Spectre of a story that vanished

"Stories can't be written. There have been many attempts and many failures. But no story have ever been written."

- Abbas Hasrat

My cousin Manjima is 14 years younger than me. Yet I get on pretty well with her. She is shy and taciturn. Yet, we used to have quality chat whenever we met. It was beginning of this century and everything around us was quickly changing.

I got married at the age of 27. Four days prior to the actual occasion, my uncle and aunt visited our place and Manjima was with them, too. In a black top and blue jeans she looked more grown-up and taller than she usually used to look like. We sat down for our lunch. It was Rice and Dal and Fish Curry.

By the way, she was going, at that time, to the same school that once I used go to in my childhood. Memory of schooldays, drifted into our conversation and as these things often go, we talked about random things in school. At this point she casually mentioned that Nilmoni Kahar is dead. It was cancer that got him. Then we moved on to more charming topics.

Next day, I went to some places to invite some more people. (We had already invited people more than necessary). As I was walking from Tobin Road to Bonhoogly without having seen a single rickshaw or autorickshaw (It was a hot summer noon), a commonplace idea visited me.

I thought about writing a story on deceased Nilmoni. This would be quite different from all the stories that I had written. There are so many of these new experiments going on in story-writing. A character like Nilmani, washed by memory and its dark holes, would fit wonderfully. I tried to gather in my mind all the memories of the person that I had and had not forgotten.

It'd be great to start with the funny reference of the Principal (Actually he was HeadMaster, but little changes would drive away boredom of truth) asking Nilmani in his distinctly nasal voice to ring the bell before morning prayer. We used to mimic that to make fun out of it. Remembering that I had smiled to myself and some of the passers-by had looked at me in curiosity. My destination was there only and the idea sank in my mind.

Next night, I had a dream (this story is becoming too dramatic) wherein Nilmani was trying to find out how my chemistry practical went (He was lab assistant, did I tell you that?). If dreams had memory then I'd've realized that that was indeed true. But I didn't. I enjoyed the dream like watching a cinema. I got quite emotional in fact at times realizing that it was not my exam that he cared for but myself .Everybody loved me...then. And that caring person is not there anymore. (Facts lurk behind the curtain in a dream.)