January Journal

By Saptak Dutta

“Winter's here again with all her magic

Silence of the trees greets the cold days

The dew of the autumn turned into snow

This too shall pass, nothing ever stays.”

But the alarm wouldn’t. For sure. At least not before it ruins his sleep and embroils the hangover due to the obvious curse of the whiskey consumed last night at Rishav’s party of thoughtful minds or whatever he likes to call it anyway. Rohit moves his hand in a poor attempt to snooze the alarm for another five minutes of bliss under the blanket.

January the 1st. A new day. A new beginning. Everyone is excited about the new year. The streets of this city of joy are so full of celebrations. New year’s resolutions have already jammed the social media up to its neck. Rohit wonders whether people really care about the resolutions made in such a fancy moment. Because when shit hits the fan in life, it unquestionably turns into a fight for survival. Mere survival. Like it is for him now. The torment inside him never begs or at least appeals to ask to go for a morning yoga. Fitness sucks in a world where you can’t keep your mind straight.

Sara and Rohit know each other since college days. And there isn’t a café or a food junction or a restaurant in Park Street these two have not known or been at. Years. Years of friendship once turned into something the teenagers might call love. Yeah. Love it is. In every corner of this lovely city, they have been noticed, holding hands − kissing each other like lovebirds in an obvious orbit of fate. The memory still haunts Rohit in a way like the ocean does a dolphin in a pool. He finally puts the upsetting alarm off and gets out of the bed. The publisher is going to call soon. Rohit must finish the write-up due to submission. He is already running behind schedule.

*****

Today is special for Sara, Rohit recalls after receiving a text from Rishav. 6th of January. It’s kind of a journalist’s day especially observed in Maharashtra in memory of ‘The Father of Marathi Journalism’, Balshastri Jambhekar. How did Rishav know, Rohit lets himself ponder? May be Sara told him in that party. Yes, she might. They are close. Rishav’s dad works in a reputed journalism agency, he remembers. Probably in Mumbai. Where Sara now lives. And Rishav’s dad became her godfather. Indubitably the beginning of all end.

Rohit and Rishav met each other few months back when Sara came to visit her old paternal house in Kolkata. Rishav’s dad introduced her to his boy, that much is obvious. They are party animals. They tend to find excuses to throw parties possibly thrice in a month. And Sara took Rohit with her to one of that. Rohit is sort of an introvert himself. Party is certainly not his thing. But when Sara asked him to go with her, he could neither refuse nor talk her out of it. The New Year’s Eve was the third time he had to accompany Sara to their ecstatic topsy-turvy against his will.

He did not like Rishav much. He did not like it either the way Rishav and Sara were mingling in front of his eyes. Sara was calling him Rish, he eavesdropped. Rish? That cozy she is now with him although she barely knows this guy, Rohit thought. Rishav, on the other hand is quite a social butterfly. The guy surely knows how to talk sweet to ladies. It is certain that’s the way Sara was taken by him. Rohit always felt uncomfortable in the presence of a crowd. He loved spending time with Sara and Sara alone. Seems like Sara wasn’t used to that particular vibe.

*****

Rohit wants to surprise Sara today with a text typed in Hindi. He is not good in typing in native language, still he prefers to try once for her. Sara did text him many times in Hindi. She kind of enjoys that, Rohit knows. Besides today is World Hindi Day. Rohit had no idea. He just discovered it in today’s newspaper. 10th of January. The time he is living − every day is celebrated with some sort of specialty, he smiles. Maybe Sara would like that. Or maybe Rishav has done it already. He is always one step ahead of Rohit as it seems. The abyss of lingering sadness annihilates the smile on his face within the next few moments.

The publisher is calling Rohit. He answers. “Hi, Rohit. Please help me out on this, bro.”, Rohit listens without getting a chance to utter a word. The man on the other side of the diaphragm continues, “We just need a little piece, kind of a microblog to be posted on our site, you know. I’m aware that you’re busy with stuff, bro. We already asked Priya, but she is not into this sort of things. She rejected the offer. And Archana is totally unavailable, we can’t reach her on phone. She is not even replying to my texts. God knows what’s wrong with these people!”. Rohit gets a moment to speak as he paused his cursing over the budding writers. “Look Sundar, you don’t have to blame anyone to get me involved. Let me hear what’s it all about. I mean the blog”. Sundar gears up, “Hell yeah bro, that’s the spirit. That’s what I like about you!”. “THE BLOGGG”, Rohit emphasized as unkindly as he can. “Yeah, the blog. It should be based on the National Youth Day to be celebrated on January 12. Write it up, bro. And one more thing. Please mention the involvement of the government. You know it’s nothing political but still it helps to survive in the industry these days”, Sundar laughs.

