I remember the summer when I was nine. We were living in New Delhi then and had come back to our place in Kolkata for the vacations. The house held in its midst a joint family with disjoint relationships. As a child, I was aware of the pockets I could find joy in, and navigated my comfort zones accordingly. One of them was the company of an uncle who always doted on me. He’d take me out for walks in the evenings and buy me lozenges, lollipops and the like. It was during one of these strolls that we were idling outside a local grocery. I knew the grocer well, having raided his stock of sweets just the day before. He was shifting sacks of wheat on his shoulders and stopped midway to greet us. He came forward, stooped (down towards me ), and dusted his calloused hands while I watched the weightless grains of flour swirl in the orange sun rays. Then he pulled my pants down with a smile so convincing I could never have sensed indecency or inappropriateness. He took his time to play around and see how ‘big’ I’d grown while uncle smiled and complimented me in tandem. All it took to allay my discomfort was a huge bar of dark chocolate and a proud pat on the back.  As I came back and examined myself, I could see distinct patches of white dust on my skin. I did not have the vocabulary to process what I was feeling. So I did the only thing I could; I dusted it off. 

When it comes to words and the ability to use them, my arsenal is fuller now. But I often lose them, like I lose stationary at the time of need. So I listen to the silence and then form arguments in my head. And in doing so, I’ve found residues to be the best storytellers. Their presence (or absence thereof) is often testimony to what has just passed. The following episode took place a year after the aforementioned incident. We were back in Delhi, seeing the last year of my father’s transfer. I had just come back from school, taken a bath, and was hanging my towel on the scalding railings of the verandah, when I watched the sky take on an unnatural orange hue. The air was still, akin to the lull before a storm, but unlike the wet, fiery thunderstorms of Kolkata, not one cloud was in sight. I came back in, shut the door behind me and in a matter of minutes, the windows began rattling and grunting like dissatisfied beasts. A gush of dust and warm air started speeding through the gap under the door, and I covered my eyes while my mother plugged a cloth into the opening until the storm had passed. As soon as it did, I rushed downstairs to look for Binsa. She was our gatekeeper’s daughter who had just come from Mizoram, and had a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her wild streak could never contain her indoors and I knew that such a storm would be alien to her too. I went straight to her favourite hiding spot. But all I could find was a thick layer of dust around a spotless clearing on the floor- its size just enough to accommodate a little girl in a fetal position. I saw and played with her many times since, but something about her, since the storm, had always been amiss. 

In hindsight, I can only try to understand what she might have gone through. And while doing so, I’ve realised why I fail at articulating change. It’s the way I look at them- I always fixate on why something does not feel right. So, when we changed houses while I was in college, I had expected a surge of emotions to accompany the transition, but to my surprise, I wasn’t really upset. I had a separate room, two washrooms, and a big dining hall to look forward to. The joy of spatial privacy had overcome the loss of familiarity. Every Sunday, we’d make trips to our old house to sift through objects that were too small or personal for the packers and movers. There wasn’t a lot to find or keep. You see, we never had much room in our house for nostalgia. So, even though we had moved into a bigger place , I often found myself wishing for it to be crammed with memories. I had missed a few Sundays owing to my semester exams. When I finally went back after a month, dust had settled like a thin film of white cloth over a deceased body. I could not bring myself to blow it off and start digging afresh. Perhaps I knew deep down that there wasn’t much else to find, and that my last few trips had been more out of habit than purpose. It’s beautiful how dust finds a way of settling over everything that is left neglected, no matter how briefly. I had to let the house be. A few months later, we had an eager buyer who took it off our hands in a matter of weeks. I never said goodbye. 

I still can’t for that matter. I part ways like bubblegum does from paper wrappers – silently, but in a mess. I have always been a combination of lanky and tall. And because pairs of jeans come in waist sizes, the ones I wore were always too broad or too long. I had to fold them at the cuff to prevent them from getting soiled. Every time, before putting my jeans in the washing machine, I’d find traces of dust, sand, small stones, an occasional dry leaf, and once a cigarette stub even, accumulated inside the fold. The student I was teaching at that time  found it strangely amusing that ‘Sir’ had a circular pocket around his ankles. She did not know that folding was a lot of hassle. I’ve always been distant from children because I never knew how to connect with them. But with Nannu, I found an unprecedented level of comfort and ease. I never had to try. She was always content with my limited supplies of affection and care. I was to leave for Delhi soon and I remember our last class together. She was visibly flustered, slightly annoyed, and refused to meet my eye even though we sat directly across each other. We had made a poster of the solar system with an assortment of silver stars and glitter. I came back home to find a star lodged amidst the dust in the fold of my jeans. I’ll never know how it got there.

I never know how a lot of things make their way into debarred spaces. Perhaps, molecules are always in a state of mutiny. I’m not very fond of the way my bare feet feel on dirty marble floors, so I make it a point to sweep my room every day. Sometimes, when I’m lethargic, I put on slippers and it does the job. But I’m also a hypocrite. Every time I visit my maternal place in the village of Khedail, I find my feet soaking in the warmth, of kutcha floors and bare earth. I never wear shoes while I’m there. Does dust not collect on floors made of earth or in the garden around our house? Of course, it does. So why then does it feel natural in the countryside and a nuisance in the city? Why do I desist their presence in one space and yearn for it in another? Sometimes, when I think of coming home and all that I bring into that safe space, I realise that I always leave dust behind- on the footsteps, on the floor mat outside the door, in the air around the corridor, and on the shoe rack. I’ve never allowed it to cross that mark and when it does, I sweep it away to show it its place. Is this constant denial the reason why it always finds a way into the rooms even when they are completely shut? Did my deceit cause its dissent? 

I’m the kind of person who invariably takes his camera out on evening walks. To me, every sunset is different and beautiful in its own way. I clean the lens before taking a picture because dust settles on the glass, turning my images hazy. I find that funny, because the reason why sunsets are so picturesque in the first place, is because it is the dust in the air that disperses wavelengths of light, lending the sky such colourful hues. What obscures one image also paints another. I went to Birbhum a few months ago. I have a distant relative who lives near Barjora and I quite enjoyed the change of scene. After one of my evening walks, I sat at a tea stall and found myself in the company of a fellow poet. Over tea, he recited beautiful verses of poetry and I, in turn, confided in him my stories of dust. He listened to them intently, occasionally lighting up, and even clapped in amusement after. Before he left, we shook hands. And after doing so, I watched him pick up a yellow mining helmet from the side and walk away. It was only then that I remembered the black gradient on his arms and fingers and the jagged breathing when he spoke. Perhaps, in my excitement of good company, I had overwhelmed a man who already has too much dust inside him. 

I’ve always understood words to operate between the binaries of nouns and verbs. I use them as a means to an end. I rarely find them breaking free of these constraints and exist-without all the grammatical paraphernalia-as living, breathing, and independent entities. With dust, I have. I am always reminded of how dust is so much more than material scatter. Throughout my formative years and in the times since, it has arrived, entered, persisted and become part of my being-as a reflection of my state of mind, as silent revelation of trauma, as accumulation on passive surfaces, and as pervasive excess. I have a habit of running my hand along everything that is tangible. I do not believe- if I do not touch. And every time I do, I rub the tip of my index finger against my thumb. As I study what my skin collects, I cannot help but wonder that when it comes to dust, I find myself quite inadequate in its absence, and in its presence, perpetually anxious.