I see three girls sitting on the terrace next to my building. They are discussing, rather loudly, the regret that seeps in after a loved one is gone from our lives. “You will regret even the memory of their presence after you’re through with them.”
I smile as I remember talking myself hoarse in just the same way once, with Sreyasha and Prerana, sitting on a stranger’s terrace (chaat). “Chaat is the finest antidote for all that is irreparably bishonno (melancholic),” I had read somewhere. I miss our chaat.
Our midnight discussions conclude upon one note – no, we are never through with some people even after their absence, voluntary or otherwise.
Our conversation doesn’t limit itself; it strikes myriad notes. It travels through dark alleys, in strange taxis, through yellow lights, manifesting in our sudden decision to pull a night that we will forever remember. A sudden, unplanned never-ending night that breaks into dawn at a forlorn park where we can discuss our political ideologies and listen to a single song, over and over again. We could never recreate that night.
Perhaps, we can repeat our stunt, but for that we have to be in sohor (city). And sohor is where they are, where there are yellow taxis, and where there is a sense of belonging to the era where rock music and revolutionary leaders meet at a clandestine chaa’er bhaar (tea cup). But, in a strange city, I see those girls dealing with life, and I know everyone has their own sohor in their own little worlds. Mine is fractured into three different climates, two different people, only waiting for the night on which we can become who we hope we are.
No. I do not have a home. And, I do not regret it. I have something far more everlasting. I have sohor instead, that refuses poriborton (change), that still has three young confused minds trying to make sense of each other and realizing then that the essence of their beings only remain in their chaos.
Sohor is made up of our remnants, and we are made up of its. Our detritus is found in the cigarette butts that we discard, and in the passersby who discard us. The horizon doesn’t change, not a bit. Screw meeting halfway, we cross the bridge every damn time. Because, we know, to get to sohor we have to walk wearing our hearts upon our sleeves. And we don’t mind. I can speak for myself at least – I don’t mind. Because I know once I cross the bridge, I will see the field, and the trams, and the Eden, and Park Street, and Coffee House. I will find a yellow taxi, and it will take me to my sohor.
Written by Adrija Ghosh
Image by Stuti Pachisia