Aar amara hariye gechi

So he stands, head bowed, arms out, old wine bottle up for all the world to see. Battered in love and lost in life. He opened his eyes & looked at the leaves of a tree hiding the sky. He walks in a broken dream, lost chances & corroded love. Walking becomes a reasoning fix, that does not lose anything, does not change loyalties & always listens. He walks, whistling a rhyme through his dried lips to match the conundrum of lost chemicals in his non-existent brain. The sun was at its brightest best. He walked alone on the road. From a distance, it looked like he was walking on a layer of melting charcoal. Somewhere in the crowd "kotha kore" began playing, he thought how once he fell in love with this particular song just because she sang it one starry night, he wanted to sing along, a smile frowned on that thought but was soon faced with an expression of dark alley hiding a thousand pains. Lyrics waiting, almost pleading to be sung. But he disdained them because they are no longer 'special'.

"Bhalo! let's talk" he said to himself.

The world above him buzzed with a steady twitch of shock, a whisper of evil, and a silent grin.

 

"bhāi! They have made movies about you."

 

"Losers"

 

"Dilip kumar, Sharukh khan or Abhay Deol? who is your favorite?"

 

"All failed me."

 

"Or you failed your life?"

 

"nīraba karāna. It's 110 years. HUNDRED AND TEN God damn freaking years. Will you please stop bothering me?"

 

"Hahahaha you still miss both of them. Asustha!"

 

"DRINK"

 

And his heart was filled with such great emotions that his throat choked for a moment & tears made their way into his eyes from the woe-begotten place in the doped dark heart.

 

A human mind has a great capacity to ignore the important & distract itself from the mundane. But spirits... they are not that blessed. Ghosts can’t resonate with ignorance. They suffer.

 

And the ghost of Devdas Mukherjee resume walking again oblivious of the mundane racket around him as conductors announced their destination, each spoken like a medley in rough Bengali, vendors crying the head above the rush of engines in Chowringhee market, & all defeated in the lethal combination of metal, glass, and plume of smoke.