All Phone Lines Suspended
For
four years now, we have been in different cities.
We
are about to get married, but I don't know how to tell him
he
isn't ready yet. So, I rent a flat in the heart of the city.
He
tells me that he has done the same. I go to the bank to withdraw
money
every week at seven p.m. He sends me a letter marked by his hand.
It
only says "Don't leave me." He used to mean it as a joke.
But
now he has become serious, almost desperate. So I send a letter back
which
says: "I won't."
I
am a wife, or so I behave even when my husband hasn't been here.
At
night, he calls. I can almost see the clear yellow light, the lampshade of his
kitchen, light
that
will never reach the window of my flat.
He
says, your voice is breaking. When I am asleep, I wonder if it
ever
has. It has always been so steady. I blame phone companies.
The
next day, after spending a day at a restaurant with someone else, I don't know
how
to make conversation. We still talk on the phone. Two years
will
pass just like that. And we will not know. Sometimes, I picture
a
large land filled with jute crops that keep growing. No one comes
to
cut them up, bundle them, and take them home. Right in the middle of the land
is
an electric pole for phone communication. I think, "This is it. My
husband."
Standing
alone, desperately hoping to convey call-messages to houses nearby
long
abandoned.
Mit
Shelke
Mit Shelke is a second-year UG
student pursuing his English Lit. degree. Currently based in Pune, India, his
work deals with loneliness and dejection. He has no publication history, and
this will be his first submission. He is deeply grateful for Alipore Post,
whose works have convinced him that his local, Indian voice also (occasionally)
deserves some permanent part of the Internet.