A House Of Rain And Snow: An Ode To Forgotten Era & Familiarity

A House of Rain and Snow is an ode to a forgotten era. The story seeks to document the life of a young poet desperately searching for his place in the world. The poet finds solace in the form of a milkwood tree and lets this tree in on all the secrets to his life, and we’re witness to his journey.

Below is an excerpt from the book A House of Rain and Snow, written by Srijato Bandopadhyay, translated by Maharghya Chakraborty, and published by Penguin Random House India.

An Excerpt

‘Do you know, just because you are here, I can come and tell you everything that’s on my mind. If you had not been there, I would never have known that I had so much to say, that even I wanted to talk to someone. If we had never met, I would have never known that. I have never been to a church, but I have heard all churches have a confessional. Do you know that? As in, do you know what that is? A small box within which a priest sits and there’s a curtain drawn over it. From the other side of the curtain anyone can come and confess their crimes, their sins. It’s meant to ease one’s burden, to make one feel lighter.

From the other side, the priest advises a way to seek mercy, to turn over a new leaf. I don’t go to a church, I come to you instead. You are my only confessional. There are no curtains here, neither are they required. That you can hear me is in itself a huge deal. And I can comprehend your responses too, which is why I keep coming back. Only those who have committed a crime, who have done something wrong, is it only those people who need to confess? Tell me. 

Those who love, they need it too, don’t they? Those who write poetry or sing songs or dabble in theatre, even those who survive without any of these things, they need it too. Don’t they? For me, that is how you are. See how I come here from so far? Often these autos refuse to come, and I have to take multiple autos and it costs more, it’s inconvenient. But I still come here. The schooldays were best, you were just two stops away and I could walk over if I wanted to. I could make up some story at home to explain why it takes me so much time to get back from school. Not that anyone really asked.

Most evenings, Baba was at work and Ma in her music class, leaving me to get back home, lock myself in and lie down in bed. I used to think. One can’t be sure what I used to think about exactly . . . just whimsical things. Even now I think every day, though I’m still not sure about what. But do you know, I love it? I believe I would want nothing else if I am allowed to just think. If it were a real job, I would be the first to get it. The only problem then would be that I would have to think on someone else’s command. Now I am free to think whatever I want. As I was saying, I would talk to you, get back home and lie in bed, on some days with my hand resting on my diary of poems. I would think back on our conversation that particular afternoon, only to be suddenly reminded of something I had forgotten to tell you that day. 

The next day, I would visit you again just to tell you what I had missed. Now my college is on the opposite route and that’s a problem. It takes me so long to come here that I hardly get to catch a glimpse of you in the bright sunlight. And yet I come, and I will continue to turn up. Do you know why? Because I believe everyone needs a confessional, at least one, their entire life. Its nature might change over time, but it needs to be there. Or else it is impossible to carry all these thoughts around, one would get no work done.

When it all seems too heavy, when there are too many things that need to be said, it gives me comfort knowing you are here. That I can come visit you whenever I want to and tell you whatever is on my mind. That you will be okay with it. And so, I come here even if it gets late, even if it’s past evening. Oh! See what I have done! I have only been talking about myself. How are you? Are you well?’

A breeze blows in from the direction of Sarovar, perhaps it’s best to call it a wind.

A light is switched on at the door of the library in the distance, and a group of fresh-faced youngsters step out on the road talking loudly.

A phuchka-seller brings down the red fabric-covered basket off his head and settles it on a tripod.

The sound of the shutters of the medicine shop going up in the next lane rings out for a considerably long time.

Someone goes by on a cycle, a radio tied to the handle where a song from Saajan can be heard. ‘Mera dil bhi kitna pagal hai . . .’ [How crazy my heart is . . .].

The Gulmohar tree on the other side of the road suddenly seems to power down, flowers included.