A Hateful tribute

Christmas Eve.

A few bells could still be heard at this hour of the night. It was cold, just like every December has been. The fireplace by the reading table provided a piercing solace in the darkness. He sat by it, pipe in his mouth, an old letter in his hand. It was a letter from one of the most acclaimed film-makers of his generation, praising him for changing cinema once and for all.  

Letters, he thought. How manipulative they can be.

The present age has deprived humanity of this imagery. But he did not belong to this age. In his mind he was a man of past, sent to the future to correct it. In reality, he was an aging man, with the first few steps over the line of his prime.
He put the letter down on the table; removed his pipe and stared at the ceiling.

"Hello Mr. Tarantino!"

Quentin sat up with a start. Any voice inside his house was an impossibility tonight. What he saw in front of him nearly choked him.

Standing  ahead was a deerstalker wearing, face covering, overcoat dangling figure with a smoking pipe. Shocked as he was by the presence of this intruder, Quentin reserved his poise and en-quired, "Who's this?"

"An immortal", came the reply. "And I've come to kill you."

Quentin rose halfway from his chair, "What the fuck!"

A gun came out swiftly into the hands of the figure from within the overcoat.
"Why don't you just calm down and relax, Mr. Tarantino. You and me have got a hell lot to talk about tonight."

The figure took a step closer, freezing the director on his chair. The gun came down on the letter. "You've got a nice place in here, sir. " The hat was removed, revealing a thick growth of hair. Then the face was introduced; bright eyes,a size 3 stubble, a long nose, smiling lips.

QT: "What's the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you?"

"I have disdain for people's stupidity or what they like to call lack of intelligence. But I take you for one of my kind. I will still let you answer who I am"

QT: Some crazy guy breaking into my apartment with a gun.

"Oh! Most of your deduction seems to be good except for me being crazy. But again, opinions like any other human tendencies have a right to exist. So, without further ado, let me introduce myself. I'm Sherlock Holmes."

QT: See if you've got to take anything just go ahead. No bullets, no talking. Just do your job and leave.

SH : I understand you doubting my ingenuity. I haven't been convincing enough, if not at all. But you must have heard me when I said that I'm here to kill you, right?

QT: Hey hey. I don't even know you. Is there anything I can do for you? You have a grudge against me or something?

SH : On the contrary my dear Quentin. I have nothing but respect for you and that is exactly what brings me here.

Quentin shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Sherlock brings his palm on the table.

SH : Ah! A letter from Steven Spielberg! He praised you for Pulp it seems. Why wouldn't he ? We all did. You are so good Quentin; you are nearly as good as me.
Do you know what it means to be as good as me?

Pause.

SH : Immortality.

Sherlock picks up the gun and points it at Quentin's face.

QT : Hey please put it down. We are talking, ain't us?

SH : You do not talk too much tonight. You got it?

QT : Yes.

SH : Say "I got it".

QT : I got it.

SH : See, Quentin you have served your purpose on earth. You have always been Great. And you must know the curse of greatness, don't you? You are not allowed to be good anymore once you're great. But your last or as you prefer calling it, your Eighth, was far from being great. As a matter of fact Quentin, I have to ensure that you do not take a step more that deprives you of greatness. You see, this world we live in has seized to understand greatness. You are the sole flag bearer at present. It is imperative that you revel in your glory. For in all the ages, the ghost greats live on in the present ones. Killing you will ensure our survival. And hence my dear friend, I have explained my purpose. Now, you can speak.

QT : I..I...aaah..I don't know. What is this all about?

SH : You have been chosen to be great and I am here to deliver you with justice.

QT : What?

SH : You will receive a treatment that is fair, trust me.

QT : Whaat..what?

SH : Motherfucker say what again and I swear on your films that I'll grind that knee of yours. I dare you!

QT : What have I done to you?

Bang! A shriek bombed into the silence of the hour.

QT : Oh my God! My knee. My knee. Oh my God!

SH : Now do you understand why I'm here? You've even forgotten your own lessons! You taught the world to break free and you today are hung up on showing westerns! You were a visionary. You lived in the future. BUt now you are neither in the past nor in the present. Where the hell are you then? You sure as hell are not in the future! I know because I am! And I have been sent because if you live you will certainly not be in the future.

QT : You psychopath! Just take me to the hospital.

SH : Oh you are funny Quentin! Of course you are. This is your forte. Fun in violence, right? Your signature. That reminds me of two more signatures to be done on you.

Sherlock takes out a knife.

SH : Let's pay you a tribute, Quentin.

Amidst shrieks, the knife carves out an ear.

Twenty minutes later...

 Blurred images slowly start to clear up. Quentin opens his eyes, his head dangling on the opposite side of the slashed ear. A hand oscillates in front of his eyes; a ear, his ear held by two fingers.

