Friday 20 December 2013

কোনও অজানা কবির লেখা

"দিয়েছি তাকে - নিয়েছে সব - মেটেনি তার ক্ষুধা
সে আছে এক জন্ম ভিখারিনী
দু'হাত পেতে রয়েছে আজও, অনির্বচনীয়
চিকুর মেলে সুদূরে নন্দিনী

প্রথমে তাকে দিয়েছি ঠোঁট তবুও বলে চাই
নিবিড়তম পাতা সে অঞ্জলি
অতঃপর ছিলায় টান ধনুকে জুড়ি শর
দু'চোখ আমি উপড়ে তুলে আনি

দিলাম তাকে - শ্রবণ দিয়ে বধির হয়ে যাই
বাড়িয়ে তবু সোনালি হাতখানি
শ্রবণহীন অন্ধতায় ভাষণহীন আমি
সূর্য ফোটে ফুলেরা অবিকল
তখনও তার সম্প্রসার দীর্ঘায়িত হাত -
এবারে দাও আত্মা থেকে জল।"

 

The trick of Blogging

So, now I know. Here is, what it is. The *secret* of unveiling the writer in you!! Read on...


You need to make a page.

You need to tell your mind, it's yours.

You need to call it a  friend.

You need to trust the page.

No matter who visits and who never minds, You need to come back to it. Always.

Tell it all your stories, your thoughts.

Give it a piece of your mind. If possible, regularly.




And thus, slowly, eventually, your mind will start talking to it. Your thoughts will start taking a shape in words.

They will create. A Blog will be formed. A writer will be born...

See, I got it!

:)

মৃত্যু

একধাপ দুধাপ করে নেমে আসছি আমি
খাদের খাড়া পথ
অতলান্ত অন্ধকার।

স্বল্প পরিসর
ঘাড় তলার চেষ্টা নেহাতই বৃথা
ফুসফুস নিংড়ে অক্সিজেনের তৃষ্ণাটা
ক্রমশই অসহ্য হয়ে উঠছে।

চাইছি ভুলে যেতে
প্রাণপণে ঠেলে সরিয়ে দিচ্ছি যত পুরনো স্মৃতি
মিথ্যে সব!

আর,
সেই বিস্মৃতির গভীর থেকে
বিচ্ছুরিত হচ্ছে এক চুম্বকের তীব্রতা
আমাকে টেনে নামাচ্ছে
নীচে, আরো নীচে,
আরো আরো নীচে।

মনটা একটু একটু করে গুঁড়িয়ে
একমুঠো ধুলো।

প্রতিরোধ সব অবশ হয়ে এলো
বাকশক্তি বাকি নেই আর
দৃষ্টি ফ্যাকাশে
নিঃশ্বাস ক্ষীণ
স্পন্দন  নিঃশেষ

আমার অস্তিত্ব থেকে একটা একটা করে প্রতিটা অণু-পরমাণু
নিষ্প্রাণ, নিস্তেজ হয়ে খসে পড়ছে।

আর,
দু ফোঁটা, মাত্র দু ফোঁটা গরল
শান্তিদূত হয়ে -
আমার জীবনে জীবন্ত থেকে জীবন্ততর হয়ে উঠছে।


 

আদিমতায়

মন থেকে আজ ছিঁড়ে যাক মনন
ওষ্ঠ থেকে যত ভাষা
দেহ থেকে খসে পড়ুক আবরণ
বেঁচে থাকা থেকে সরে দাঁড়াক সমাজ
ছাদটা উড়ে চলে যাক
লুপ্ত হোক স্বজনতার ভিড়
আকাশ থেকে নির্বাসনে যাও, তুমি চাঁদ।

আজ,
একবার,
আদিম ভাবে বাঁচব।
 

শেষ সপ্তক > আঠারো

আমরা কি সত্যই চাই শোকের অবসান ?

   আমাদের গর্ব আছে নিজের শোককে নিয়েও ।

          আমাদের অতি তীব্র বেদনাও

                    বহন করে না স্থায়ী সত্যকে—

                       সান্ত্বনা নেই এমন কথায় ;

        এতে আঘাত লাগে আমাদের দুঃখের অহংকারে ।
..........

সকল অহংকারই বন্ধন ,

    কঠিন বন্ধন আপন শোকের অহংকার ।

         ধন জন মান সকল আসক্তিতেই মোহ ,

                  নিবিড় মোহ আপন শোকের আসক্তিতে ।


So brutally honest. So Tagore!

