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?

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."

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!