Quentin slowly looks at his captor.  A smiling face, the satisfaction of enjoyment. He knows this expression. It is the same as the one he gets from people at every climax of his.

SH : I'm sorry I cannot kill you Pulpy style. I mean that would be best, won't it? I think I would just blow your face off. That I'm sure would be worth a hell lot of Pesos!

QT : You're a fool. I'm not against Mexicans!

SH :  Excelente Amigo! Now we're talking! Ain't this a fitting Tarantino climax?
So now you know who I am, right? Tell me who I am.

QT : I don't know.

SH : Don't you go back now. You just solved the damn puzzle. Tell me who I am!

QT : You're a Mexican that's all I know!

Another gunshot. Another shriek.

SH : I AM AMERICAN. I HAVE A NAME AS WELL.

A fading Tarantino still looks at his nemesis.

SH : What was your movie all about Quentin? Racism they say! Unification some others say. Unification of democrats and republicans. Unification of white and black. But unification at what cost? Your answer is Mexicans!
                           You are smart. You really know what's coming. So what do you want? Well, again since you might want many things, I'll just give you two choices. You get to pick your ending style from any of your movies or you get to apologize for your Eighth movie and leave in peace.

QT : Cocaine.

SH : Oh! No apology. You choose cocaine? But cocaine didn't kill Mia!

QT : Please. Only wish.

SH : You remember writing your dingus monologue, don't you?

QT : You Mexican scum!

Tarantino spits.

SH : Well, Quentin, as promised I will give you a fitting sayonara! (laughs) Don't worry it's not going to be five-point-palm-exploding-heart technique. It's going to be as shameful as your last climax. I am not Sherlock Holmes. My name is Sebastian and for you, I am Sebastian, the Hangman!

*********************************************************************************
Christmas Day :

New York Times

Brutal Homicide shocks Hollywood : Quentin Tarantino slashed, shot and hanged on Christmas Eve!

The Sun

Quentin Tarantino : An artist's worst nightmare!

The Times of India

Karma bites the greatest director of the generation!

Anandabazar Patrika


"Keu kicchu koreni! Sob amrai korechi" : Mukhyomanti


p.s. Any view expressed here is solely for entertainment purpose and this post in no way discourages you from watching the Eighth movie by QT. In fact it should also be added (just to ensure that the feds don't arrive at my doorsteps for harmless humour) that any resemblance to any character, mentioned here is purely by coincidence. I hope the response to this article isn't hateful at all. All we need is peace and yes, of course, love.

Away from the alluvium (dedicated to Roy Orbison)

All thoughts leave for the subway
As the temperature equilibrates
He sang that this life fades away
I write, precisely for that day.

She is listening to the winds of shore
Western classics; running out of stores
The optimist he was, lines he chose;
Are floating through the waves of yore.

And as the Sun comes out
Bathed in a sea of hopes
She sees a surfer far away
Wind, his companion; dawn, his day.
Ocean welcomes her feet
As the firm hand catches hers;
They speed towards the Sun
To the other side; of approaching dusk.

Violence addiction : Humans; past, present and future

The hammer rose up, his hands were mere means. There was a pause at the top, pause that raised expectations of a beautiful fatality; and the hammer came running down right on the back of the pig's head! The pink pig squealed, it's last anguish on Earth; it's youth draining away through its slit artery.

I hungrily watched the video till the end and then calmly clicked on a cow slaughter video. I went on like this for about an hour, surfing through various animal murders until I felt a deep urge to watch human slaughter. The age we live in, the Age of Information provides us with every luxury one can dream of. Thus, in front of my eyes, a man was butchered on the streets of Iran!

It is at this point that the realisation hit me. Violence is addictive. I have always been a firm supporter of peace and non violence. But I never knew the true flair of violence. Given our upbringings (covered in the civilised veil of education), initially violence feels like a repellent. But it's all abput sitting through the initiation process. Then, like all deep secrets of science or arts, the deeper truth gets revealed. Human beings are meant to be the most violent creatures on the planet. An animal can only become advanced if it knows how to score over other forms. We are the smartest and the most cruel life forms. But unlike other animals, we were different. Nature, on the process of creating diversity, made an exceptional choice. She created us. What is so special about us? We think God exists only for humans, we think there are aliens just like us out there somewhere, we basically are deluded. The specialty of human beings is that we are our only competition. Unlike other life forms, nature pitted humans against each other in the race for survival. The more advanced an animal is, the more violent it has to be. But this is a game of cheques and balances. Nature supposedly mistook the optimal level of smartness to be ascertained to us and just poured in cruelty along with grey matter.

And this is where, everything went wrong! Humans figured out that to keep on existing, they would have to let go of violence. But they also made out that this non violence has to be directed only at themsleves. Ever since, Mother Nature has tried to eradicate the chaos of humanity from her universe and yet have not succeeded. Human beings might be easily wiped out someday or it just might be that creating us was an experiment gone horribly wrong. Humans have always figured it out.

