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richasmukherjee.com

love, laughter, pain, joy, life and its lessons, one word at a time

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Words

An itch to remember

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Word count: 597

I have never prescribed to the popular theory of the ‘onset of weariness’ with respect to your spouse as the years go by. All the jokes about the ‘7 year itch’ and ‘Shaadi ka laddoo’ etc elicited a few appropriate and perfunctory titters at best, but their meaning was pretty much lost on me. Why? Because when you fall in love with your best friend, your soul mate, your brother from another mother, your 4 am friend, your gossipy girlfriend, all rolled into one and marry them, it leaves very little space for complaints about spending too many years with them. There, I’ve placed a cliche of my own before you now, possibly as soggy as the Parle- G biscuit you dunked into your tea this morning but I really am being sincere. No matter how much we fight over the most inane things, call each other names like children despite being parents and drive each other up the wall, that love, that oozey gooey brownie kind of love that sticks to the roof of your mouth always lingers.

Of-course being so in love with your hubby doesn’t solve many other worldly issues such as gifts. Yes they are a token, yes, you keep giving each other things through the year so how does one day matter etc but who doesn’t love finding the perfect gift. Seeing a flicker of surprise, happiness and appreciation is something every gifter craves innit?! I was one of this tribe, sitting on the eve of our 7th year of marriage (yes, the ironical significance of this ‘itchy’ year is not lost on me) wondering what on earth I could buy my husband that would make his day truly special. There was a romantic dinner planned but what else could I buy to bombard him with my love?!

Like a possessed Juliet, I made some time and ran to the mall and a few stand alone stores, sifting through everything from practical to romantic gifts, from chaddis, to perfumes to watches to desperate measures like spa vouchers. It was all done and dusted (well, except the spa vouchers of course) nothing appealed to me and after 4 hours of driving myself nuts I was sitting dejected, at a coffee shop, lost and licking my wounds of defeat.

My mind was wandering but my anxious social media seeking fingers went from one post to another till I landed up staring at a poem. ‘I carry your heart’ by E E Cummings. I sat at that coffee shop for a long time, savouring every word, feeling happy and nostalgic and melancholy and grateful, all at once. That poem took me through my own journey, making me remember how we had we met, how we fought to be with each other, how we had made so many precious memories together and how we would make so many more in the years to come. On that eve of our anniversary, I sat in that coffee shop and had a pre-celebration all of my own. Of-course, once I pulled myself out of my trance, I rushed to a late night service where I printed this poem out and gifted it to my husband over our special anniversary dinner. That is the thing about words. They made the stoic, warrior-hearted husband’s eyes moisten up and reach for my hand and he held on to it through dinner. That poem and that evening are still emblazoned in my memory. The day I found those words. Rather, the day that they found me.

THIS POST IS WRITTEN FOR NOVEMBERSCHILD IN ASSOCIATION WITH KALAMPEDIA – QUEST FOR KNOWLEDGE”

Passage

They are restless, simmering, bubbling, they will come

They are forgotten, buried, snowed under, they will breach the surface , they will come

They are prisoners of time, daily rigours and chores, but they will come

They are burdened with doubt and fear and restraint, the shackles will fall, they will come

Amidst the noise, the chaos, the walls closing in, a tiny clear voice will emerge, they will come

Like the torrential rain, like a searing unstoppable pain

Like a dead even bloody bout where there’s no loss or gain

In an impenetrable wordless darkness where not one shard of light can prick through

My resilient nameless army of words will march, they will come.

A life cycle of words


Born with a meaning and sometimes for no reason at all, words remind me of a journey much like ours.Like a little infant, mewling in it’s mother’s arms, they are born.

With the power to make us chuckle or despair with their foolish callousness.

Carefully crafted and nurtured by many, they stumble, they fall, but start becoming whole, day by day.

Sometimes brilliant, sometimes unsure, but steadily becoming a reflection of a growing mind.

At times they simmer, deep inside, without being delivered, pouring out wordlessly through a tormented teenager’s eyes.

Suddenly they are all grown up, striding confidently into the world, sharing thoughts, opinions, ideologies.

Rendered to sweet nothings whispered into a loved ones ears.

Then cooing and gurgling incoherent tales into tiny ears set outside tiny trusting brown eyes of a miniature you.

They stand by you with resolve, as your admonishments fall on reckless, irreverent, adolescent ears, trying to guide them through their young lives.

There comes a time when slowly, but surely, the words start to fade, replaced by cobwebs, replaced by a second childishness and silver streaks.

A time when you have much to say but no one to say those words to.

The words that will linger and waft through the air, like a faithful legacy, long after you’re gone.

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