Thursday 19 December 2013

মাধবীলতা

আমি মাধবীলতা হতে চেয়েছিলাম। কেন জানি না। হয়তো অপরিণত ছিলাম, তাই। তাই মাধবীলতার কষ্ট, ওর একা একা যুদ্ধ করা, দিঘির মত চোখ, ওই অসম্ভব মনের জোর - এগুলো সব খুব রোমান্টিক লাগতো। মনে হতো, ভালবাসলে এইভাবেই ভালবাসতে হয়। এইভাবেই জীবনটা দিয়ে দিতে হয়। এইভাবেই নিজের কথা একদম না ভেবে অন্যজনের কথা ভাবতে হয়। আর এইতো সামান্য একটা জীবন। প্রাণপণে ভালবাসতে পারলে দেখতে দেখতে কেটে যাবে। আফসোস করার অবকাশ কোথায়?

Wednesday 18 December 2013

Jennifer

Every single time that I read Segal's "Love Story", I become Jennifer Cavilleri. No, true. I swear. I even compel myself to slow down, read not more than just a few pages a time, so that I can stay Jennifer for a longer time. I wish I could stay Jennifer, always.

Like, I want to be as smart, as no-nonsense, as she is. To have a reply at the end of my tongue, always. And, at the same time, tender.

"Hey, Jen..."
"Yeah?"
"Jen... what would you say if I told you..."
I hesitated. She waited.
"I think... I'm in love with you."
There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.
"I would say... you were full of shit."

I also have always wanted to make love like her.

"Jenny, for Christ's sake, how can I read John Stuart Mill when every single second I'm dying to make love to you?"
She screwed up her brow and frowned.
"Oh, Oliver, wouldja please?"
I was crouching by her chair. She looked back into her book.
"Jenny - "
She closed her book softly, put it down, then placed her hands on the sides of my neck.
"Oliver - wouldja please?"

And then, give in. Suddenly. Without logic and without preparation. Well, whatsoever!

"Who said anything about marriage?"
"Me. I'm saying it now."
You want to marry me?"
"Yes."
She tilted her head, did not smile, but merely inquired:
"Why?"
I looked her straight in the eye.
"Because," I said.
"Oh," she said. "that's a very good reason."

Oh, and my father and me!

"The bride speaks too?" he asked, almost as if this - of all things - might be the coup de grace.
"Phillip," said his daughter, "could you imagine any situation in which I would shut up?"
"No, baby," he replied, working up a tiny smile. "I guess you would have to talk."

And I wanted to conquer. Like her. Yes, even with mean means, like this:

"Are you jealous?" I asked straight out.
"No; I've got much better legs," she said.
"Can you write a brief?"
"Can she make lasagna?"
"Yes," I answered. "Matter of fact, she brought some over t Gannett House tonight. Everybody said they were as good a your legs."
Jenny nodded, "I'll bet."
"What do you say to that?" I said.
"Does Bella Landau pay your rent?" she asked.
"Damn," I replied, "why can't I ever quit when I'm ahead?"
"Because, Preppie," said my loving wife, "you never are."

These, and many things. Almost everything save for few, I guess.

And, even at thirty-two, I wait to die at twenty-five. Still.

"Would you please hold me very tight?" she asked.
I put my hand on her forearm - Christ, so thin - and gave it a little squeeze.
"No, Oliver," she said, "really hold me. Next to me."
I was very, very careful - of the tubes and things - as I got onto the bed with her and put my arms around her.
"Thanks, Ollie."

Those were her last words.


Well, I know it's an utterly stupid thought, and a ridiculously written out post. But I cannot help it.

And I am not saying sorry. Because,

Love means not ever having to say you are sorry.



PS: I know it's height of narcissism, but really, isn't it the best thing to happen to anyone? To be loved so, so much?

বাড়ি

তুমি এসো, এসে আমাকে নিয়ে যাও। বকো, মারো, কান ধরে দরজার বাইরে দাঁড় করিয়ে দাও, আর তারপর ডেকে নিয়ে অনেক, অনেক আদর করে দাও। অনেক। আমাকে রাজকন্যা বলে ডাকো। পরীদের গল্প বলে ঘুম পাড়িয়ে দাও। বলো, কাল আর অফিস যেতে হবেনা।

মন খারাপের কথা

কবিতা লিখতে ভুলে গেছি
ছবি আঁকতে ইচ্ছে করেনা
গল্পের বইয়ে মন বসছে না

আর কি কি হলে মৃত্যুটা সম্পূর্ণ হবে?
 