 It seems that Mother Nature was the real Frankenstein!

Q.E.D. ??

 Anshuman : I don't care, man! I feel a strong apathy towards everyone.

Rahul took a deep puff before throwing the cigarette away with a smirk, " Amay bol, how can apathy be strong?"

Anshuman : ki jaata bokchis! kano na hoyar ki ache?

Sunandan : Ekta bondhu biye korbe bolche r tui ei "don't care" attitude dekhas ki kore ke jane.

Anshuman : kano bal? Ritam jemon chele, I expect ei boyesh-e biyei korbe. Sala bochore 10 lakh
taka maine pay. ki abar korbe?

Rahul : I still don't get it. How can apathy be strong?

Anshuman : Amar kicchu jay-ashe na. And it is a very strong feeling. Na bojhar ki ache ete! Du pata gaanja tene high hoye achis naki!

Rahul : Then it's an enforced apathy; which is again not really apathy.

Anshuman : Eh eh, tui baal cher. oto explain korar amar kono compulsion nei.

Rahul (laughing) : Are tui chote jacchis kano?

Anshuman : hyar baal!
(to Subhas : edike counter ta de)

Subhas (handing over cigarette to Anshuman) : 10 lakh salary paay bolei biye kore nebe? R kicchu korar nei jibone?

Anshuman : Na nei. He is not a dreamer and he is not even a delusional dreamer like you guys. He is what they call "Practical".

Sunandan : "Like you guys" mane ki? Toke ke boleche amra delusional?

Anshuman : tora ekdom tai. Ekhon bolbi tora modern, onek kichu achieve korte chas, bullshit. du bochorer madye sala sob biye kore nibi.

Rahul : tor mone hoy dreamer hoyar janyo biyer icche thaka jay na?

Anshuman : amar to nijer janyo tai mone hoy. Nijer dreams er janyo, yes!

Rahul : hya! seta tor personal opinion. amra ki chai na chai tui ki kore bujhbi?

Anshuman : kano tui ki chas? Bou eshe tor somosto dream puro korbe?

Rahul : e abar kemon katha? of course, amar biye niye kichu fantasy ache. sobar thake..

Anshuman (interrupting) : amar nei..

Rahul : hya kintu amar ache aar amar mone hoy 90 percent loker ache jara biye korte chay!

Anshuman : tui basically tor jibon theke bored hoye gechis. tai tor mone hoy je tor ekta transformation proyojon.

Rahul : hya chai to. ami jani amar jibon ta thik kon track e ki bhabe jabe. ami jani professionally ami kothay jabo. amar tai biye ke jibon er sob theke important jinish mone hoy. aar hobe na kano Bhai? amar nijer je samay, jei samay ta ami enjoy kori, shei samay ta ami ek joner sathe share korbo. eta important na?

Anshuman : seta tor mone hoy tor aar achieve korar kichu nei, tai. aar biye just ekta contract. ekhane meye r chele holo goods. Initially the girl makes the payment, rather investment so that for the next 30 to 35 years, the guy promises to look after her. aaro Jodi kichu bolis, biye holo just a social permission to have sex.

Sunandan : Eta kemon katha? Investment mane? Tui jeta bolchis seta ei generation e hoy na. At least, amader circle e to meaningless. Ami to emon kauke biye korboi na je financially independent na!

Anshuman  : I don't respect marriage. Amar mone hoy eta demeaning. Ami bolchi na amar partner chai na. But biye na! Jodi for legal reasons, amar baccha ke amar naam dite hoy to debo. But otherwise amar ei biye byapar ta ke hollow lage.

Subhas : Accha Anshu, tui ekta katha bol. dhor tor ekta meye ke khub bhalo laglo aar meye tar o toke pochondo. ebar situation emon holo je meye ta toke biye na kore tor sathe thakte parbe na due to various types of  pressure..

Anshuman (interrupting) : ami chere debo. break up kore nebo.

Sunandan : Even if you love her? amar mone hoy na.

Anshuman : accha tahole bol konta tor kache beshi important, to love someone or to be loved?
(questions everyone)

Sunandan : I think for me , to love is more important.

Subhas : Equal, I guess.

Rahul : If I love someone, I love someone. It doesn't matter if i'm loved back or not. But nischoi chaibo je amakeo bhalobasuk.

Anshuman : What if you never receive the love that you give? What if your entire life passes and yet she doesn't love you back? taholeo thakbi to ?

Rahul : kokhonoi hobe na kano? ek samay na ek samay to bhalobastei pare.

Anshuman : Se to kukur pushe Jodi take bhalobashis seo toke bhalobasbe.

Rahul : hya bhalobasbe. kintu amar jei bhalobasha ta chai seta sudhu ekta meyer kaach thekei paoya jete pare. kukurer theke na.

