And she turned to me and smiled. Wistful, miserable, understanding, heartbroken and above all else heart breaking. That’s how I remember her, that how I will always remember her. As darkness swallows my senses, it is that smile that will go with me, that is the warmth in this cold cold place I am going to.
Coming from a small town in Assam, growing up in the verdant greens of the tea estates exposure to people was always minimal, only the clubs of my father, and the workers in the garden. Schooling in an exclusive school for tea garden people had made me accomplished academically, but at the same time had rendered me a loner. While I would be at home discoursing current affairs and theology with my peers, I would be sticking out like a sore thumb in social circles. And then I came to study in Presidency College. Kolkata, the city of joy, of art of music, of rasogolla. Kolkata the city of my Tillotama.
Tilottama Sarkar, pursuing graduation in English, daughter of the owner of a clerk in a small jute mill, and the most good looking girl of presidency college ’98 batch. But then I was biased I guess, not that she wasn’t pretty. Tilo white as pillow as I used to rib her was the prettiest person I believed, was the most accomplished person I believed and I was hopelessly in love with her. And thank you Ma Kamakshya, by Her divine grace, she also found me likeable. Egg devils and coffee at coffee house or the chowmein in canteen, all tasted better when it was shared with Tilo. Every night before going to sleep would pray to Ma Kamakshya that this not be a dream, and that she go on liking me. Every night I thanked her profusely for letting me, the nerd of the class somehow just somehow impress Tilo.
Completing graduation Tilo took up a job in a newspaper, while the rich dad’s son that I was, continued my higher studies. Fiercely independent Tilo would not let me pay for all the meals, or let me buy her gifts beyond what she wouldn’t be able to match. Hopelessly romantic Tilo would float away on a boat over the Hooghly with just a song on her lips and my arms round her. Extremely pragmatic Tilo would take me to Metro Gully to buy a top for her as a gift, and haggle as if her life depended on it, instead of a shop on Park Street. And passionate Tilo would turn my body to fire with a kiss of her dainty lips.
It was after I had passed my Masters that I went home and told my mother about Tilo. And I faced Armageddon. So after 2 weeks off hellfire and brimstone, I came back o Kolkata, disowned by my father, penniless after a life of Splendour, but resolute with my love for Tilo. When I came to her house, she looked at me and smiled. My Tilo always smiled. The world appeared better. She knew it from my face. She told me to move on. She reasoned with me that this life was not going to be easy this way. It was easier to move on from her than to leave in penury. I was adamant. She smiled. She always smiled and made it better.
We went searching for a PG for me, and then she settled me in there with the lil money she had. She gave me money for expenses as I searched jobs. I got a job selling credit cards. I would go from one table to another and ask LIC agents if they would take a card. Agents, who had not crossed class 10, looked at me patronizingly. I endured. This was for my Tilo, my ever smiling Tilo. Late night she would go by my PG on her way home and talk to me for 10 minutes as I walked her home. 10 minutes of sanctuary. 10 minutes of her presence for me to fortify myself for the next day. At the end of it three thousand. I bought a saree for her. A saree from the sweat of my brows, and she never looked so happy than when she wore it. 3 months went, 6 months a year, three thousand because four and then five. I changed a job it became Six. But how would we be able to live together, get married. How would I be able to fill her in my senses all day long not just 10 minutes?
Her father wanted her to get married to someone else. He insisted, said that he was ill and wanted to get her married before anything happened to her. She didn’t have a mother to go to, she was long dead. My ever smiling Tilo cried, and it broke my heart. I reasoned with her to move on. I reasoned with her to leave me. I begged her. I raved at her. She was resolute. She held my hands, kissed them and said she remembered the year of selling cards. She said she knew of me skipping lunches to make ends meet. She said she knew how I had grown up a prince and lived a pauper for her. She said she knew that she would not find love in any one more than me. I said I had grown out of love with her. I was seeing a girl across the street, a hooker who would sleep with me every night. She said she didn’t believe me. She told me to swear on her. I swore.
She looked at me with tears filling her eyes. She said she would go on, not because she believed I was sleeping with someone else. She said she would go on because she saw the suffering in me for when she cried. I said she was mistaken. She went to the door, turned and smiled in that saree I had bought for her, wistful hear broken and above all heart breaking.
I stared after her for a long time, alone. 3 years have passed and every night I have put a little bit of poison in me, but the warmth of her smile has always kept the cold away. But it is growing every day, the cold, and I will be soon gone, waiting for my Tilo on the other side. My romantic, pragmatic, independent passionate ever smiling Tilo. Tilo of that wistful, understanding heartbreaking smile.