Book Journey - Big Apple 2 Bites, A novel of Love, 9/11 and Aikido

With a multitude of philosophical yet practical realisations at play, I am a little confused on where to start this essaying. So safe as it has always been, here comes a quote to set the onset. A sign-off at the end of one of those many letters that finally takes the theme of the story to its zenith.
 
"Yours truly in a false world,
Sen"

The story is about a young man, Sen as he is popularly called, and his journey through few brief years of his mid-prime. A young man on an onsite stint, his very practical take on his job and a rather impractical journey in love, and of the world called the United States as seen through his eyes.

But that is just the surface of it. And then, the story is also a dive into life, and with no escape. It dissects, explores and admits the ultimate truth of Dichotomy, Lies and make-beliefs that we live our lives on. The protagonist portrays, rather personifies, cynicism to an artistic level. And as the story unfolds, the author brings forth how layers of Lies and Truths interplay in life. As very rightly termed, it forms a state of "confused convictions".

The reading, or rather the ride, can be best described as a set of complex realisations. It strips your mind off the everyday hypocrisies, it pulls you by your inner conscience to face, finally, you own self. It asks you what you really wanted and tells what you denied yourself. But then, it trivializes; it relieves you of the weight. It says, perhaps, that nothing matters at the end. That - yes, we succumb, but that's acceptable. It threatens, and then it comforts. It exposes how shallow, meaningless it is to do what we all do all day every day, and how our lives are being wasted. But it then refrains from glorifying the other end. It warns of losing balance, a balance finely defined by the rules of lies that we live our lives with. Confused? Convincingly? Then, take this -

"Take my case. I make a very decent living selling processes to companies - a nauseating, dull way of making money full of loads and load of dhop one has to go through each day. But, why do I do it? Because I am not prepared to stand in a queue to get my single bucket of water for having a bath."

Scarily similar to you and me, no?

BUT. Then comes where I slightly disagree, as the protagonist goes on to say:

"And if I were born in this country, I would have loved to be a librarian... some job like that where you can literally spend your life among books. Because I know, even as a low wage earning professional, I would have a decent life. With my basic necessities satisfied."

Makes sense, and yet it doesn't. At least, not until we have defined these apparently juvenile terms like "decent life" and "basic necessities". Rather as we all know, the problem is not in defining them, but to remain content and constant at those definitions as you journey through your life. I know, I know, I sound like a cynic. Perhaps a little more than Sen himself. But then, for argument's sake, is everyone in the West content with their choices in life, huh? :)

Coming back to the novel.

I loved how the author has tried to ease up, if not simplify, our perspectives around the day-to-day complexities of work-life. I am happy that he did not resort to doing that also for our day-to-day non work-life. Of the matters of heart, and of friendships. Which, again that a cynic that I am, is perhaps meant only for a relief, not a reality, right?

I particularly liked the way 9/11 has been treated. Compassion, and at the same time, from a respectful distance. Something that as outsiders, we perhaps would never understand, even though we could be physically around the place incidentally around the same time. I did not understand much, but also liked, how Aikido has been explained and related back to nuances of life.

I loved how Hope has been weaved in, in this apparently cynic take on life. How, even as an escape, it helps to believe, that there is, indeed, another world, somewhere. There, things could be easier, truer. The quantum physics theory of multiple universes. Like Sen says in his letter to Allison,

"I will be glad just to fantasise that in some other parallel universe, chances were more in our favour."

And then signs off with -

"Yours in a parallel Universe,
Sen"


Semi-finally, what I loved a lot in the style of writing is the second-person narration. Unique, enjoyable, and seemed to optimise the distance and familiarity between the author and his protagonist. It's like sort of knowing a person at arm's distance, reading all his thoughts and expressions and yet not getting into the skin. Perfect. It seemed to act as conscience at times, too.

Finally, the humour content. I think it won't be an exaggeration to say that if philosophy is one pillar in this, humour is the other, just as strong. And each, without being balanced out by the other would not cook up the recipe that it is. . The humour is subtle and apt. It does not distract. It only helps to put things in perspective. In fact, without the humour, the reality the author drags us to face could have been too stark to stand. It also helps us to think that many things can be stood, bore, self-admitted and lived with, if we present them to ourselves in the light of humour.