Anshuman : amar to mone hoy kukurer bhalobasha enough hotei pare. tora jebhabe biyer katha bolchis tate ami kukur pushbo seta better hobe.

Rahul : dhur bal! tui ekta kukuer sathe ekta meye ke compare korchis? baal kothakar!

Anshuman : hyar bal! tui ja bolbi tai thik hobe naki? amar mone hotei pare.

Subhas and Sunandan : Baal gulo chup kor ebar. ja icche tai korish.

Anshuman : bhaag sala! o ja bolbe tai mante hobe naki! Dekhbo koto ki hoy jibone. boro boro dialogue bara!

Rahul : gandu maal sala! (to Subhas now) : kuttar sathe meye ke compare korche bokachoda.

Anshuman : kukuker sathe meye ke korini baal. Na bujhe katha bolish na.

Sunandan : Accha tham tham! Puro nesha ta namiye dilo bokachoda gulo! Chol sala bari chol.

Subhas (to Sunandan): Ami toke chere di chol. (smirking) Aar Rahul Anshur cycle e jabi to?

Rahul : hya amay bari char to. Sala deri hoye galo be!

The two cycles take opposite directions after a while.

*******************************************************************************
Sunandan : Uff, eder dujon ke ek sathe rakhle Bhai! Ekhono jhogra kore jacche dakh.

Subhas : Na, ekhon kicchu korche na!
*******************************************************************************
Rahul : Eh, kal Walking Dead ta ansih kintu Bhai. kicchu dekhar pacchi na barite.

Anshu : Thik ache. kal bikele niye nish.

Another lazy evening

"To Gladiators", announced Rajdeep as Anwar and Priyam raised their glasses.  The atmosphere was dull this evening and the three friends were stuck in Anwar's apartment, their plans of the weekend being erased by the shower outside. Priyam shook his head, "Raj, bring me something aesthetic from Italy. I don't want any alcohol shit. Something small and worth keeping would be great."

Rajdeep : You sound like Sreya. I'd get you something cool. A Facenti, perhaps?

Priyam : I'm serious, dude. Who knows where each of us will end up? I would like something that time won't touch.

Anwar, scrutinizing into his glass spoke up, " Boss, bring me a bottle extra then! He's right; we don't know where we are gonna be after a year. So bring me my liquor while I'm still alive."

Rajdeep chuckled. Life had turned out to be good in Kolkata. Rajdeep had figured out a simple truth. If you hurried in a slow city, you were sure to finish first.  He got up and walked up to the window. The drenched Jodhpur Park- Mod was not its usual self, with its emptiness penetrated by a few cars. He had too many dormant memories of this place; which he knew will forever be in that phase.

He turned towards his friends. Two talented, lazy Bengalis. 

Rajdeep : Hey Priyam, when am I going to get my book back?

Priyam : Don't worry. I still have it.

Rajdeep : I know. I'm not worried. I had lent it for a reason, dude. Someone else should read it. Bring it the next time we meet, please.

Priyam : Okay, man!

Anwar : Which book are you talking about? The God and Devil one?

An irritated Rajdeep let out a grunt. He shook his head as Priyam couldn't help laughing at his scowling.

Rajdeep : Just bring it back, okay?

Anwar emptied his glass and winked at Priyam.

Anwar : So Raj, tell us about the book.

Rajdeep : Yeah, fuck off.

Anwar : No man, please. Whether we read it or not, we can discuss the philosophy. Anyway, we are wasting time. Let's talk about your experiences from the book.

Priyam : Good idea.

Rajdeep : Okay. The book essentially says that any man can be God, given how he reacts to his situations.

Anwar : And? Do you agree?

Rajdeep : Well, if God is perception, then yes.

Priyam : Hmm. Well said. But then, what happens to the Man once he becomes God ?

Anwar : He fights with himself every moment to remain God, I suppose. What does the book say, Raj?

Rajdeep smiled. "The book never dives into this part, you know."

Priyam : But what would you say?

Rajdeep : "You either die a Hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

Priyam : Alright Mr. Dent. So being God has nothing to do with spirituality and everything to do with power?

Rajdeep : When perceptions dominate, truth is far from the actions.

Anwar : Let us keep perceptions aside. Islam defines God as undefinable. Your religious books have associated Him with everything one can and cannot see, virtually making him undefinable too.

Rajdeep : You cannot keep perceptions aside while speaking of the unknown.

Anwar : Well, you're right. So how will you bring spirituality alongside God?

Rajdeep : Well, people can do certain things in certain ways. That is essentially how God is viewed in religions. Whatever your path might be, if it's right then it will lead you to Him.

Priyam : Yeah, among so many paths it's also possible to chase illusions.

Rajdeep : Exactly. Coming back to your question about the Man, I think when a Man sees himself as God, he has taken the path of illusions. Hence, he will falter.