*****

Sara didn’t text him back in a week. The last time she dropped a text, it was a short one acknowledging that she would be busy in some kind of journalists’ conference. She flied back to Mumbai the day after the new year. It must be a monkey’s ladder to climb up with eyes closed in a corporate world. Well, she was very serious and dedicated about her career. Quite contrary to Rohit himself.

Rohit is a virtual recluse. And a dreamer. He had this one and only passion of writing since his childhood. He is someone who prefers to destroy one boundary of musing to find another just to step on the next one. He chose this profession of a freelance writer although his educational background could have helped him to achieve more of professional goals. Profession. The kind that Sara always pursued. A serious job with busy schedules. No lousy business. Handsome wages. A dream home. Personal vehicle. Parties and fashion wears. A jolly life. Things probably Rohit could not afford. The relationship started to lose its rosy petals and grow nothing but thorns when Sara decided to move to Mumbai to join a journalism agency. She wanted Rohit to move with her and pursue a serious job over there as she very well knew about his qualifications. But Rohit denied. These four walls of his rented one-room apartment has already become his favorite prison of reveries.

*****

Sunday the 23rd. Sundar is very happy with that blog. Rohit receives today a note of exclamation from him. Sundar’s face always makes him smile. His physique resembles a teddy bear with a bulky body and short hair with a pair of old-fashioned rounded spectacles, like what Netaji Bose used to wear. Well, not to mention today happens to be the great man’s birthday. Though he doesn’t like how sometimes Sundar puts pressure on him with a deadline to submit projects, Rohit admires this guy. He is open-minded at least. Reaching at this certain point of his life Rohit understands not everybody is going to engage in a routine like he does. Rohit is like a sailor with least knowledge of swimming. Yet he welcomes the hurricane. That takes a different kind of courage and survival instincts. Not everyone tends to possess that. Not even Sara. She is the type whose world falls into decay in a moment once their belief system faces a sudden meltdown. If the monkey’s ladder is snatched from under her feet right now, she wouldn’t be able to sustain herself. Rohit has outlived many storms and earthquakes of life. He knows how to let go of his leaves in the winter to grow again in the spring. But today is a Sunday. And today he is going to get an hour more of sleep, he rewards himself. Good night.

*****

Wednesday. Loud announcements outside his apartment wakes him this morning. Rohit sneaks his head up from his blanket to listen. Oh, it’s 26th January today. The 73rd Republic Day of India is being celebrated all over the country. This is the day when the holy constitution of India came into effect back in ’50. Freedom of thought and speech was approved. Are they really allowed now to say what’s on their minds? Rohit closes his eyes as if two pieces of heavy stones were horrendously put over his eyelids. Tears stream down his cheeks in silence of the absolute decomposition of a broken heart. Sara isn’t returning. A voicemail was received last night. The end of it all.

*****

Rishav and Sara are going to tie the knot in the next month. Rishav has already set for Mumbai with his family to join his dad where they are prepping for a destination wedding at Goa beach − kicking up their heels with candles and wine. Right before the ocean could finally levigate the evanescent odyssey of Sara and Rohit – from every corner of this city – holding hands – kissing each other like lovebirds in an obvious orbit of fate.

*****

A foggy morning of 31st January. The doorbell rings abruptly. Twice. Rishav is lying on the floor, sleeping. As he made an attempt to return to the conscious world and get himself together to answer the door, the empty bottle of whiskey toppled over the dark ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes. A courier was waiting at the doorstep. Rohit gazes down at him with skeptical eyes.

“Sir, you have this parcel from Giva online. Let me have your delivery code please”, the courier handed him a small package.

Rohit is not even in a state to remember which day it is. His mind is trying to recall in a desperation what stuff could be inside this box. But first he reaches his pocket to get the phone and share the code the courier demanded. Yes, the code arrived on his phone a second ago.

Rohit asks the courier if he can look inside. “Certainly sir, it’s yours. Please, take a look”. Rohit peels the outer package made of thin paper and discovers a beautiful jewel box inside. The courier is eyeing it too with a bit more curiosity. It took a few seconds for Rohit to open the lid with his feeble fingers.

“Congratulations, sir. She is a very special one, I bet. An awesome choice, I must admit. Wish I could gift my girlfriend something like this. But you know, with my remuneration I can’t furnish her with such an expensive ring in next thousand years!”, he smiles at Rohit and kickstarts his bike.

The beautiful ring dazzles even under the foggy morning light. Rohit’s memory is brought back to life slowly by its sheer elegance. It was meant to be a gift to Sara on the coming Valentine’s Day when Rohit would have proposed to her. The echo of the engine faints as the courier gradually disappears into the mist.

“The fog outside can't outnumber

The clouds smothering my heart

Faded howling of the fragile promises

Every end is not meant for a new start.”

*****

By Saptak Dutta