Life is too serious to be talked about seriously, no? :)

And then, I come to my takeaway.

At the cost of simplifications, let's give it a shot. Well, Dichotomy (or rather Confusion), in short, is the problem we have to live with. There is no one answer to anything. Dichotomy remains the only reality, and there is hardly a way we can flee. And hence, as I personally conclude, detachment, possibly, is then the only answer! Laugh it away, that is.

Oh, and the "Corporate-cosmic chi of dhop". Classic!

As I sign-off, here is another of the many quotable lines that stays with me as I close on the last page of this pleasurable journey.

"In all this falsehood, there are moments when you wonder whether there is anything that is true in this world, anything not shrouded by the cloak of counterfeit. And when you do experience something that's true, you are afraid of it... It's almost too pure to survive."


Thursday 24 October 2013

Everyone around seems to make babies, and recently I made one too…

This has also been published at World of Moms! and a magazine.


Everyone around seems to make babies. Those who sleep and eat on the open roadside make them in dozens. And what’s the big deal – they’ll grow up only to become another you or another me, or worse still, another of that guy who we together spent hours cursing at. Yes babies are cute, we love to cuddle them but isn’t that true for a puppy as well for that matter..?. so, what’s so special?

Cross-roads

Once an angel came in my dreams. She asked me to choose. Between a certain road and a certain pathway.


-      So, describe them to me.
(I demanded.) 

-      Well, the road is defined. Clean, wide, demarcated. It has iron railings on the sides, which says that you could be cornered but you will still be saved. But, in case you want to reach out to the world across the railings, well, the railings are too high for that. The road has signage, that would tell you which way to go. It may at times even give you an option. But in most cases, the options would lead to similar roads.


The pathway, on the contrary, is mystic. It does not show you much from a distance. It can therefore only be travelled, not guessed.

Home Coming I

He was nothing she had once asked for. Rather, he was many things that she dreaded. At least, it seemed so, when they first met.

Like, she spent a fortune at the salon to do her toe nails every fortnight. He was a declared broke.

She learnt Salsa for six months, diligently, in view of the impending new-year bash at some high-end café which was the talk of town. He, well, wrote poetries.

She would never roll down her car’s window panes. She normally had meetings through the work-day and would be touching up the slides on her way to office, in case she is not driving herself. He always walked down the streets.

There, she was. And there, he was.

And then one day, it rained. Well, you may say, it rains every year. Yes, it does, every year and around the same time. But this time, it was February. So as you know, something was different.

Like, on her way back, she stepped out of her car and into the rain, while her home was still a few blocks away. She stepped out with her belongings, whatever she carried with her on a normal working day. She then did something funny.


She carefully laid out her laptop bag on the pavement. As if, it needed to soak in the water-drops as much as she seemed to need them at that moment. On the surface of the bag, she put her month-old touchscreen phone. This, in short, was a “neighbours’ envy, owner’s pride” stuff, which could easily exchange for a second-hand four-wheeler that lesser households proudly possess.

She then let her pink satin scarf adorn the neck of the youngest of the three beautiful dark children that were playing in the rain on the roadside. The baby girl soaked in the pink of it. The girl smiled back a smile only angels can pull off.

She watched keenly, as the middle one ran back to his make-shift hut to keep back the gift he just earned from her. This was, well, her wallet. She didn’t forget totally that the wallet still housed her credit cards, driving license, and other things that are not easy to make up for. The thought of letting them go gave her a kind of peace she never knew.

For the eldest of the three, she just had a tight hug. She held the girl as if she would never let her go. The twelve year old girl, bewildered, could not really make out the reason. However, it seemed that she loved it the most among the three.

And finally, she turned back. There he was. Across the road, in a vision of a straight line, a vision only interrupted by the traffic that glazed through the rain. She walked up her way to him. This, though of a distance that would hardly measure a few meters, seemed like a journey best described as eternity.

The traffic had stopped, she did not. She had a smile on her face which, if her mother could see, would remind her of how she felt the first time she held her, years back when she was born to her.

He did not move an inch. She reached him, instead. And then he said something that changed her life forever. Welcome home!

