Dearest Sakura,
Your days and nights drew to a close in the heart of that spring. It is December now. Winter has been knocking at the door for days. Just the other day, the first snow fell. Caught up in the mundane rush of work, I could only steal a passing glance at it. You know how much I have always loved the snow. But what you do not know is that nowadays, the mere sight of it leaves my limbs numb. I feel as though I am standing alone at some nameless, forgotten station. The snow falls in absolute silence. Suddenly, you emerge from the mist—only to vanish the very next moment, boarding a passing tram. I have no strength left to chase after it, to climb aboard. A strange numbness swallows everything, and a quiet sorrow begins to settle within me.
I hold a rather peculiar belief, you know— I sometimes feel that human beings, in their deepest secrets, actually worship sorrow. Thinking back to the very beginning, to the first love of adolescence and those impulsive decisions… One day, it all came crashing down. My soul was shattered, undoubtedly, yet within that agonizing pain, I discovered a strange, lingering bliss. I became intoxicated by the luxury of suffering, a melancholic reverie that only grew deeper and darker with time.
Since then, the ledger of my life has recorded the passing of many springs. And then, one day, sorrow found me again. The first time, it was the agony of loss— even if I had walked away by choice, the grief was no less profound. But this time, the sorrow is of an unfulfilled yearning. What exactly is it that I did not get? Even I do not know. I had always told myself that the very expectation of attaining something would shatter my sacred trance. Yet, I yearned. And so, the true birthplace of this new sorrow remains a mystery I can never unravel.
But then, quite abruptly, all these sorrows simply vanished, you know? Perhaps the cold, pristine snow washed all the grief away from my weary bones. I returned home and slept like the dead. When I woke the next morning, I found my reserves of sorrow completely depleted. This sudden departure of grief is terrifying. I believe I have told you this before. Not just you, but many others— that I am a deeply satisfied man. I wasn’t lying, you know. If a person devoid of sorrow isn’t satisfied, who is? I was satisfied. Overwhelmingly satisfied. But this satisfaction is a terrifying abyss. I began to feel that there was no longer any reason to go on living. A man with no sorrow in his life can embrace death with absolute joy. My death wish was growing violently vivid.
I think I have lost the thread — lost what I meant to write in the chaos of what I am actually writing. I have no control over it anymore.
It rained heavily all day today. I had thought of wandering to the Christmas market, but the rain anchored me indoors. I spent the entire day standing by the window. The weather at this time of year is always so strange. If you ask me to describe it, words fail me. There is no sun, no breeze. Just a heavy, suffocating emptiness. It feels as though a procession of smog is marching toward a memorial service for the void, and I am standing right in the middle of it.
I feel the urge to leave everything behind and run away. That same old escapist instinct—the very reason I was always so terrified of coming close to you. Yet, somehow, defying it all, I found myself drawn to you! Strange, isn’t it? Or perhaps not. In the deepest corners of my mind, I was yearning for you. How intensely I wanted you is something I lack the mere words to explain. The Creator blessed me with the gift of language, true, but within the palm of that language, He also placed a blank, vacant stare. Whenever I try to write about you, only that empty gaze bleeds onto the page.
I stare out the vacant window. I take a sip from my teacup. Tasteless, sugarless tea. I’ve lost count of the cigarettes smoked. Smoke refuses to settle in an empty stomach. The rice on the stove remains uncooked. The rain pours down in a rhythmic, unyielding chorus. And sorrow awakens once more.
They are strange, these sorrows, you know? My grief is that so much has happened, yet you are not here. Actually, you are. I know you are mine. Yet, I still crave you. I will keep craving you. Even if I attain you entirely, I will still want you. Because the end of longing is the end of sorrow. How can I let you end? How can I let the sorrow end? You are not my sorrow. But I am hopelessly in love with the eternal yearning of attaining you.
—24 December, 2024
Bengali Blog at: নির্জন খড়ের মাঠে পউষ সন্ধ্যায়
Cover Photo by David Brooke Martin