Preface to Sleep...

S: "And it's another night. I don't know why I long for them throughout the day. Once I'm out, I try to return. When I return, I try to find things to justify my being here. I'm tired. This goes on for the whole day and I badly wait for the time when I'd switch off the lights glaring into my eyes and go to sleep. The time has come, like every other day. And like every other day, I'm putting up a lot of effort to sleep. I am lying down calmly. My eyes are closed. But I can't sleep. Nothing has gone wrong. And a lot of things have gone wrong. I'm not sure I can actually analyse what is going on in my mind. I've selectively done away with the analysing work long ago. No analysis means no stress. Or is it not so? No analysis may also mean escaping from the reality. I do that occasionally, but I hate that. Sometimes it occurs to me that I am clueless about most of the things in my life. The more I think about it, the more clueless I become. What exactly am I thinking about? I must put an end to this night-time rumination." She shifted a bit to make more space for her partner lying beside her. She knew that her partner was awake, staring at her. She could feel the stare and shrank a bit. "Why does this person have to do this all the time? I know I've been living with her, but she is not supposed to screen every movement, every gesticulation of mine. She knows I'm not sleeping. But she should sleep. Why doesn't she understand that her sleeping off is important? I want to lie down comfortably. No, I won't open my eyes and let that stare penetrate me."
R: "She is not sleeping. She's been on bed for a long time. But her eye-balls are moving under her tightly closed lids. She goes through it everyday. I know what she's been thinking about. Lack of analysis is not the problem with her. She over-analyses. She thinks about the wrong things and makes the wrong judgements. But she's incorrigible. I stare at her all throughout to communicate that she's going to a wrong track. She never listens. A stubborn idiot she is. She is not having a particularly good time. But there are things which are good. She never realises that. She prioritizes the stupidest things and keeps on sticking to why-s, how-s, what-s related to them. I can never make her realise that I'm with her, no matter what. But my presence is just a habit that she's grown. She doesn't believe in me. Now that she's not opening her eyes is because she knows I'm awake and seeing her. She doesn't like my telling her what exactly should be done. She avoids me because I can see through her mind. She has become grossly avoidant. And I can't do anything about it no matter how hard I try. Like all other nights, she'd think about all things in a jumbled up fashion, get clueless, and force-stop her thinking. When nothing would help, she would get up, take one tablet and then would fantasize about things she wanted and things she could have done. She would imagine conversations, finish them in the way she wants. Eventually she would sleep. I can't stop her from travelling to this fool's heaven. Once I could. Now I can't. I just can't. I'll try to talk to her in the morning, though I'm not very hopeful that she would entertain. But I can't leave things as they are. I must try tomorrow again."
S: "She's still staring. I know it. I know what she means. She's trying to win over me. I can't have this any more. I need to sleep." She got up, went to the table, took out a tablet from the strip. She hesitated a minute before putting it in the mouth, then swallowed it and came back to bed. "Now I'm going to sleep in half an hour. And I can daydream. Yes, I'm free to daydream. And I would. She can't stop me. I know she's going to communicate tomorrow morning just after I wake up. But tomorrow is too far. I shouldn't waste this moment for her. I've stolen this moment from her, though not unrevealed. But this is mine. At this time, I'm the king of my world. I create it, I design it, I frame it, I rule it. I'd never let her enter here. Moreover, I have learned strategies to avoid her. I'd not let her babble tomorrow, the day after and the day after and so on."

After all, they've been living together for twenty-six years, in the same shell.

Taking myself off...