Anwar : Wouldn't you say that only God can truly become the Devil? No mortal, I think can achieve this feat!

Rajdeep : Yes, but he is the God of illusions.

Priyam : Wow! Scriptures are starting to make sense. Raj, just bring me a solid bottle of Amaretto!

Rajdeep : What happened to your senti-wala gift?

Priyam : I've just stepped on God's path, man! I need liquid. Liquid, my friend.

Anwar : The rain has stopped.

Rajdeep : Yes. It has.

Priyam : Chalo then! One last movie together !

The three friends walked out into the light drizzle accompanied by their umbrellas. A tiny thread of ideas went alongside, submerged into the unseen dimensions of this chaotic city; a city wrapped on its own.

Balurghat : the Jew of time

It has been a decade since I last flipped through any book on Geography. While writing this article now, I am having a faint nostalgia. I wish I was better accustomed to the grammar of mapping but I'd carry on anyway.

The eastern part of West Bengal resembles a nipple. On that nipple lies an extremely pseudo-peaceful town, Balurghat. This town has many peculiarities. One such strangeness is embedded in history. India got her Independence on 15th August, 1947! Balurghat, on the other hand enjoys two Independence days: the first one being 14th August, 1947 and the other being 19th August, 1947. In a way, Balurghat, thus is both ahead of and behind its time. This feature is quite visible in yours truly as a matter of fact.

Balurghat opens up to India narrowly through its North-West. On all three sides it is surrounded by Bangladesh. This probably was the reason why Pakistan 'mistook' my hometown as their territory during her birth. But thanks to the Indian Army who recovered Mother India's estranged nipple swiftly, me and my forefathers can call ourselves Indians.

The fact that this place saw enormous trouble during 1971, thus does not appear as a shock. Ever since, Balurghat has been a calm place. As my friend says, temples outnumber cigarette shops in Balurghat. He might not be too far away from the truth. Everyone needs distractions. Federal Banks need wars, students need movies, sports, politicians need beef, sex-workers need love. Similarly, peace needs religion. The people of Balurghat have nothing to do! It is a place which will never have industries. So there is no scope for any 'development'. A river that never dries runs right through the heart of the town supplying ample fresh fish for the belly-caressing Bengali population. Hindus outnumber other communities by quite a few orders of magnitude. So there is absolutely no reason for violence. Yet, being a border town crime can't be far away.

The funny part is that being non-industrious, there isn't any crime that affects day to day lives of people on the surface. Hence, we don't see daily murders. We don't encounter kidnappings. The money sits on only one throne in Balurghat : Road development.
All the major mastans, living, dead and half-dead have a stake in the road contracts. Thankfully, the border is manned by the Army. So the smuggling has so far been controlled to quite an extent. The Balurghat Municipality till two years ago was probably one of the best in India in terms of service. Our roads were never dirty, let alone pitfalls. It was safe to say that Balurghat used to be a vibrant and clean countryside.

But then the windmills anti-rotated all throughout Bengal. And nipples too respond to passion, don't they? It has long been said that passions lead to sins. Sins leave effect; on body and the soul. The bodily effects have begun to show. The roads, yesterday's bike-ride proved have become a bed for water. Surely, those in power here, love to bounce. The Balurghat, I see today, is bereft of the life that entered our blood a decade back. Life in my hometown resembles the Jews of Kolkata. Migration has taught us to swim. As far as life is concerned, time proves that roots were never in fashion.

Someday, a book or a movie would pop up revealing the history of Balurghat; history of a group of Boys, the last remaining flag-bearers of the spirit of Balurghat. That piece of art would be amazing for it would show everyone that life enjoyed by those boys was something special. The roads, the school, the Pujo, the river-bridges, the fields, the cycles, the friendship; the history was special. Someday we would come back on pages or screens; someday, when we will be needed; after the destruction that awaits this country would claim for itself what it should; someday, we will be essential.

God doesn't play dice. Nature doesn't either.

Lady in red and white

Lady, in red and white
Sayonara, bold and light
Lady, in my arms sometimes;
Take off you glasses
For the sake of your eyes,
                              my eyes.

Lady, standing by the rich man's cadillac
Pass another glance at me, the casual style
Lady, wearing the charm of days gone by
Wish you heard the music romancing time,
                                    my time.

My Lady, I feel like falling for you again
Womanizer, they call me, but I'm just a spy
Looking for secrets in the deadliest dens.
All risks lie behind enemy lines;
                               beyond love's eyes.

Won't you take off your glasses 
           For a new game of dice?
Ladders to end the competition
          To replay, we have the lies.

Grasshopper : Part I (The King's Lament)

So, the grasshopper hopped again
And you missed your chance
You come to me with your silly face
Not a trace of those wings of romance.

Where is the self-devoted tiny creature?
Guards and dogs, I cut you loose
Bring the grasshopper to your master
And will rain on you, bones and boons.