Saturday 8 June 2013

শুভ মহরৎ

প্রথমেই বলে রাখা উচিত, আমার মতে ঋতুপর্ণ র সৃষ্টির নিরিখে “শুভ মহরৎ” একটি মধ্যমানের  সিনেমা। আগে একবার দেখেছিলাম, কিছুটা  কম বয়সে । স্মৃতি বলতে কাস্টিং , মার্ডার–মিস্টরি প্লট, ত্রিকোণ প্রেম, আর “জীবন মরণে”-র আশ্চর্য ব্যবহার ছাড়া বিশেষ কিছু ছিল না। সত্যি কথা  বলতে, ভদ্রলোক মারা গেছেন বলেই যে আবার করে দেখতে বসলাম, তা অস্বীকার করা যায়না।
 
বলাই বাহুল্য, নতুন করে আবিষ্কার করলাম। সর্বোপরি, আবিষ্কার করলাম আমাদের চারিদিকে পড়ে থাকা, অথবা অযত্নে পিছনে ফেলে আসা, আপাত তুচ্ছ চোখ-এড়ানো ঘটনা বা সম্পর্কগুলিকে।

যৌথ পরিবার, বিয়ে করে আসা নতুন কাকিমা, ছোট্ট জোজোর “মামণি”। সদ্য-চেনা পৃথিবীতে দুজনে দুজনের সবচেয়ে কাছের মানুষ। আবার অপর দৃষ্টিভঙ্গিতে, এই কাকিমা এক অত্যন্ত সফল ও জনপ্রিয় অভিনেত্রী, এবং বেশ কিছু বছর পরবর্তী জীবনে একজন ধন-সমৃদ্ধা, গর্বিতা, এক্সট্রাভ্যাগান্ট একজন ভদ্রমহিলা। কিন্তু আদরের জোজোর কাছে কিন্তু, আজও, সে মামণিই, যে তার হাতেখড়ির দিন তিনশজন লোক খাইয়েছিলেন। তারপর, মামণির যখন নিজের ছেলে হল, জোজোর তখনকার বয়েসের সেই ভীষণ অভিমান। আর তারপর, দ্বিতীয় প্রেমের সুত্রে মামণির বিবাহ-বিচ্ছিন্নতা, আমেরিকা চলে যাওয়া। “মামণি আমাকে এত ভালবাসত, চলে যাওয়ার পর একটা চিঠিও কি লিখতে নেই?” – আজকের প্রায়-তিরিশের জোজোর গলাটা ধরে আসে, নেহাতই ছেলেমানুষের মত। আর তাই-ই, সে পেশাগত দায়ে মামণির সিনেমার শুভ-মহরৎ পার্টিতে ছবি তুলতে যায় ঠিকই, কিন্তু মামণির একক ছবি বা সাক্ষাৎকার আজও মাথা নিচু করে এড়িয়ে চলে।

 
রাঙাপিসিমার কথা কিই বা বলবো।  “মাসিমা, মালপো খামু।“ বা শরৎচন্দ্রীয় “আমার মাথা খাও, আর দুটো ভাত খাও।” গোছের যাবতীয় স্বভাব বা মানসিকতাকে অস্বীকার না করেও সে আপন মহিমায় স্বনির্ভর অথচ নিবিড়। অতি অল্প বয়েসে বিধবা, সুপুরি-জাঁতি-পানের-ডিবে, পাড়ার গ্রন্থাগার, আর হরিদাসী বেড়াল ও তার সন্তান-সন্তানাদি নিয়ে মা-মেয়ে-নাতি-নাতনীদের  ভরা সংসার। তিনি তাঁর পোয়াতি বিড়ালকে যত্ন করে মাছ রেঁধে খাওয়ান, ঠিক যেভাবে আর পাঁচটা মা তাঁদের মা-হতে-চলা মেয়েকে আদরে-যত্নে ভরিয়ে রাখেন।  রাঙাপিসিমার মা-ষষ্ঠীর সংসারে ভাইঝি মিলি হল নবতম সংযোজন। সে এক উঠতি সাংবাদিক। মেয়ে সিগারেট খায়, তো খাক না? কিন্তু বাথরুমে কেন, ঘরে বসেই খাক। এ হেন রাঙাপিসিমার কিন্তু একটাই শর্ত, ভালবেসে থাকো, কিন্তু আমার ওপর “চোপা” করা চলবেনা। স্রেফ এই কারণেই কিনা বিধবা মানুষ এত যত্নে নিজের একান্ত সংসারটুকু একা আলাদা করে পেতেছেন! এবং, অবধারিত ভাবেই, যুবতী ভাইঝিটির প্রেমে পরা “ছোকরা”-দের কিন্তু রাঙাপিসিমার সাথেই নির্ভেজাল আড্ডা দেওয়া, ছেলেবেলার গল্প, যাবতীয় মানসিক আদান-প্রদান।


