Serendipity..

And, the drinks started flowing, and, also the grilled fish as endlessly fun to eat as it always has been, and I found myself in earnest conversation with her. The familiar mix of disappointment, self-doubts and resentments giving way to a love of literature and poetry and Tagore like my own. As we talked about books, and music, and poetry, and the way we chase our dreams, this solace became a touchstone ever deeper in the night.

Only when I sat there, amidst the gently flickering fairy lights and speakers belting out one of my favourite songs, did I recognise the incredible importance of human connection. In a world that is inhumane perhaps more often than not, for someone to find you, and you to find her. Well, if they ever make a cosmic science out of it, it should become the essence of an equation. And, if this equation is what Urban Mantra is all about, then I, writing this, stands testimony to the science: in the heart of a frantic city such as Guwahati, amid the chaos of the surrounding insanity, it was on the shoulders of this favorite place of mine, that our worlds collided.

The exchanges between us at Urban Mantra resembled a dance; things would occasionally get messy or feel a bit stuck, but that’s, too, there would be mirroring, where one would stir up a memory or feeling in themselves that was then picked up on by the other, creating a shared rhythm. At the heart of it all was a lot of storytelling; in every session, each would share personal stories of their lives or memories, elucidating their perspective on the chosen theme and contributing to the collective creativity. I listened as she developed her insight into characters, themes and contexts of books that we had both read; she had embedded into her body all the subtexts I had explicitly learnt, and through the mesh of books we could communicate in even more layers.

We picked apart themes, meanings and characterisations, thread by thread. We used our logic to argue and ponder the options. But, most of all, it was her voice that transformed our conversations from just words on a page into something vibrant and thought-provoking. These regular meetings at Urban Mantra became my safe little niche in time, a protective bubble as I sought to set aside the outside tumult, the clinking of glasses and live music a background to our literary discourses. Books became a shared alternate reality, a window into the endless possibilities and riches of verbal life.

Had the two of us traipsed around more, I would be able to tell you which side of the street she preferred, what she liked best to look at. I would see how she took in the block ahead of us before slowly moving to step by step. But even without all that, or is it because of all that, her lack? I remember standing there, surveying the city, marveling at what might have been, at how she would take the humdrum of daily life as sight, as something already experienced, as something she delighted in. Through her eyes, I imagined everything: the movement, the architecture, the dullest buildings, the boxes as a source of wonder, a thing to look upon and rejoice in. Our friendship has been a sonata, a symphony, of everything good that music can evoke, an orchestra of feelings that would resonate with me for the rest of my life.

It is why, now, when I think back on those brief and beautiful hours, I can only feel grateful that we spent them together. Her singing voice had vanished beforehand but my singing voice; at least today won’t be going anywhere. Our voices go up and down together, even if only for a moment, and somewhere inside my mind a whispered hymn remembers what it is like to create a beautiful sound with another person and call it friendship.

In several respects, though, she was like me; a person unbeholden to the various traps set by the norms of society, a seeker all the while. Her ravenous enthusiasm for life rekindled something in me that had long since lost its lustre. Now, I am just toiling to be in touch with her in this new city where the sights are so unfamiliar, so cold and foreign that her music, it haunts me, like a ghostly wail, on nights when I am alone. But every curve, every way we turned, will take me back to her: a tip of fog on a breeze, a snippet of sound belonging to someone I once knew more deeply than distance and time ever did. I still know someone so beautifully wayward. She is far, far away; but, thanks to the intensity of our intimacy, the miles between us means nothing. And yet, as I write these words, I reflect on the lessons we have learnt, on the memories we are left with from the time we spent together and on those moments of magic, so short-lived, but which helped to light our steps. I am filled, rather, with a sense of gratitude to have had the fortune to share, and to learn from and carry forward a work of beauty and wisdom.

The threads of accident that have wound us together to create moments of serendipity and experiences of fate, in which our mutual weaving makes a work of art that sings of the human heart and mind. From the sinuous turns of life’s road, each of us with the help of friends has learnt to seek not only the comfort of a good shaking hand but the light of friendship, the laughter from smiles shared, and to grow with the surety that the reminders from friends in time and from across the miles will outlast the shocks of a sometimes troubled and change-ridden journey. I have found that the tapestry of my soul is brightened by the hues of shared life, by the promise and hope and enduring love. I tread into it with pleasure and with gratitude for the magic of our world, the flash of creativity that brings us to life, and human connection itself. And, we are all connected, we are all woven.

জাগিবে একাকী, তব করুণ আঁখি,

তব অঞ্চলছায়া মোরে রহিবে ঢাকি…