Shome Dasgupta
It’s six in the evening, and on the curve of the road, there’s a bit of sunlight which blinds my focus—I don’t wear sunglasses, and I’m afraid of people who cover their eyes with them; I think it’s because I feel like everyone looks meaner when they have them on. I can’t see, and I’m hoping for the best as the car’s visor is too small for its purpose.
During this spit of time while I drive, a myriad of flashbacks waver, I’m thinking about playing in the golden grass and gleam of the front yard, with my brother, plucking carrot flowers and putting them behind our ears like we were forest creatures. I’m thinking of how ten or so years later, when I was a teenager in high school, my brother introduced me to Neutral Milk Hotel, and driving around listening to “King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. One” on repeat, or in my room, at my desk, in a daze from such harmonious blends of instrument and lyrics.
As the curve continues and the sunshine glitters the windshield, I pass the same dead frog on the road from earlier that morning, and I’m back in the car with my brother and his friend after a Tori Amos concert—the night felt darker, and there was a chill outside; the friend rolled down the window, and I smelled the smoke of a cigarette for the first time, or rather, it was the first time I realized its purpose when Jeremy Enigk’s “Carnival,” from Return of the Frog Queen, came on the CD player: my brother quiet, his friend, too—only moving rocking his head and swirling his arms as the whips of smoke venture in and out of the car.
Carnival—now I’m remembering a fair—my mom, brother, and I riding a Ferris wheel, round and round and round we go just like Radiohead’s “Morning Bell,” a band I first heard while in London when my brother first bought the cassette for The Bends, leading me to follow the path of this band’s albums, peaking from OK Computer to Kid A, especially—night driving, entranced by that particular song, turning the volume up higher and higher each time it came on, the music fireworks in my mind.
I’m reaching the end of the curve—there’s hope I’ll make it while driving without sight, and I squint and tilt my head, and say a short prayer while I vaguely recognize the oak covered in moss near the pond. Usually, there is a batch of turtles huddling around the circular drain in the middle of the water—I’m hoping they are there as I’m passing by with my dreams.
There and here—when I was in rehab, during nightly phone time, once each day, sometimes twice if another spot opened, I spoke to my brother who had moved away years ago, states away to the northwest. I remembered his number off memory, a seemingly small skill I hadn’t used in years, and during the first time we talked, I told him, in tears, that I wished that he was there with me. He told me that he wished that he was there with me as well, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had cried while talking to him. I could remember, however, when he gave me Papa M’s Whatever, Mortaland listening to “Glad You’re Here With Me,” a song about humanity and perspective and forgiveness, and how at that point, all that I could ask for was forgiveness and another chance at life. I am glad that he’s my brother—he’s my brother.
I’ve made it past the curve—all is clear, the sun is there, and now it’s gone, and I’ve passed a house where I once saw a rabbit. A long slender tree with moss is visible, and I close my eyes for just a second, and for just a second, I feel invisible, like I’m nowhere around. When I open them again, I think about getting a pair of sunglasses, maybe—maybe, they can keep me hidden in a world not meant for me to be seen, but there’s calling and a calling, and there’s my brother, calling me on the phone, and isn’t it nice, to hear the music of his voice when I’m thinking that I’m not here.
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Shome Dasgupta is the author of the novel The Seagull And The Urn (HarperCollins India), and most recently, a prose collection Histories Of Memories (Belle Point Press), a short story collection Atchafalaya Darling (Belle Point Press), and a poetry collection Iron Oxide (Assure Press). His writing has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Emerson Review, New Orleans Review, Jabberwock Review, American Book Review, Arkansas Review, Magma Poetry, and elsewhere. He lives in Lafayette, LA and can be found at www.shomedome.com and @laughingyeti.