Dear Pritish,
I have been listening to your show for quite a few months and have been delving deep into the era bygone. You remind us of the long-lost dreams, innocence and the days when we had seasons in the Sun. I love every bit of your show. But there’s another thing that gives me a sense of attachment. I actually don’t know how this will transpire, but I think there’s something about your voice…I don’t know how you will react if I say that you sound just like my late son Arush. I won’t say that you exactly sound like him but going by your voice, it seems that you might look like my son. You definitely sound like Arush, he had this gift of the gab just like yours. Your words between every song definitely put light on your views about the societal and familial aspects and the similiraties with my son are quite uncanny. So, I wait the whole week just to listen to you. I feel Arush’s presence through your voice. Keep going. Seems like a mother has got back her lost child. And there are certain….
**
“Hello Calcutta! Happy Saturday! I am your best friend Pritish and you are listening to me on 90.2 AIR Colours FM! I hope you had a great week and it’s time we celebrated it with some retro classics. I’ll be your friend for the next two hours where we are going to jam together. So, now, I have a song for you that echoes my heart, the lyrics, Oh My God! This is what my heart wants to tell you, my best friends, you listeners. This song, written by Neeraj, composed by the great S.D Burman and sung by Kishore Kumar, has been the most requested song throughout the week. Here it goes…”
Phoolon Ke Rang Se Dil Ki Kalam Se Tujhko Likhi Roz Paati
(With the hues of the flowers and the quill of my heart, I paint letters to you everyday)
No sooner does Pritish put on the song than he moves towards the studio door. He sees RJ Bhumi gesturing him through the glass panel to come out. It’s a break for Pritish anyway. The song is going to last for a few minutes from now.
“There’s something for you, an old friend,” says Bhumi as she hands Pritish an envelope. It’s a letter.
Pritish has been a sensation for Colours FM. Nobody had the slightest idea that Pritish, once a skittish kid, would one day take the world of Radio by storm. Last month, he has completed five years in the studio and has broken all the shackles of traditional ways of RJ-ing. He had joined the studio at a time when the world of cinema lost the great Satyajit Ray. In fact, that was his very first assignment. From the very beginning, he impressed everyone with his insights, his eagerness to learn and his capability to imbibe. He is the apple of the eye, both the authorities and the listeners concerned. Especially, when the total audience count surges just for a single show, you know something magical is going on. The number of mails and phone calls which was moderate otherwise, has gone up drastically just for a single man. Repeated fan mails are quite common in these professions but the one with motherly vibes is not what you see often.
“Mrinalini Mitra?” Pritish can sense who the sender is from the inkling emanating from Bhumi’s stare.
Bhumi’s smile conveys assent.
She is Mrinalini Mitra. This is her sixth letter to Calcutta’s favourite RJ. Mrinalini has been Pritish’s regular listener since 1992, and she has been writing to him ever since Pritish is broadcasting Retro Classics. Over the years, there have been countless examples of bondages between the admirers and the admired but the camaraderie Pritish shares with Mrinalini is a novelty. This woman in her sixties has described her life, herself and Arush in her letters. Pritish too, mentions her name in his show everytime she sends him a letter. They talk without actually talking in realtime. She is a name among the other listeners as her name pops up often and Pritish cherishes Mrinalini’s warmth. She is his favourite too. Pritish opens the envelope.
