If I state my favorite season throughout the year to be Monsoon, the only reaction I get out of most people is a severe case of frowning almost comparable to an epileptic seizure. As if it’s a crime to like a solid grizzly downpour in a dull afternoon. The words favorite and monsoon in a single sentence automatically marks somebody to be a lazy bum, hence such riposte. In all fairness, what can I say, I might be a lazy ass who has developed a set of thick buttocks due to being viciously in tune with the bed. But when I am making small talks, you don’t need to react to freaking every single word I say now, do ya? Unfortunately, this happens a little too often. Despite me not usually folding to peer pressure, I have folded thirteen times in this instance. Nowadays, like the other normies and boomers, I say I like summer, autumn, or spring, to match the others taste. But deep down I know I am still pretty affectionate to you! Monsoon, my love!:v
This is so silly of me, isn’t it? Talking as such about a season as if it’s a person or something! Like everything else on the planet, mine too has an origin; mine also derives from such events that need a bit of in-depth context to understand.
Bangladesh and the rest of the subcontinent reside on the equator, filled with lush greeneries and an abundance of tropical fruit trees. 40 years ago, when my father bought this small piece of land, it came with a bunch of mango trees. Almost like natures carefully nurtured orchard perhaps :P See what I did there!:VV
As a chain smoker, like the lot of us, I too have a sanctuary, solely to puff away. A small shade that was previously used as a duck’s nest, just beside my room. So, at nights, I would sneak out, go to this shade and spend countless hours looking at the sky, feeling the wind while either listening or reading. That night, I dozed off on the rolling chair. Right before the first light, the sky had cracked open to reveal anarchies it hosts in its belly as if a blue whales water had broke.
যাও পাখি বলো হাওয়া ছলো ছলো
আবছায়া জানলার কাঁচ
আমি কি আমাকে হারিয়েছি বাঁকে
Waking up to a tropical storm simultaneously could be wondrous yet scary! Wind gusts fiercer than an aroused feisty fox spirit looking to mate! And then I saw her, a girl in a white saree. An event so random that I lose track of what had happened every time I try to recollect my memories of that fateful dawn.
Saree is a traditional garb like cloth. A one-piece quite colorful garments that usually a girl never wears in such a time when the apocalypse is on the verge. Or so could be felt in such winds. My initial thoughts were a bit inclined towards the paranormal.
Faster than bullet rain droplets, hazy wind, and a seductive white silhouette rotating and galloping here and there took me on the verge of screaming my lungs out when suddenly, it all became clear! The infinite amount of mango trees is what drew her. Heavenly fruits of so many flavors, the wind ripping the ripe ones from their stem and covering up the ground. But some modicum of mystery then too remained. Who was she, and where she had come from?
The whole of our yard had tall walls all around except this side. It was open, so my old parents could walk to and from a nearby lake in the afternoons. So she could have entered…
Auditory hallucination, shake it off. As I was thinking, she could have entered.... Yeah, it was no auditory hallucination. A pale yet familiar face, shivering in cold, drenched through and through asked again.
Could I have a bag, mister?
The tone in her voice gave off authoritarian vibes as if I was beneath her! She wasn’t wrong to do that tho. A beardy guy in shorts and ripped t-shirt sleeping near the outhouse, all most buck naked, gave out hints of a caretaker of the house. Hence such curious timbre.
Let me see what I can find.
In an unsure, humbled, and somewhat scary prospect, I replied.
While handing her the bag previously kept atop a small tool bench in the shade, I recognized her. She was and still is quite a famous Bengali actress who shall remain nameless. My friends talked about her the previous evening, about how her crew had set up a makeshift film set right beside the lake.
She never even thanked me for the bag, yet hit me with an angry glare before she left. Mostly because of me shamelessly being unable to not keep looking at her anatomy! What can I say, I am a man, and not every day someone that beautiful barges into my privacy and demands things! And an equal trade is only fair, I reckon!