Wings are not allowed in my kingdom
For my people live by my rules
Me and my subjects are all grounded
In my land; dreams are not allowed.

And here comes a green bodied alien
Whose feet were never meant for the soil
O Arrogant, my doctrines have been silenced;
Your wings will be crucified; the remains, boiled.

But why O grasshopper do I fail again?
What is in you that reeks of fragrance?
I'm yet to apprehend you, O unknown life
When will I possess you, your dance, your flight?

Nazi in love

There are words left in me, for me
Words float all around me, to me
I can only be a craftsman today
For the depth currently, is beyond me.

I wish I had a flag for love
Would have had it painted
And waived you with an air,
Putting nations to shame.

And someday I would write
A line, eternal in my absence
Each stone of my history
Would have it carved on itself.

 I sit back in my chair asking myself
Who am I when it comes to reality?
The answers, peculiar, have surfaced :
I am a sword that hates blood
I am a wild horse who gallops alone
I am an ideology; a Nazi in love.

I am an extraction hidden in verses
I am gravity, waiting for mass
I am omnipresent in lives I've touched
I am future in a package of past.
As for the Nazi who steamrolled on dirt
I am Leni Riefenstahl, unbroken and art.

Utthan

Sokal sokal institute eshe kaj korte bosha jodio tar sahopathi ra sobai pochondo kore kintu Arun kichu tei tate shay dite pare na. Routine sobder mane nijer janyo baniye niyeche Arun : prothagoto routine na mene cholai tar kache routine. Otoeb she jokhon icche hoy ghum theke othe, nijer kheyal e porte boshe ebong icche moto ghure beray edik odik. Tobe se mante na chaileo tar-o prothagoto abhyesh ache duto khetre - khawa r byam kora. Ei duti te she kono prokar fnaak rakha pochondo kore na.

Tar bondhu sobai, athocho keu noy. She sokoler sathe mishe jay mukto chitte kintu porokkhone nijeke ekao anubhob kore. Kono samay she kono golper boi er madhye nijeke khunje pay. Shei sob khetre she lekhe, jaate nijeke she rekheo dite pare; nijer janyoi hok ba anyo karor janyo. Keu keu tar lekha pore proshongsha kore, keu mukher opor ninda tobe adhikanshoi indifferent bola jete pare. Tate abosshyo Arun er kichui eshe jay na.

Arun responsible kintu responsibility nay na. Nijeke she kono aborone dheke rakhe na nischoi, kintu sohoje take sobai chinbe setao tar pochondo noy. Tai kothao giye bar bar sobai dhakka khay tar kache; Arun erokom? Arun ke ki etodin chintei parini? Arun sudhu obak hoy karon she sob samay manush er paribartan mene nite pare. Nutan-i je swabhabik ta Arun jane.

Erokom i ekdin nijer niyom biruddho hoye she sokal e institute eshe gmail khultei dekhe Kushal er email esheche. Ektu obak hoye Arun mail ta khullo. prothomei dekhlo je besh boro soro ekta lekha. Arun sokale asha mane nischoi kaj korbe shei manoshikota niyei asha. Ei samay erom adbhut mail dekhe she birokto-o holo abar koutuk o take charlo na. Agotya porte shuru korlo.

Kushal SNBOSE e PhD kore (kotota ki kore shei niye aboshyo Arun er mot khub shokto prokar-er). Arun take chineche porashunar shutre. Tara kokhonoi ek college ba university te poreni. Ek conference e giye dujoner alap room-mate hisebe. Emni katha bartay Kushal ke Arun er mondo lageni kokhono, bhaloi lage bola jay. Tobe Kushal er nana dhoroner kaj er proti spriha dekhe Arun er take paka mone hoy. Tai ei email kholar samay-i she aanch korechilo nischoi kono samaj sheba gocher kichu hobe.

Thik tai. Ekta bishal boro email er sarmormo ei je kothay kon ek notun NGO khuleche. Kushal er dharona shei NGO dustho der janyo onek kichu korbe. Tai she Arun ke anurodh koreche shei NGO te jogdan korte ebong tar anyo bondhu der (deshi o bideshi) udbuddho korte jaate tarao jogdan kore. Arun esob korar chele noy. Ei sob dekhlei tar bhorongbaji mone hoy. KIntu etodin por Kushal er email dekhe ekebare ignore o korte parlo na she. Uttor pathalo du line e.

"Amay esob pathas na. tui kamon achis bol. "

Tar kichukkhon pore hothat tar screen e Kushal er ping korar chihno fute uthlo.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kushal : kire kamon achis?

Arun : ei to cholche. tora NGO-o shuru korli?

Kushal: tui ebhabe reply dibi bhabini.

Arun : kano?

