The Listener

Familiar voices pour into my ears and with a sizzle, rightfully touch the soul. They do not demand, do not expect, and go on being who they are -- performing for the dark space in which their listeners' faces linger. And I, I listen to them intently as if learning about their lives would sort mine. How could I not, it feels like an enticing, compelling sermon, like someone opened a window with a view of the gushing waterfalls in the distant, rushing towards life.

On multiple occasions, I have sought refuge in switching the TV on, only to listen to those known voices, replaying their lives and roles all over again. There is no adventure, because I know what would happen next, and to be able to forecast the future, who is not happy with that? While working on the laptop, I have Koffee with Karan or invisibly stay with Ghosh & Co. They go about running and hosting their houses in the background, oblivious of atrocious errors I clean. They dig out treasures all over their guest maps. This sharing, this fearless sharing, make them more own than concerned uncles and aunts and more dear than conceited evil uncles and evil aunts. 

I haven't yet bought a TV here, and needless to say the depression setting in from its absence is appalling. There are no irritating jingles barging into beautiful movies, no binge watching of Harry Potter and Grey's Anatomy and most importantly, no decided laugh that I can have over a justly categorised 'bad-movie.' They are people in my room who do not care whether I lie on the phone, or what and how I eat. They do not judge my severe thickness jutting out of doodled shorts or discoloured t-shirts. They do not ask me anything, anything at all. They don't even retaliate when I ask them to shut up and move on. They are my best friends.

This afternoon, trying to gather the shreds that people have turned me into and dispersed, and to forget even myself for a while, I invited Rituparno Ghosh's Titli in my ears. It was a thoughtless choice, but as they say, sometimes impulse is divine. The internet connection was powerful even with the introduction as the otherwise nyaka song "Megh piyon'er..." felt nothing inferior than a long awaited massage, thoughtfully gifted. 

The Sen mother-daughter began their impeccable banter, which frames the cultural crown of Bengali popular artsy movies. I could not refrain myself to only their voices, and opened the tab. I must have resembled a clinically ill person, smiling at the screen in the office. And then there was the mist of Kurseong and the thrill of the lyrical shot in which Mithun is shown to walk in, a silhouette taking slow shape right into the heart, till he took the shape of the heartbeat. My goosebumps made me realize I should stop watching it and go back to listening the movie. I did.

I am a very happy person now. I love the old Ghosh of Titli, Shubho Mahurat and Utsab. He explores the complexest of relationships with the effortlessness of having being through them all. The cross-hatch of his dialogues is a tribute to details. So many actors now seem orphan without him. Anyway, to return to Titli, I feel like I have just hosted a fabulous party -- and each one on the guest list was selectively catered to. I baked and cooked and fed and feel satiated myself.

I listened, I listened and I listened. Like it was all meant for me. I was home with the stars.