It was slowly moving. Bright sunlight, so bright as to scorch my skin, was flooding through the small window. I was on the brighter side of the runway. I shut the window shield to avoid exposure, to sunlight, to outside. Even a minute didn't pass when I opened it again. I didn't wish to look out, but I didn't wish the cold darkness to shiver my arms either. And I felt better. Cut-off from anything I know I'll pass through in a few minutes is not acceptable for me. I looked out, with my head held tightly against the seat to delay the photophobic headache I knew I'm going to have. I saw nothing significant. I observed nothing to remember. I was not feeling anything, no dismay, no irritation, no joy and nothing. I was waiting for the plane to take off so that I'd get a cup of coffee. I shifted my laptop bag to the seat beside me which was unoccupied (luckily enough). My feet were paining with the strain they underwent while walking from the gate upto there. I took my feet carefully out of the sandals and sat in the most unsophisticated manner I can imagine of. By this time, the plane gained speed. The faster it ran, the preoccupation with coffee faded and I was suddenly excited. I kept looking through the window. It was as if I'd been injected with a good dose of adrenaline and I was, out of the blue, all set to fly. The worries took a break and I started fantasising... Fantasies of all kinds, real or unreal, filled me in. The moment the wheels left the ground, I was also leaving the earthly realities and going to my own world, the world I'd made long ago, for myself, with my closest people in, talking and doing things that made me happy. My parents and I were talking about the last books we read with the points we liked and we didn't, about the movie we were definitely going to watch together, about the diary where we would write reviews separately and then read them together, about certain people who wanted our life to be a mess, but we never said anything to them and just acted, about the house we'd live in when I'd start working, about my father's practice which he should slowly close down to be able to live with me wherever I stay, about the recipe blog my mother should maintain to let the exquisite recipes she knew be carried forward... My cousins and I were gathering together and were laughing and smiling about everything, we were playing our games as we did when J was alive; D2, D3 and I were asking D1 to go the mothers and talk about household things; D2 was composing a song and we both were singing; D3 was talking to us about photography using jargons and we were threatening him to use our own jargons if he didn't stop... T was looking at the mirror and playing snow-white, with me sitting beside, amused. T and I were lying down side by side and talking all night (that is half of a night for her after which she slept off, leaving me to count sheep and cattle for the rest of it)... Awe was coming with a smile and we were walking, talking about everything, with me hiding my excitement and smiling and grinning and chuckling and giggling and laughing... There was no anger, no pain, no illness; everything was perfect. Everything was as clear and beautiful as the shredded blue and white cloud outside my window. Then there was a sound from somewhere. I was slowly coming back. When I was able to perceive the sound fully I realised that it was an announcement of on-board sale. I didn't notice that my cheeks were wet. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, reopened my eyes and reached for my bag to take out the handkerchief. After dabbing it on my face, I looked out. The cloud was still there. However, it seemed somewhat darker, the blue was not so blue after all, it might have been partially muddy as well which I didn't notice before. We were most probably going through the lower level of stratosphere or the upper level of troposphere. The sky is usually clear there due to change in altitude (has nothing to do with any romance of course). The sun was not scorching any more. Estimating the time, I was just fifteen minutes past my take-off, and so would be flying for about another one hour and forty five minutes. I turned my gaze from the window to the opposite side and ordered for one cup of coffee.

Inside out

There's something about the atmosphere I'm in. It's cold, silent, with a long-known smell all around it.  There are busy people turning up again and again with some important work. There is half-hourly visit of people who are trained to smile under all circumstances (do they compensate for this when they go home or have they grown a habit of smiling even amidst all adversities?), with eyes fixed on the bed in front and the infusion bottles above, vocal cords maintaining a monotone, mouths uttering words they know we know. There's a person lying down in front of me, eyes closed, occasionally frowning in pain, snoring sometimes and sometimes waking up, looking all but helpless.
There has been another closed environment I've been in, a month back. It was cold, silent, with the smell of artificial flowers in it, with busy people turning up and asking about convenience and inconvenience with that trained smile of assurance. The visit was very occasional, on asking maybe, or sometimes once a day as a routine. This same person was there, talking to me, listening to my babbling, smiling at everything I said, hiding all symptoms of his distress, and assuring more than anyone as always.
For years, I've been with this person who believed and hoped that I will grow up some day and be sober, all the while making me cope with every environmental change. I would mess up, and he would warn. I would further mess up, and he would scold. I would be on the edge, and he would manage things to help me survive. I have never seen such a person again, who would have so much of patience in dealing with anything in life (I'm one of the biggest troubles). Now I'm looking at him, lying down, in front of me.
People are coming in the afternoon, three, four, five, six... all saying the same thing and doing the same. Concerns are overpowered by sympathy, without the person really needing them. They will come, talk and go, making way for another group to come and do the same, making me sit or stand at a corner shrinking. I don't want to run away from this place, because I have the longest lasting companion of mine to take care of. Yet I want to vanish in the air, so that nobody including myself can see me. I have always been on a losing side... loss of all I had, all I wanted to hold on to. There is a loneliness everywhere. I remember all the nightmares I've been having since 15-20 days. I know I cannot stay back to see him recover, walk merrily and hug me saying "everything is going to be fine, I'm there. Even if it concerns me, I'm there". Yes I still believe in cure as more than '5 year-survival'. When he moves his legs and frowns with the twitching of the abdominal stitch, when he asks me to hand him over some water, when he closes his eyes to cover up every distress and pain he has, I want to stretch my hands and say "everything is going to be fine, I'm there". But I'm not there. I won't be. I can't be. I'd go back to the exile, making four times daily calls to ask about his health (my mother would clear up her throat every moment, I would be silent and then recompose myself and talk, and the hero would say "huh, I'm fine"). Enough for someone to do, isn't it? After the calls would be over, I would sit in the balcony and look at the sky clouded by light, tears dropping down, all restlessness smoked out for that moment, with complete avolition, and forced closure of thinking capabilities(though not being angry with anything because I've learned its futility the harder way). I'd go on believing life is fair and everything is going to be good, and will again be hit by another truth of a different kind. There's no end. And I'll remember how I sat with my back against the wall, looking at my best friend, my father, with the hope that he would look at me with the smirk in his eyes and say, "dhur boka, swopno dekhe eto bhoy pele chole?"