In December, this city smells like known greetings and known phone calls. In December, this city dresses up in neon advertisements. This city has hues of recognized faces in December and the lingering smell of half-burnt cigarettes. In this December city, love is delicate, akin to porcelain, holding the weight of our intertwined stories.
Your shyness is a secret dance hidden beneath the glittering lights at parties. Behind your facade of a forced smile lies a sea of unshed tears, and a cheap glass of rum becomes the silent confidant of your sorrows. Even in the embrace of supposed lovers, their warmth is as distant as a ticking human bomb. Yet, you clutch onto their fingers, hoping to erase the memories we wove together.
They don’t know your past, that forlorn cardigan. They remain oblivious to your etched pseudonym on foggy windows and how your eyes water up like the fresh dew on leaves while listening to your favourite old songs. The box of unsent SMSs, a silent witness to your tangled emotions, remains in a secret compartment of your heart. They don’t know you’re still sad and waiting for that person at an unknown bus stop. They don’t know that you find warmth on the field of that church at sunset.
They have overused the word ‘lover’ in poems. Amidst their shattered words and unfulfilled promises, none could decorate lives as you did.
Spring doesn’t always follow winter. Yet, Park Street will lit up with hundreds of lights. Music will echo in every corner. The city will drown in the sweet scent of winter. But, you? You will still take a yellow taxi to the airport with a suitcase full of loneliness. Another city beckons. You are not used to coming back; I was never taught to call people from behind. Our city has a tragic history of parting lovers, leaving the December city to yearn for the rekindling of passion amidst the winter chill.
This city is a dump of broken relationships, yours and mine, Kolkata. Yet, in its chaotic tapestry, there’s a beauty that only we truly understand.
curlytales 