My phone refuses to recognise my fingers. It is steadfast in its complaint. "Not Recognized." I have been washing my hands too frequently, like somebody's life depends on it. Literally. I try and peer at my thumb. The ridges look faint. Like other small details. My eyes are refusing to register detail. A visit to the eye doctor is due.
Is the loss of identity a matter of perception or has it been sandpapered out of me?
Phir gaeche koto, boba tunnel-er gola cheere aalo
Icchera chute chole.
Sara ta din jude, tumi aana-gona korecho sei sure
Taar rong lege aache.
Obujher pencil.
My bones feel tired. My sinews, slack. Movement is painful. Deliberate, dazed and difficult. I have been tripping on my own feet, like my legs do not want me to go anywhere. I try and inspect my legs every time this happens. They look out of breath.
Is the loss of mobility contingent on intention or have I aged into the inanimate.
Bhalobasha baaki aache tomaro aamar kache
Ja cheycho dite aami paarina.
Aamaro somoye daale phuriye eseche paata
Eto prem kaache eshe, elona.
My brain feels jumbled. Grey matter, white matter, whatever matters - it all seems mixed up. I have not been talking to myself. The conversation feels strained. It is too quiet inside. I look at myself in the mirror. Parts of me are missing. Parts lost to friendship. Parts lost to new life.
Is silence a consequence of severed connections or is the language lost to me.
Jodi kono din tumi,
du haat diye jhinook kodao. Nei aami,
shei olpo bhaanga golpo guloye. Kaar shaathe,
bolo shobdo chunde firbo baadi, maajh raate.
Aami tomar kotha bolbo kaake.
All I want to do is lie my head down on a lap, and cry for a while. There is no lap. There are no tears.
Of course, I have dry eyes. Diagnosis is simple. The fix is simpler. Eye drops will fix it all.
Boba Tunnel is a song written and sung by Anupam Roy, for the film Chotushkone.
