaves. Sometimes I don’t even want to speak; I feel like staying silent, looking for some other dawn — the way Comrade-da rants on stage, or the way I’ve held emptiness like a child in my lap, keeping it with care. Not love, but something like phlegm in the chest — a daily purging of sin — in the useless pursuit of life. Waiting for evening. That’s how my days pass.
Comments
Post a Comment