No. This is not about the shampoo. Certainly not about that. I had my interview earlier this morning. You know for an internship. The last few months have been very crucial and pressing. Entrances, preps, applications, decisions, answering curious relatives, exams, and finally doing infinite rounds for an internship opportunity. I have been inducted today at the factory of String Weaves. It is a three months paid course, and they really appreciated my new ideas about textile and design. Fabric is the king, I stressed. I guess my belief won me the chance. They have asked me to join from Monday next and report at 10 am sharp. I will not die before that, if I can help it. My first job! I am excited! I have so much to show and express!
While I was on the bus, back with the good news in my bag, I never thought I would write about it. But how can I not? You tell me. This is the story of Komal Sahay, an ordinary girl from an industrialist family background, who want to get me married off in another month if they could. "This is just a pass-time" they say. Well, if only. Fabrics are my passion. Since the time I can remember, the reassurance of that tactile moment promised comfort, they would curl up to my fingers and benumb me like the tracing of a mobile phone, which rings to delight, when heard from the other room, you know? When you think you have lost it.
As I was planning on what to do once I was home, I fell the slight weight of sleep on my eye-lids. The AC bus was pleasantly comfortable. I put on my playlist instead of changing radio channels on my earphones, and thought of how my family would react to my internship. I was looking at the hoardings of boutiques that would open in a week, or a sale that would last another three days. I recalled how my Bong friends would inevitably yelp at the sight of the big biryani store, standing proudly on the main road. The heat had not hit my head, and the music was soothing. That was the last thing I remembered.
And then, all that was, was a bed of linen. I immersed in a farm full of cotton yarns and strobe light stitches for effect. I was drowning, deeper and deeper. The smooth fall was like they show on the TV shows of how an egg white is whipped till it became a ribbon. A ribbon that would take the taste of any essence that would be put into it -- chocolate, vanilla, coffee, strawberry. I landed next, smartly, and settled on that ethereally comfortable bed. Surprisingly, it smelt fresh too. What was it? I knew it. Caramel? No. Citrus? No. Musk? Yes. Jovan Musk. Who sprayed that on the linen? I questioned it and held on to it. I opposed the idea but could not refute it.
I was open-mouthed when I woke up on the shoulder of the passenger next to me. He got off two stops before mine and God knows what he must have thought during the ride! I am ashamed to have slept so deep. I admit I was tired, but he must have been scandalised! Now that I write, I cannot even call to mind if he indeed wore a linen shirt, or the musk fragrance. Was it him or my dream? It was the best sleep I had in a long, long time.
My head on his shoulder.
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