Confected Castles : Of Cards and Dreams

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓔𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽

There was a reason he hated socializing, especially with his parents. It seemed as belittling the elder son of Bhowmicks was their ritual and they followed accordingly. The pessimistic thoughts clouded his mind. But he could breathe now, for he was in those four comforting walls of his abode. Loosening the first two buttons of his shirt, he plunged on his bed. The warmth of this soft mattress was all he yearned for. Everything went worse in the party. Why did he even go there at the first place? He questioned his soul and Pa was all he received. Letting his father down is the last thing he wanted to do in his entire life. He had already made him enough upset by being his eldest son and kicking off all the expectations his father had kept from him. The evening at Rai Badi added sourness in his day, a blot that would be imprinted on his heart forever. He should have declined the offer of attending the get together. His heart cloaked with sudden wave of sadness. He inhaled the fresh puff of air and closed his eyes. His mind was traversing through some realms of waves, taking him somewhere to a distant memory. Some comforting place, maybe to the lands of sleep. His pacing heart calmed a bit, the pit in his stomach relieved for a moment when the clanking of the anklets ringed in his ears. The fragrance of fresh lavenders embraced his heart and the honey dripping voice ringed in his ears. Those pearly tears that glittered in those orbs while she ascended the car that evening twitched somewhere in his guts as she gave him a last look and he did nothing but stood there helpless, watching her petite figure leaving the venue. The sudden punch in his lungs woke him up with a jerk.

"Can you see those dark clouds there? They will be swept by the wind and once again the sky will wear its starry blanket. You think it's a bad day? Tomorrow will be better!" Her words ringed in his ears as her calm demeanor flashed in front of his eyes. She dripped serenity as her face flushed beneath the moonlight and her soul sprinkled all the calmness as she leaned on the stairs with him.

He roamed his hand through his hair. Water. He needed water. His gaze fell on the nightstand. Pouring a glass of water from the jar, he gulped it in a go. He closed his eyes again just to meet those pearly orbs, the one flooded with tears.

"I shouldn't have shouted on her!" He mumbled.
She was just helping him out without even knowing the cause of his misery. And yet, all he did was bust on her. She spread like the moonlight over his dark sky and he covered himself with those grey clouds, shutting all the windows of his heart. He didn't want anyone to seep in through his heart and peeping over his most vulnerable side. His mind started slowing down as the cold water made its way through his throat, calming down every nerve of his body. He stretched his hand forward to keep the glass back to its place when his gaze fell on it.

Shesher Kobita(The last poem)

He remembered how she glided it silently towards him and left, leaving him alone with the unknown pain of parting away. He picked up the book. His palm grazed its cover, his fingers softly tracing the title, in a hope that he could find any traces of someone. Traces of her. The fact that the woman read the complete book in such a short span of time surprised him. Maybe not! He had seen the spark in those black orbs, how they glimmer like gold every time her gaze fell on the book. The mere sight of her reading the book caressed his imagination gently. He tried to imagine her soul that would submerge itself into the ocean of those words.

Did she enjoy reading it? The thought crossed his mind. But did that even matter to him? Shrugging the thoughts back, he opened the book when something fell from it.

He furrowed his eyebrows as curiosity swept over him. He bent down, letting his legs touch the cold marbled floor. Picking up the paper, he observed it for a few moments. It was the newspaper cutting of The Bengal Voice, one of the prominent newspapers over the state. But for his surprise, the cutting didn't cover any news nor did it held any piece of advertisement. It was from a special section of the paper named Gavaksh (Window). It was the column where the writers anonymously published their writings and poems every week, weaving the transcendent thread that tied the emotions of their hearts into inked words. His eyes scanned the text as he realized it was a poem that was published. His heart raced at the marathon speed when he read its title. He felt like someone punched his chest, knocking out all of the air. With a hoarse voice, he started reading it to himself.