Dear Son,
It’s been awhile and I haven’t written to you. This letter, though similar with the previous ones, may have a different tinge to it. I have observed that you have been playing S.D Burman’s songs quite a lot in the recent past. That’s quite obvious because it’s his birth month. The song from Prem Pujari-Phoolon Ke Rang Se has been the most popular request and you have played it on consecutive Saturdays. I have told you a lot about my son over the years and to add to the plethora of things he did, I would like to tell you that he really loved this song. The song correctly depicts his idyllic view about life, quite fitting for his personality. He had this beautiful garden in our old house where he had so many plants. That was his hobby- spending time with trees and flowers. He would treat the plants just like the little kids shown in the visuals of the song. You know what, he had a thing for Carnations. He would bring a Carnation plant every year on his birthday. Unfortunately, Cancer has its own stopwatch, Arush’s time was up and age took away my husband too. Being a solitary figure, it’s difficult for me to maintain what Arush had left and thus, the garden dried up. You know, talking about birth month, as you know, this month on the 15th, it’s Arush’s birthday. I haven’t seen him in eigth years. Son, will you keep a request of a mother? It’s a Wednesday, will you be able to come and meet me? I am sending you my address. I might not have seen you, but your voice, it’s as good as a signature. I will be the happiest to welcome you to my home and spend a day. I am sending you my address on the next page. There’s something more, I am sending a picture of Arush. It’s a gift from my side.
Regards,
Mrinalini
“So, what have you decided? it’s just three days from now,” says Pritish’s mother, Brinda.
“What do you think?” asks Pritish while having dinner.
“Maybe, you should go. I would have visited her had I been in your shoes.”
“Let me think.”
It’s Sunday and for Pritish it’s all about lazing around. Doing nothing is his favorite stuff. But the more he thinks about the letter, confusion creeps in.
Pritish looks at the photo. Arush was beautiful. He had a smile that emancipated innocence, freshness and purity. He was 23 when he left.
Pritish moves to the mirror. He touches his face and observes his features keenly.
Who am I? How different am I from my presenter self? Am I really like her son or is it just the way I present myself? Who am I? Am I losing the real me? The’me’ that my mother sees in me? Is it too different from what Mrinalini imagines from my voice?
Pritish feels too exhausted to ask further questions.
In two days, Pritish has re-read all her letters God knows how many times. He has tried to paint a picture of how Arush was. What he could imagine was all sugary which Pritish isn’t. He has lied to people, broken promises… or is it that what we imagine is always close to perfection? What I imagine about Arush and what she imagines about me?
What makes a bond? Trust? Can trust be founded on imagination? It takes reality and truth to build such a foundation. She doesn’t know me yet there’s a sense of attachment. What if she loses the trust when she realises that I am way different?
Pritish has never been so indecisive. Two days have gone by and he doesn’t know what he is going to do.
“Still undecided?” asks Brinda as Pritish comes home. It was Bhumi’s birthday and she had thrown a party. Pritish wanted to go more so because he had to procrastinate, he didn’t want to think about the matter.
“I didn’t think about it. I don’t know.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Mom, I have an image that is created solely by my voice. I am not sure whether exposing my face will keep that intact at all. That mystery, Mom, it takes years to create that mysticity. What people imagine is way more beautiful than what things actually are. I am my voice. I am what my listeners think me to be. It’s bound to be different from what I actually am. It’s clearly the case as far as Mrinalini Mitra is concerned. I look very different from her son. I definitely know that the picture she has of me in her mind is identical to the picture she has sent. What if I lose a listener just because I don’t look like him? What if all the mystery is gone? Moreover, what If a mother loses a child?”
“See, this is a unique bond, a beautiful one…”
“Exactly my point, and this is solely because of my voice, isn’t it? What if my face ruins it? We radio jockeys survive on the mystery, on the pictures created inside the minds…”
“I don’t know, you decide, you know it best. These are my views…” Brinda’s comments are typical of a mother.
With a world of confusion, Pritish goes to bed.
Shall I? Shan’t I?
Shall I? Shan’t I?
Shall I? Shan’t I?
Shall I? Shan’t I?
Shall I? Shan’t I?
Shall I? Shan’t I?
Pritish had no idea when he fell asleep.
The clock says 8:15. Pritish wakes up just to be hit back with the nagging confusion in his mind.
“Mom! Tea!” Pritish is hit by an even bigger surprise. He has lost his voice!
What?? I can’t talk. My voice is gone…How come? Wait, the cold drinks from the party last night! How naïve! I should have…Oh my god! Now what? She will not be able to recognise me even if I went to her place. Even if I go with the letters, she might still have a doubt. Man! This sore throat! What on Earth? This was not supposed to happen!!