আর বুদ্ধি? সেই নিয়েই তো সিনেমা, সেই নিয়েই তো আসল রাঙাপিসিমা। “শনিবারের মড়া, দোসর না নিয়ে কি যাবে?” দ্বিতীয় খুনটির ঠিক আগেই! পেশাদার গোয়েন্দার মতনই তুখোড় বুদ্ধি, অবিশ্বাস্য বিশ্লেষণ-ক্ষমতা ও যুক্তিবোধ, সূক্ষ্মাতিসূক্ষ্ম পর্যবেক্ষণ, স্থিতধী, অবিচল।


যতক্ষণ না, নেহাতই ভুলবশে, বিষাক্ত খাবার আরেকটু হলে গিয়ে পড়ছিল আস্তাকুঁড়ে, যেখানে হরিদাসী বা পাড়ার আর পাঁচটা অবোলা জীবজন্তুর অবাধ আনাগোনা। গোটা সিনেমায় সেই প্রথম, ও একমাত্রবার,  রাঙাপিসিমার বিচলতা, আশঙ্কা, ও আর্তনাদ। কি না,  গতবছরও তাঁর হরিদাসীর কয়েকটি বাচ্চা হয়েছিল, একদিন সবকটা উধাও হয়ে গেল, আর ফিরল না। পরেরদিন কাঠ হয়ে যাওয়া শরীরগুলোকে জমাদারের ময়লার গাড়িতে তুলে দিয়েছিল ঠিকে কাজের মেয়ে। প্রতিবেশীর ফেলে রাখা ইঁদুর মারা বিষ। শুনে, সদ্য প্রতিশোধ নেওয়া ছেলে-হারানো-মা, জোড়া খুন করে ওঠা এবং সকলের চোখ এড়িয়েও রাঙাপিসিমার কাছে ধরা পড়ে যাওয়া মানুষটি অসহায় আর্তনাদে বলে ওঠে - আপনি তাঁদের কিছু বললেন না? রাঙাপিসিমার তাঁর স্বভাবসিদ্ধ শান্ত ভঙ্গিতে উত্তর দেন -  কি হবে? যে গেছে সে কি আর ফিরে আসবে!


বিদায়ের সময় প্রিয় অভিনেত্রিকে রাঙাপিসিমার সহজ অনুরোধ – একটা অটোগ্রাফ দেবেন? এর কিছু মুহূর্ত পরে, অভিনেত্রী তখন আত্ম- বিশ্লেষণে, অপরাধ বোধে, বা অন্য কোন চেতনায়, নিজেই নিজেকে কঠোর শাস্তিতে গভীর ঘুম পাড়িয়ে দিয়েছেন, আর রাঙাপিসিমার অনুরোধের অটোগ্রাফটি তাঁর ঘর থেকে ডাকঘরের লাল গাড়ি করে পাড়ি দিয়েছে। হঠাৎই, একটা রাস্তার কুকুর এসে পড়ে চাকার তলায়, আর ড্রাইভার পরম যত্নে গাড়িটা থামিয়ে কুকুরটাকে বাঁচিয়ে আবার স্পীড তোলে জীবনের পথে।


প্রতিশোধ আর ক্ষমা, অথবা উপেক্ষা, প্রতিহিংসা অথবা তার নিষ্ফলতা,  জীবনের প্রতি এই শ্রদ্ধা, সহমর্মিতা বা আকুতি - ভেবে পাচ্ছিনা শেষ কবে কে দেখিয়েছে, এতটা সহজ করে?



