An Outcast

He never played football.

He was excellent in knitting wool.
He watched daily soaps with hell bent interest.
Thamma was his best friend.

She taught him how to cook Enchor chingri.
He always enjoyed male attention in school.
Dad was always his hero.
He never really understood;  

Why his college mates called him a sissy.

He walked. He talked. Quite normally.

Yet he always found girls giggling at him.
He had friends. They asked him to come out of his closet.
He never felt closeted. He only felt outcast. 
Then he fell in love. With her.

Parents breathed a sigh of relief.

Their son was normal, after all.

Little did they know, he's been in love before.

That died within him. Like his dancing.

He still cooks. His son loves football.

He cooks for him. His son plays the guitar.

Quietly he taps his foot to his tune. His son is not like him.

 But every time he prepares Enchor chingri;

His son says "Dad you are a star!”

He lives in moments.

His heart dances in triumph.

An outcast. His son's star cast.

Deja Vu

I was dreaming. Extensive dream.

 It was my daughter’s wedding.

How beautiful she looked.

Always different from the crowd.

Her plain white cotton saree, with a brownish border.

Draped in old-school fashion.

Her hair, almost like mine, a mess.

She was smoking her favourite brand.

I hated this habit of her.

Why has she become so much like me?

An elaborate buffet was laid by the sea.

Oh yes, she always wanted a beach wedding.

The blue shamiyana, the flying lanterns.

Perfect décor.

I was cringing in sleep.

I was not apprehensive. I was depressed.

Very depressed.

It’s normal.

A daughter’s marriage brings a lot of pain with it.

Does it?

Then why have I not felt alone when she was abroad?

The groom is with her.

That man- So bewilderingly handsome. With wavy grey hair.

Age has made him more confident.

Drinking his signature brand. Whisky- always.

His index finger grazing her nape.

And that familiar interruption;

As my daughter lights her second cigarette.

They signed the paper. The way I signed a few months back.

A clear sound of Rabindrasangeet played in some juke box.

I remember the rendition. A Sarad jugalbandee.

His favourite, then mine, now my daughter’s too.

The lights are fading in the horizon.

The phosphorus glowing in the waves.

Guests are busy with the elaborate cuisine.

Where is my daughter?

I can’t find her. I have the old apprehension again.

Once she was late from her school.

Her pool car had a tyre-puncture.

I remember losing my head.

I was SO helpless.  I feel the same now.

Her friends have gathered near the bar counter.

Some look familiar. I still can’t find her.

Then the vision drenches me.

Is she living that dream?

Consummating her marriage by the sea?

She always wanted that. Or was it me who desired that.

How oddly similar is her mess of hair.

The strategic dimple- that’s also mine.

When did she become me?

I signed my divorce last evening.

My baby girl is still in my womb.

It’s normal.

You have such hysteric dreams;

 When you are pregnant with a girl.

Is it?

Then why do I wake up drenched?

You are sweating dear woman.

You are stressed.

Must be so. Must be so.

A sigh passed my mouth.

I am sorry. I forgot to attend her wedding.

Who’s wedding? Asked the voice again.

I was blank, as the voice replied.

It’s your second marriage in a month.

It’s time to be happy again.

Is it?

Must be so. Must be so.