Help me, please?

By Annesha Ghosh

"CLINKKKK!", a pile of utensils was thrown on the kitchen sink. You are angry, I thought to myself, before ignoring the thought away and lighting a fresh cigarette. I let the nicotine burn and sit in my throat before I slowly breathed it out. I heard you scurrying in the kitchen, a bit more than usual, revealing the inner unrest.

It's funny how we have learnt to read our silences over the years, more than we've ever interpreted our words. Words seem to always jumble up, get mixed with the wrong tones and come out in a form that's surprising even to the brain that created them. Sounds, on the other hand, can clearly resonate each messed up feeling, gently detangling one from the others.

Sound and smell. You used to laugh when I said that each person carries a unique story in the scent of his skin. I loved how you smelled. An intoxicating sniff of the purest honey and sunset kissed roses. It cleansed my soul of the rotting home that I was running from. When I made love to you, even the sweat trickling down your neck smelled like fresh petrichor. As cheesy it might sound, I could drown in you. You were my freedom.

You know, they say that we become a reflection of the person we hate the most. The resentment gets so deep that we start mimicking them, as if to make fun of them, till we slowly turn into the worst version of ourselves. And as much as I still deny that, the involuntary snapping of my fingers when I'm stressed, the prevailing smell of old beer and cigarette stubs in the room and your silent tears - all tell the same story, like a flashback of my life wrapped in the bows of déjà vu.

Our squeaky-clean house, kept tidy and perfect by my mother, had dark holes of decaying love. Maa's room typically smelled of incense sticks, of jasmine and sandalwood. But loiter a little longer, and you would hit the melancholic notes of pain and deep fatigue. It used to drive me away to the conforming shelter of my dad's room. The heavy intake of musk and masculinity worked wonders in assuring me that nothing had changed, and maybe nothing...ever...will...

I pushed the cigarette down the ashtray hole and stood up. I need to go to you. Years of ignorance and condescension have ripped you empty, stripped you of your blissful aroma. I need to hold you tight, till every drop of love remaining in the universe can refurbish you. I need to get you back. I need to get myself back. And I can only do that through you. Help me, please?

By Annesha Ghosh