A winding hill road goes far away like a ribbon. Above, the blue sky spreads like the plain. In the background,
"Rain falls here through all the year,
Here clouds graze like cows!
Green paddy fields lean toward the door
As if to hold it shut"
“What are you thinking?” I look at my friend.
We are six friends visiting Bandarban. We are staying in a small, neat resort on the hill. The purpose is to rest. But I cannot rest. My thoughts are taking me somewhere, only the horizon knows!
I turned toward my friend, but in my head, the refrain keeps echoing "Inside the mailman cloud's bag..." We came yesterday morning. From that path, this feeling started. My friends talk a lot. There is music and singing, but my mind floats somewhere else. I want to open my enchanting bag of sadness. And that is my Rituparno. Something I keep inside me carefully, like a cactus flower.
When I was old enough to read big books and watch adult films, Rituparno had already gone to the land of clouds. But the clouds he left for me, for us, ah! I just want to keep them entirely my own!
I started watching Bengali films sitting beside my mother. One day I watched Titli (2002). A few days later, Unishe April (1994). At that age, I tried to watch seriously even if I did not understand. Mamoni often watched Titli. We had a DVD player at home. In the afternoon, after all chores, my mother played cinemas she liked. She never forced me to sleep. After homework, I could play or sit with my mother to watch a film. That day, I watched Titli and Rituporno captured me!
Later, when I was old enough to watch, read, and write anything, when I could understand a little, I would watch Rituparno’s films all night. Then I learned that Bariwali (2000) should be watched in the hushed heaviness of an afternoon. Abohomaan (2009) in the pale clarity of the morning. If in spirits, Shob Charitro Kalponik (2009). If in grey, Raincoat (2004). Just before Pujo, Antarmahal (2005). And Titli, whenever the heart desires.
Once we travelled to Sylhet to see the tea gardens, it was a picnic through my father's office. First time in life, I cried seeing tea gardens. I could not stop! I sobbed like a baby, I wish I could cry like that again!
Our breakfast here is bread and omelet, with tea and coffee. After eating, we spent the day walking in the hills and playing board games and talking in lazy circles. At night, we decided, "Let's watch a movie together." A ghost film sounds good! The kind that'd make us laugh at the ghosts, but still force us to wake the person next to us if we needed the toilet at night. That is the unspoken rule of group horror.
We watched an old Hollywood film. A small family went to the hills. In their guesthouse, ghosts played tricks. At one point, their little daughter hugged her mother and cried. I do not know what happened after that. I spent the time watching Mithu, resting her head on her mother's lap, crying and laughing. Bitterness spread like yarn all around!
Ah, life! In Chitrangada, Rituparno tells his father, “I know you will not come, but I am saying. Father, please come. If you come, I will feel good.”
When the sky breaks and rain falls, I remember my Ritu. On sunny days, I want to wear a pale yellow sari and red bindi on forehead, then I remember my Ritu. I feel, in this small life, have I never once watched the making of a goddess? Or perhaps I have. Have I never told my father, “Baba, I feel such an urge to hug you and cry!” Or I have, perhaps in the excuse of a hug, sorrow melted into joy.
Tomorrow we will return to Dhaka. From Bandarban, first we will go to Chittagong. There, we will track Chandranath Hill and catch the night train.
Tomorrow is Rituporno’s birthday. I know that late in the night, when only the siren of the train can be heard and everyone else is asleep, I will wake up. I will look out of the window and see a deep blue sky
"In my half-healed heart, I drift far away.
Amid the ache, I fall asleep, when suddenly I heard the night's knock" Obony, are you home?"
Happy Birthday, dear Rituparno!
