Life Beyond Love, a Novella,
Chapter- One: Down Memory Lane
It was a small village, remote and secluded under the canopy of a clear blue sky, simmering in placid joviality. Though adjoining to the town, it was not so much influenced by urbanization except for the ear-busting DJ box which the young generation of the village validated as the most essential component to celebrate any occasion fruitfully. I just hated it. Why people were so irrational and jerk? Could not they just lie down in the deep night and enjoy the tambour reverberating through the pensive night all over in a sweet melodious rhythm? I used to hear it sometimes when I knocked on the midnight clock with my studies. I listened to the music oozing out from the far end of ‘Santhal Para’. I just put the lamp off and welcomed the deep thumbing music “drim drim drim” mingling into my sensation.
It was not just music, it was a reminder, tearing my heart to pieces in desperate agony. It was the same night with sweet-smelling Madhabilata with the same music in the air except for the anxious waiting. Father had not returned yet from his work. The clock was already tucking to ten. In our dining hall, I was sitting with my Mamoni. We both were tensed.
“Mamoni, I’m calling him incessantly since 7 p.m. and there is no response except the boring beep…beep… beep”.
“Just keep trying”.
She looked heavily worried. Father never returned so late. As the night was crawling under the gibbous moon the prickle of apprehension was tearing us apart. We waited- waited till the pink dawn crept over our terrace. We had slept all night on the sofa clenching one another in desperate prayer until the phone rang and Mamoni rushed to pick it up. It was from Healthcare Nursing Home. Father was admitted there after a severe road accident. We had to rush, his condition was not well.
I didn’t see my father anymore.
Life Beyond Love, a Novella, Chapter- One: Down Memory Lane
I was not allowed to. They said the body was scaringly disfigured. I always remembered the loving, caring, jolly face of my father as it was wreathed on the pristine white wall of our dining hall. But the shock was terrible for Mamoni. She could not bear the sudden death, the hideous reality – how a living spirit could be transformed into a bundle of flesh within 24 hours. She never cried, not a mist of water wet her lashes, only her dumb eyes shuttered all the doors around, succumbing her into an impenetrable silence, withdrawing her from the world as if a soul within the cocoon.
Hey, I am Munmun, the phoenix fabulist who wants to tell you stories. I love to read stories and I love to weave stories. I feel life is an amalgamation of multiple stories, colourful threads, and threads of pain, pleasure, hope, and hopelessness. We just need to pick those hues and arrange them, knitting them with our own emotions and perception. So let’s celebrate the stories of life.