Kushal : jokhon tor sathe amar alap hoy, tui onek katha-i bolechili. tor katha shune amar mone hoyechilo tui manush ke bhalobashis. tor ei change ta thik gauge korte parchi na.

Arun : kono change to hoyni.

Kushal : tui na bolechili train e bari ferar samay track er pasher ghore baccha der dekhe tor kanna peyechilo ek bar?

Arun : hya peyechilo to. Sudhu tai na. Arekbar shei track er ektu dure ekta ghore ekjon ke khali gaaye lafate dekhe hasi-o peyechilo. seta hoyto bolini.

Kushal : hmm. tor interest nei bujhlam. kintu emon kauke to chinte parish jar ache.

Arun : Ekjon er bishoye jani. Uni mon thekei deshoddhar korechen chirokal. Tobe sebhabe chenar soubhagyo hoyni. :(

Kushal : ke?

Arun : Rabi Thakur.

Kushal : Dakh tor kache jeta thatta hoyto oneker kache ta mulyoban.

Arun : Are tui to amar bondhu. tor sathe thatta korbo na?

Kushal : se kor. kintu ami chaibo ekbar tui aye meeting e. nije dekhle sob bujhte parbi.

Arun : ki bujhbo ? Kothay ke khete pacche na, ke ghor chara hoyeche, ke school-e porte cheyeo porte parche na - esob jene satyi ki ami kichu korte parbo?

Kushal : Partei parish! Alochona te to aye.

Arun : Tora alochona korish regularly?

Kushal : Hya. Proti Robibar.

Arun : Bah! tai naki? Kobe theke korchis? Amay janas ni kano age?

Kushal : Ei dhore ne 6 mash.

Arun :  bah. tahole tora serious, bolchis?

Kushal : Yes, my friend! Ei weekend e tahole aschis to?

Arun : Khubi bhalo lagche shune. Ei 6 mashe r ki ki activity korechis?

Kushal : activity bolte apatoto lok jogar korai main chilo.

Arun : tahole aro 6 mash lok jogar kor. tarpor icche hole kichu kaj o koris. Amay please r request koris na.

Kushal : hmm. bujhlam.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Deshoddhar-er batik Arun er nei. Ke kake uddhar korbe? Je shaktishali se durbal ke unnotir dike niye jabe, take rakkhao korbe. Emon-i naki ei samaj er mul bhid. Arun bujhe pay na durbal je, se kano nijeke durbal bhabe. Ei deshe eto je minority rights niye holla hoy, kano alada kore manush bojhate chay je tar janyo reservation quota dorkar! Kano manush er choritre shei tej nei jekhane she nijeke bolbe je she durbal hote pare kintu shei badha atikrom korbei ekdin. Arun bujhe pay na paap konta- Khamata je opobyabohar kore, naki je korte day nijer akkhamatar ajuhat-e? Kano manush driro bhabe bolte pare na je amio darabo matha tule?
Ei deshe politics ache, pnuthi-o ache; bigyan ache, neta-o ache; srom ache; temni bhrom-o ache. Shekol lege ache sokoler antorale; sob kichu dekhte peyeo jeno keu dekhte chay na! Satyi sorol, nishpaap, toltole jol-er moton - sekhane aboyob sposto; kintu ei deshe pabitra Ganga-jol khubi gholate. Tai take bujhte Gangay namte hoy. Kono porishkar patre shei jol nile dekha jay nijeri aboyob, tokhon r she gholate noy, molin noy. Rabi-i je raktakarabi ta sudhu bhor belay bojha jay. Shei aloy kono patrer-o proyojon nei. Du haat joro kore shei jol tule Rabi kei arpan koray jeno swaccha satya fute othe.

Jemon ekhon uthlo.

Space, time, loops and singularities

I do not have nightmares. I do not fall into any abyss or get eaten up by monsters at night. Neither do I run out of breath while breathing is the only external action of the body. Precisely, I do not sleep when the Sun sleeps. When I actually close my eyes, I encounter most gruesome visions. I get trapped in earthquakes, I get killed by terrorists, I even see people close to me suffer. I wake up into bright light all around me. At times I feel like going back into my visions but mostly, I feel relieved coming back to reality.

In my reality, space is covered with books and time with responses. Rarely this continuum throws defects at me : singularities. Someday I might just slip into one of them to be trapped for ever. In this universe, there is no free particle. Freedom is the best example of a local variable.

Let's decouple my space and time for a paragraph. Books have guided me for the better part of the last decade. They have taken on the role of light and made my apparitions possible, whenever and wherever those might have been. I cried when I saw Dumbledore die, I saw Nabinkumar free birds on the streets of eighteenth century Kolkata, I was present when Nirmal realised that he was never a match for Fakir. Mostly, I don't care about the words. May be in this cold universe, I am another cold human being. But as in physics, defects are present and they are fun! Words sometimes formulate worlds and suck me in. It is during these circumstances that we realise the meaning of potential. The usually cold human being turns high on emotion. In this high-emotional regime, space and time get coupled. Words lead to actions and one such action is to pour more words in this labyrinth.

