Epilogue

Back street of school life was dubious enough to reach the penetrative ego journey of a Romeo, unchained. After twenty odd years, I realized, I was awestruck by her cut-up techniques. Love fettered inbetween. I imagined her in 1987, beside the stack yard of railway colony. The space was utopic. She was the glamorous nymph, I was the unabashed charlatan, couldn’t match her will. Yet, it was love. I bore my chalice through a throng of friends and neighbours. The Terai returned. With her, I eloped in the foggy ruins of timeized zonal ecriture, millions of words. The region was dreamy enough to not notice her techniques of morphed images. I finished my Italian journey, Pasolini standardized to the core. I could feel the Spenglerian admonishing of surrounding environs. She was delicate enough to be not consistent in all her cut-up stories. I was stupid enough to finish my tube light journey after one year, that too with the help of a favourite cousin and parental guidance. I wished her far above the mongrels of the city life, in the forgotten illusive hills of North. Decorated language study with the mass of people. They knew my story, more than me. Excuses ran the high tide, as I failed. Dhrubojyoti told about her techniques. I thought about my cherished ad-hock Romeoship, as lessons was pending. She ran her coaching class with me, urground as primal and immediate. Amitava told about her scintillating story, always one with me. I became so proud that my standardized Italian thesis was given up for more primal, more theoretical, inbetweenness of ‘to be’, Being. I wanted her to know my loopholes, back street of Calcutta, young Mr. R, and heart breaking school leaving ceremony with paltry score. I got situated in a non-happening small eventless college. Boredom began. While she had my photos, I ran my chalice of boredom with the help of hooliganship, Marcuse was my lesson. She interrupted after nineteen odd years. I was the solvent, which was soluble enough to carry me on my first prideful Romeo journey. Second Republicans all helped, with know how’s and various sweet notational messy informations. With her, Sisoumic pride returned. And the cherished memory of school life. Now as I see from my window, I delineate the spaces from my memory; posit her infringement in my life onto that space, which makes me remember the railway station waiting room. I am leaving.  

Jeet Bhattacharya

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