অন্য আরেকটা দিক তুলে ধরি। দুজন স্বল্পবয়সী যুবক, একজন স্বল্পবয়সী যুবতীর প্রেমে পড়েছে। একজন সুপুরুষ, স্মার্ট, কেতাদুরস্ত, সফল, আই-পি-এস অফিসার। অন্যজন, এক-কামরা ঘরে থাকে, গালভরা দাড়ি, ফতুয়া-জিন্স, ভারি গলায় চমৎকার গান গায়, আর ছোটবেলার কথা বলতে গিয়ে গলা বুজে আসে। প্রথমজনের সাথে প্রাথমিক মন দেওয়ানেওয়ার পর্ব শেষ। মেয়েটি এক আন্তরিক মুহূর্তে অপর ছেলেটিকে জিগ্যেস করে – এক সাথে কি দুজনকে ভালোবাসা যায়না? মুখচোরা ছেলেটি করুণ চোখ তুলে হাসে - তার পরিণতি? অমোঘভাবে ঘনিয়ে আসে রবীন্দ্রনাথ। ছেলেটার উদাত্ত কণ্ঠ আর গভীর ভালবাসা যেন সেই প্রবল নিরাশাকে ছাপিয়ে সুর খুঁজে পায় –

"জীবন মরণ সীমানা ছাড়ায়ে, বন্ধু হে আমার, রয়েছ দাঁড়ায়ে।"



আরেকটি ছোট্ট মুহূর্তর কথা না বললেই নয়। ভাইঝি-রাঙ্গাপিসির এক অতি-স্বাভাবিক সাংসারিক ঠোকাঠুকি, নেহাতই এক মুহূর্তের। ভাইঝি বলল – আমার জন্য আর কোনদিন লুচি ভেজোনা, প্লিজ। রাঙ্গাপিসি বলল– আমার তোকে দরকার নেই, যেখানে যাবি যা। আবহে এক হৃদয় টুকরো করা সুর –  “আজ আমাদের ছুটি রে ভাই, আজ আমাদের ছুটি। আ হা হা হা হা।“
 
ঠিক এইখানেই ঋতুপর্ণ ঋতুপর্ণ। আর ঠিক এইখানেই, রবীন্দ্রনাথের গান।




মার্ডার- প্লট হিসেবে দুর্বল গল্প? হোক না!

Wednesday 5 June 2013

Rituparno and the 30th day of May:

"I will be going far away. Can I leave a little bit of me with you?" - Memories of March.

As I woke up this morning, I switched off my phone alerts so that I could finish off something wishful that sat on my To-Do's for a few months. When the landline urgently called for me, it had to be something. And what?

...."Who, come again? What? No, can't be. Can you please check again. Are you sure? You must have heard it wrong. What rubbish, no way! Just not done!"....is how the conversation went, with Ma on the other end.

And here I sit, at my office desk but nowhere near it inside my mind. It's been 7 hours now, and I am still as shell shocked as those first few minutes after the news. And I have not been able to think a second thing yet, since that hour.

I have rehearsed in my mind few times already, to go tell my boss (who happens to be an ex-pat, and nice) that I can't work today, that if I could go home early, as someone very close has died. But I can not bring myself to it, dreading if I were to explain it any further?

Memories and images relentlessly cross my mind. And dialogues. Lyrics. Snippets, words, letters. I start a blank document (and a blank stare), scribble, shift-delete, start again, control-alt-delete, come down the escalator to a floor I never visited (some other company), come back, hover around the coffee-machine for a while until it turns rude to not smile at those several faces, fidget continuously for hours together, and finally surrender to my office notebook-pen finding that remotest corner of the dining hall to my respite. Here, that dying need to express, to not wait for the time when my mind would be any saner.

No, I don't get any where, and the pieces of paper end up in my bin under my office-desk. But I wanted to hold on to the moment, keep some reference, keep some connect with the immense loss which I suffered that moment. So, very uselessly, here are a few scribbles I posted during the day on the social-hooking page:

..."Few deaths bring a lump in the throat and utter disbelief in the mind. Finding words to express this grief is impossible. Just, apart from his supreme intellect and sensibility, I'd miss having a film director who'd understand and portray women like he did. 
You'll stay with me, Sir. Through Jhinuk (Dohon) "jar onyo naam Joan of Ark", and through many more of your ladies who I want to be!"

(an hour later)
..."And I still have to wear my make-up, put on my lipstick and leave for work. And wear a smile. Like nothing happened! Like, if at all, its just a news.
Few priceless things life takes away from you when your hometown does not have a job worth holding you back."


..."Can you cut the crap, please, dear Bengali news channels?"
(No, of course they did not. They continues to interview and chase everyone who weren't exactly in the mood to use the moment to their propaganda, and continued to focus the camera on the broken and discoloured window panes of the neighborhood of where he breathed his last.)

