At night at the end of the day, this full moon, this full youthful moon, seems to be deeply symbolic. In the intoxication of this gloomy body of the night, I draw the shadow of Mamta in my imagination with my eyes wide open, and I wonder if she is sleeping silently in the white, dreamless bed of the hospital, or is she unconscious under the enchanting effect of painkillers? Does the hospital allow mobile? With a little hesitation, he pressed the button of the mobile in his chest. Mamata responded in a weak voice from the side.
‘What happened to your operation, Mamata? Feeling better now? How long will you be in the hospital? '
I asked in unison. My voice may be a little anxious, a little anxious.
‘You too? You also want to know about these monotonous diseases? '
A little annoyance in Mamta's voice. Then Ahladi says in a dramatic tone, 'No go darling, these are not, you tell me a love story, the love that heals, comforts, heals the deepest wounds, the one that you tell, the love story of the hulo cat and the dowel bird ... '
‘Well, that’s right Mamta, guys, catch up, then you were a bocasoka sweet dove bird and I was an angry sad arrogant hulu cat. How did Hulota one day fall in love with that flying doyle .... '
‘No, stay. Not this, you tell the story of the neem tree .... '
When Mamata stopped me in the middle I started another love story, ‘Well, at that time you were a tall, slender, lively neem tree standing by the side of the field. As soon as you moved the leaves, the healing air would spread around, and I was a divisive saint. Even if I wanted to leave the family, the family would not leave me, only hugged me on all fours. Then the saint fell in love with the neem tree .... '
Mamata interrupts again, "Not even this, you tell the story of Tanpura ...."
‘All right, Empress, whatever you wish. You were then a huge buttocks Tanpura lying in the corner of the room. I was his wild player. At one time, my finger would take the whole body of Tanpura by storm and an unprecedented heavenly melody would spread all around .... '
‘Stay here, there is no need to talk about love that has been fabricated like this ....’
Suddenly Mamata's ban from that side. I move my cell phone from ear to ear and say, 'Won't you let me finish a story?'
‘Tell me if the love story ever ends! It burns like fire somewhere, it burns silently like water .... '
I change the subject, ‘Well, I came to see you once in the hospital. I will come, tell Shahrjadi? '
‘But I am ashamed to show you my sickness; Let's see if I'm healthy, of course, if I'm ever healthy. You know, it feels like a horrible burden to me to survive ... these body aches seem to never go away ... uh .... '
In a hushed voice, Mamata feels a little crooked.
‘What happened Mamata? Feeling bad? Are you in trouble? '
Mamata does not answer any of these questions; But on my cell phone, I can hear the knocking of someone's shoes. Who came? Doctor or nurse? Is Mamata okay?
‘Are you calling again? In this hospital too? You don’t want to give the girl a little peace, do you? ’
Sudip's hoarse voice rang out. Why is he so rude, so cruel?
‘How is Mamata?’ - I want to know calmly.
‘He’s waiting for death, you know? For death. Doctors here have said that there is no treatment in this country. Your red rose and blue moonlight will be of no use now. Need money for treatment, understand? A lot of money. '
.2
Sudipa pauses. Then he says again, ‘Well, at what stage is your relationship with Mamata — tell me? Does it really matter to you when he dies? Do you love him? '
Sudipa has a lot more to say but the word 'money' keeps popping up in my head. I haven't bothered much about the need for money in the last few years. But now Sudipa showed me with her finger in her eye, I needed to shake my head. Well, if I do that, which my mind is not at all willing to do, then maybe some money can be arranged for Mamata's treatment. But will I do it for just a few bucks, or not? And who knows if my reluctant hand, rebellious mind will draw a great portrait of a criminal in the end even if I want to! The gentleman who gave me the job, whom I call Suryaman, has admitted that his dead father sided with the assassins of 1971. How much more can I draw that killer? And any art has to be created with absolute satisfaction and joy like God; At least that's what I believe. What will I draw in the end with intense dissatisfaction and ultimate hatred in my heart? What I draw against the mind, can it ever be something good? If Suryaman doesn't like that portrait of his father, will he pay me a fair wage? And if I don't get that fee, how can I finance Mamata's treatment?
My nocturnal soul cannot reach any conclusion. Star night in the sky. Why don't even the street dogs make a noise — a sad silence all around. I close my eyes waiting for the morning to come. I think of Mamta's dry, diseased, tormented face. It's the look I've never seen; I have seen it many times again. Like a helpless bloody bird with wings, Mamata is flying with great difficulty under the clouds to sit on the wings.
Two.
‘If you don’t want to do a portrait of my Razakar father-in-law, don’t do it, even if you don’t, you’ll get paid. I will pay you to draw my picture. '
Amrita is wearing a dress like a black cloak today. Sitting in a wooden chair by the window. On one side of his face, the light of the last afternoon sun is falling and he looks wonderful. ‘I will be your Mona Lisa, right?’ - Amrita laughs. ‘Money is not really a problem, the problem is the mind. The mind dances, plays, and takes us on vacations! Strange! '
I am silent in front of Amrita. My language is extinct, words stop. Unable to keep up with the pace of his fierce dialogue, I stood still.
‘Well, have you ever done a nude painting? Painted a naked body? '
The question is up to me, but in answering it I just become a stone statue. Then I say the unspoken truth, 'Yes, I mean, I copied other people's paintings.'
‘Oh .’— Amrita with her lips upside down. ‘You know, I’ve seen big galleries around the world with my husband. All famous artists but painted nude. Picasso used to watch nude models for a long time. An impression would come to his mind when he saw it, then he would draw a picture of him. Well, what do you think about nude pictures? '
It was as if the teacher had suddenly started reading to the student who had not learned to read.
‘Are you ashamed or not?’ - Amrita's eyes sparkled with humor.
‘No, no, why is that!’ - I say hurriedly, ‘there is no greater beauty in the world than a beautiful body, as Rabindranath has said. And the naked body also often shines innocently. Our teachers used to say that nudity and sexuality should be looked at separately while doing nude study, then beauty can be perceived .... '
I said with a sigh. Amrita suddenly narrowed her eyes and said in a crooked manner, "If you don't think again after listening to me, I will offer you to draw my nude picture now!"
I dive into the abyss again. Amrita probably started giggling at the sight of my vyabachaka eating. Then he removed his forehead hair with his finger and said to himself, "I know that scene from the Titanic, where Rose poses as a model in front of Jack, and Jack draws a picture of her in amazement, isn't it romantic?"
Amrita becomes distracted. As if he were no longer here, he was gone at the call of that huge ship floating in the sea; The salty air of the sea is splashing in his eyes. He is getting wet, drowning inside himself, inside the dream.
The short lasting sun of the afternoon has already passed. The evening is slowly descending with the gray fan match. I was stunned, speechless. I didn't know when Amrita's dead father-in-law's wife number four came and stood in front of the door. Suddenly I heard his voice from behind and I was startled, It's evening. '
I realized that in that sudden question, Amrita came down from the ship of her dreams in one fell swoop. I quickly turned on the light by pressing the switch. And Amrita left the house without saying a word. The middle-aged woman, whom Amrita doesn't call anything, came to me this time. Then he said in a cold voice, "You know, Amrita is Masood's third wife."
‘Yes, I know.’ I say with a little uneasiness.
‘Masud’s first wife was committing suicide and his second wife went mad and died, you know that?’
Without waiting for my answer, he said again, "Masood, however, does not forgive the traitors, the dog is chasing Tagore."
The middle-aged man quickly left without giving me a chance to say anything.
From below came the fierce screams of the ferocious dogs tied to the gate.