MONOBINA NATH B.ED.
1ST SEM (2023-25)
Minute drops spouting, like pimples popping up on my skin, calm and exotic, the waterproof tent seated beneath the wise infant sky. She and I were now curled up in the brightest mood to see the brightest colour outside. Wearing oatmeal chapels, she stepped outside the Lakshmana Rekha, unwinding her eco-friendly umbrella and neatly slicing her toes step by step while thumbing the payal hook too tight. It hurt a little, but was safe, she says. I don't like her wearing them. If accessories bestowed beauty, then no one would look ugly on this transient planet, I suppose. She looked around in silence, as if she were waiting to convey a message to someone.
I was very close, somehow, to the sharp smell of humans. A thick pimple was sailing down from a peepal tree on one of my thighs. I flickered and sipped the tension inside. Like a human, I have an ordinary routine, but someday, like today, I skipped being ordinary.
She is still standing; her rare, vibrant stares tell me that she is a gardener. A madhumakkhee is soaking up our nectar in the middle of a flower-filled room. Prolonging our legs, arms, and chests, we relaxed in the fleeting rain. The badam powder she sprinkled on our hairy portion was an identical dose for each of us. Looking forward, at our height and outline, she bites her faded and quieter lip and feels dizzy a bit while standing up. Scanning our wet hairlines, she bites her lips twice.
The soundproof track is left within winks and shifts to the moment of the weaves, scratching and scripting the grainy screen. Wait. Again, open the surface. She keeps standing in front of us, a sloppy flashlight sinking into her reddish cheeks. The screen is a bit hard and flashing, but cold-hearted in a few seconds.
She stands, and I stand, in a lovely, carefree posture in front of waves. She's in casual calf-length pants and an oversized, loose-fit tee, needlework with Frida Kahlo: “I don’t paint dreams or nightmares; I paint my own reality.” My first crush was her unibrow and braided flowers on her black-headed skin. Her eyes, like milk dreams, make it very easy to convey her thoughts, but I hesitate to print.
It's 7pm. The outside room was still bright. The gardener waits till the bipolar sand numbs her standing legs under the warm snow. For exit, she lifted her drowsy legs like a snail on her way back. I was there, standing still. All alone, together with a feeling of pleasure by oneself. That was one of my finest sensations.
Nearly 10pm. The night pinches at dreams. I pinched them too. That was out of control, I guess. Considering the time I spent with a gardener, I closed my eyes and started sewing the episodes like web series, minutely all, over and over. With due time, I added a few alterations and cultivation at every six ritus as the six rituals of Grishma, Varsha, Sharad, Hemant, Shishir, and Vasant. And with the echo of a new gardener, I opened my window for upcoming generations.