“What now?” asks a worried Brinda.
“I don’t know!” Pritish spurts out certain audible syllables.
“I have an idea. I think it should work.”
**
With a heavy heart and a train of thoughts, Pritish reaches Mrinalini’s place. The house, once plush, has aged gracefully. The old-world charm is noticeable. Pritish rings the bell. She is a solitary figure and it will take time for her to reach the door and open it. Every second seems like an hour. For Pritish, it feels like his first day in studio.
The door opens.
The woman, clearly Mrinalini, opens the door. She has wrinkles running all over her face. She looks older than a woman in her sixties. But her old age could not mar the aura of elegance she carries around her.
Her eyes are gleaming in anticipation that the man on the other side of the door is the one whose voice has procreated hopes in her heart, brought back the mother in her, resurrected the power of vision that was otherwise fading and revived the meaning of her existence.
“Yes?” says Mrinalini with a trembling voice.
“I am Ritesh! Pritish’s friend!” exerts Pritish. He still isn’t audible enough.
“Pritish?” asks Mrinalini. She has gone numb.
“He could not come. He has sent you this letter and this gift. Open it once you are finished reading the letter. He has cited the reason of his absence in the letter itself.”
“You please come in!”
“No! I should be off! You please read the letter he sent you.”
Mrinalini smiles wryly in response.
Pritish makes a move as she closes the door. The images in front of him are blurring. He couldn’t even tell who he was. Why was that the case? The fear of losing a mother? or just a listener? Or his own image?
Mrinalini throws herself on the sofa. The disappointment is clearly visible in her twitching eyes. She opens the envelope.
Mother,
You know there’s a popular saying – radio is the theatre of the mind. There’s vision even beyond the scope of the eyes. When the eyes fail, the ears and the mind take over. You imagine what you listen to. You imagine yourself to be in a dark room filled with candle lights that flicker everytime the white curtains play the seductress whenever you listen to “The Candle in the Winds”. You imagine yourself to be the sleuth whenever there’s a murder mystery being broadcast. You become the set designer, the costume designer, the director and what not. More importantly, as a presenter, we live different lives under the same skin. To someone, I maybe a bearded man with specs or a clean-shaven nerd or someone’s lost son. My listeners make me more beautiful than what I actually am. But the beauty a mother sees in her child is unmatched. Mother, you have done just that. From your letters, what I could figure out was that Arush was a Godsend and he was beautiful to the bone. People like him make the world livable. You might have seen that in me too but I doubt whether I can match up to the purity your son had. I can clearly see that you are disappointed, I can definitely see that. You and I have a bond that’s like a little bird. I fear it might die if I hold it tightly, also, I don’t know how loosely should I hold it to keep it content so that it doesn’t fly away. Being a storyteller, I have always nourished an inward wish of being someone’s story. You fulfilled that wish. Though I never expect that. We can hardly be someone’s story. We never had direct conversations, but the bond that we have is so spiritual that it transcends everything. I don’t want to mar it with my corporal presence. Let it be left to imagination. Just think that I am reincarnation of your lost son. Maybe, it isn’t the perfect word in this context but, you know what I mean. Let things be left to imagination. I am too greedy to lose my second mother.
I want to wish Arush a very happy birthday. I hope he is safe and happy. In your last letter, you had told me that he would plant a Carnation plant every birthday. I request you to open the gift that I sent you. It’s a Carnation plant. Please revive your garden. Raise the plant like you raised Arush. That’s how Arush will stay alive among us.
With the hues of the flowers and the quill of my heart I’ll definitely keep on painting letters to you.
I am writing to you for the first time. Maybe, Arush’s handwritng was way better, but I hope mine isn’t too bad.
Love always
Your Sun, Pritish
With the tears in her eyes, Mrinalini laughs out loud.
“Arush’s writing would resemble the gait of a cockroach soaked in ink,” says Mrinalini.
“Mom! Tea!” Pritish wakes up the next day with a voice as fresh as the one he had on his first day in studio. Pritish is surprised by his voice.