[3 months had passed]
Communication, transport everything dismantled for a month. The trauma of loss and death haunted the village. The most immediate problem was drinking water and our stock of food was also limited. Government help was meagre in respect of the needy habitats, and they could not reach every area that was water-stuck. The campaign was more exuberant than the supply. Hunger and struggle for life could make you forget even death. Bishu kaka, Shanti’s father died. She came to me many times. I had no solace to soothe her; perhaps she also had none for me. She used to sit near me for hours and little Shiba played on the floor. But I did not feel good to speak with anyone.
I used to lay feverish in my bed staring outside through the window. The Bokal tree had new leaves and fragrances all over it. I was too delirious to wail any more. I just tried to appear normal and wanted to leave alone from others’ pitiful eyes. I hated to be shown as mournful. My life had shattered to debris from which nothing could be created. But how could I express it? Someone slammed my soul forever in an indefinable, confused silence. I knew no language to express it anymore.
Akash tried to call me at midnight. I just felt a caterpillar, walking through my spine, so hateful, so detestable. I blocked his every number sending my last note-
“I loved you, you trifled with me, I fell but life was more than that I loved you – more and now you matter nothing to me.”
The situation gradually changed. Though flood water left its mark everywhere yet normal life started and everyone became busy to restore their loss. I also send an application to Chitora in response to their advertisement and I was waiting for their turn. Within a month I got a call for an interview with all my testimonials. I went to Samayita to collect my experience certificate. Moni got well accustomed to the life of Samayita. She cried when she knew I’ll come no more. I had not faced Mrs. Sinha as she was on her yearly vacation programme. Shubhradi was so sympathetic to me that I never imagined. We promised to keep in touch. Her eyes got wet when I put my resignation on her hand.
“You can continue till you get the job.”
“I wish not to stay here any more di, whatever happen, even if I do not get the job I will flee somewhere. I feel gagged here.”
“Ok, I can feel you Aatri. Wish you all the best.”
“I’ll miss you di.”
I prepared for my journey. I was desperate to do something to divert me from the vicious reality of my life. I just wanted to run away from this place that only brings nightmares to me. It was not the same village of my love, passion and dream. It became my hecatomb killing me every day. Every night the scent of Bokula covertly permeated my sleep and I dreamed of the unfinished pullover, knitting and knitting by an invisible hand.
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.