..."Having a soliloquy in my mind ever since the news struck. It takes a day like this to figure out things important in life. I never realised what I realise now. Like, I thought I prevented anyone else influence me on Tagore than he himself, till Gaaner Opare happened in my life. Till I watched Chokher Bali and discovered the layers that that man left only for few genius like you to unfold."

..."At least till the day we would not discriminate Chitrangada's two facets as Kurupa and Surupa, we needed a man like you to sail us through in this big bad world. And now, without you, that day moves further away.
Rituparno Ghosh, you were one feminist I had counted on."
(URL: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AYLAFnuOiA)

(Last one, at 2 am in the night)
..."I hope I get up tomorrow morning and discover today was just a bad dream."

(Sorry, for spamming. A part of me tells me it's not something I can share, how-much-so-ever I try! But I'll try. I'll try something better next time.)

Tuesday 28 May 2013

Durga Puja to the unaware..

Now, strange things happen at times at most habitual moments. Like when they asked you to tell them "something about yourself" at your first job interview, and you looked blank. You did not know, until then, how difficult it could be to be asked to summarise your own self, in precise words and well-formed sentences, conclusively and sufficiently! When confronted with casual curiosity, or even courtesy-calls, on something so damn close to you that you've grown up to belong to it or to be it yourself, it really gets bad. You do not know where to start, what to carefully keep aside, what is just yours and not for the world to know, and what preciseness of the reply would fit the bill right, that is, to leave your audience engaged and pleased and to still be honest and at it. I know I am getting too gibberish for you to keep on reading this piece, especially in a season where you've so much to otherwise, so apologies. Give me a chance to defend. I'm just back from a very sudden going-total-blank-at-a-most-obvious-question situation at the office. I was apparently asked one simple question - "What is Durga Puja?"




And as I said already, I went blank. They, hopefully, took my long silence and inward desperation for search of word empathetically, though they would not know how difficult it is for a inside-out Bong to attempt to explain that to them at just one go, without fumbling at words, soul searching on which version she herself believes in and which she should put across to them, and how much not to say knowing they just would not understand.










Someone suggested - Bengalis wear new clothes on each day of Durga Puja, no? I nodded, yes! I did not know how I almost instantly lost myself in thoughts of how as a kid I used to get new clothes from most distant relatives they cannot even imagine, how my Mom used to start drawing up her Puja shopping list and budgets months in advance and flag-up the money number to Dad every other day, of course with newer (and higher) quotes every time. And how with splitting kitchens, piling up priorities and growing so-called inconveniences, it first reduced to money-gifts ("Boudi, please ask Tua to buy something of her choice!") and then to, cancelling out (You know, kids are getting old. And they have such a lot already!) Today, my daughter gets her Puja clothes just from her closest kin, her parents and my parents, albeit in multiples!... Before I could gather myself back to tell them how many clothes I earned myself on average as a kid, they were already at their second guess. "Raam ne Durga Puja kiya tha na, Raavan-vadh se pehle?" O yes, very true. Oh but am I not an atheist? Who cares! But that count of hundred-and-eight blue lotuses, and that Raam offered his one eye to replace the lost lotus, on a playful test of his dedication.. Among the stories I have grown up with, my Granny humming them while putting me to sleep every night. But before they take another dig, I had to blurt out something. I AM the Bong, isn't it? You know, I said, the entire city comes to a stop on this event, for all four-to-five days. Offices, schools, everything, may be just other than emergency support functions. Eyes with disbelief.. Never mind, I continue. You know, the kind of money they spend on each community Puja.. The idols later sell as art pieces at big museums.. And I hear art college students these days make a decent living just out of Durga Puja productions.. They just work towards these 4 days the whole year and it pays them off well enough. Ah.. I could see my audience are fidgeting, losing engagement. But I could not leave Durga Puja at this, it's criminal. So, after a hasty thought I add - actually, all said and done, it is really a ten days' long ritual about a daughter coming home. Mahalaya marks the day when the father sets out to bring the daughter home from her in-law's, over the last five days of ten we celebrate the homecoming of the daughter with her children (and pets), and finally on the last day she sets out on her return journey. So really, Durga Puja symbolises the annual homecoming of married daughters to their father's home.



I thought I had just said enough and no more, when the inevitable had to come. In shape of a most innocent query -


"So, are you not going home?"