Just in case you're wondering about this writer, I must mention that he is extremely talented. He is waiting to be trapped into one of the singularities and to eventually apparate in the form of an idea-burst through the horizon.

Well, I just woke up. Welcome back to reality.

Fulfilment

Words, equations, speeches, silences
 Will all turn into dust someday
For nothing is meant to last, to be real
And yet everyone is fighting a lost battle.

There is nothing that I want to achieve
For there is today, no void in me
Objectives, promises, goals; meaningless
Waiting with happiness to close my eyes.

For me, something lies on the other side
I feel no attachment, no anchor of life
Yet living, the process, is not painful
To not live while living is my right to life.

An escape is deep within me
A pathway that leads to a light
Serene, eternal, it doesn't reveal
Itself, to orthodox wide-open eyes.

This world might have had a reason
To make me a part of the process
But my path, I know is set apart
The flesh will be maligned and burnt
But I'm not my flesh, not what is seen
My soul seeks wings, someday will flee.

Where does it fly to?

The bird has taken flight
Wings spread over the landscape,
It shoots up high, where the ousted
Clouds took refuge long ago.
Arrows won't follow it anymore
For iron neither has wings nor will;
As it soars higher into the abyss
Realizes, gravity is just another hurdle!

Music

Plectrums surround me on my bed
To none does my guitar respond;
It has tuned itself to my fingers
An instrument, a diffusive surrender.

Notes are never found in my room
Neither do I ever create one
Rhythm hides in soul, words in harmony
I play to them,  to you, to my destiny.

I wish I could play every instrument,
Learned their individual responses
To my hands and lips; Music is eternal.
May be to love is to worship!

There is yet so much to learn
And in so much more to fail;
To succeed in spreading my gift
And to make this world believe :

                             
                               that to give is to live.

By-lanes

For long has man compared life to a highway. Poems, plays, movies aplenty have nurtured this concept and bred new ideas into generations of successive artists. Life is a highway. But as every unending journey has milestones, these routes also have an important ingredient; much less visible than the milestones, the by-lanes.

While few people run out of gas and give up, nearly everyone wants this journey to be long until the automobile itself wears out. Rarely though do we walk out of our vehicles when by the highway, narrow lanes show up. Each lane runs roughly a few kilometres and then either finishes abruptly or leads us back to the highway. The unending road again becomes the present, the reality. The by-lanes, the reflections of history, survive only as interpretations.

How ironic it is that every single reality ends up as a slave to Interpretations! Yet, truth is what we are obsessed about.

What seems inevitable thus, is your interpretation of me. Hence I become an outsider to myself. An autobiography is of no use. All my traits: 'honesty', 'hard work', 'good-looking' , 'intelligent', 'sensitive', 'immature', 'high-nosed', 'straight-forward', whatever else there is/was are your reflections through me. You have learnt your words and your intellect searches for the right body to fit them in.
So whether I call myself moral and sensible or dim-witted and driven, it hardly matters to you readers. Everything is judged according to your prejudices.

 I, basically am a story teller. I create worlds every moment and diffuse them within you.

Some stories are believable, some are apparently larger than life. But whatever, stories are stories. You lend your eyes and ears at your own risk.

So when the by-lanes, neglected through an entire lifetime are rarely recalled by the travelers (if at all), the tyres might come to a halt. Introspection might be in order. Or, there might be enough gas to keep approaching the horizon.

Messiahs : The Beginnings

                          CHAPTER 1: Stealth
 

"The pack is hungry" he said. "The ideal time has arrived. The silence of the night shall wake up to screams; screams, these fertile lands would never forget!"

The minister calmly listened to the Ruler. Yes, the time had come. The blood thirst seemed to pour out of His Majesty's eyes. The minister bowed and nodded to the General. The troops, ready, as they always were at this hour of the night, just needed a faint signal.

500 foot soldiers, 50 cavalry men carried between themselves bows, swords, spears and their new toy, the fireball. Spies had mentioned about the weaponery
on the other side. The fireball eradicated any question of an even fight, many thought. But the General was a cautious man. Knowledge of one's own lands was not to be disregarded. The fireball, should be used as the last resort. The enemy needs to be locked for the weapon to be effective. North and east were to be the directions of attack. The river lay to the west. Any last minute bravery could be easily put to rest using the fireball. But to drive the enemy to the river, the attack had to be swift, merciless, relentless.

It was decided that 400 men with 20 cavalry archers would take the northern front. The eastern brigade would wait for the enemy. But only a northern massacre would lead to the eastern end. The strategy would fail if the first line of attack failed. The chances needed to be optimized. There was no question of a day-time battle. Stealth was necessary tonight to write the glorious history of tomorrow.

The Ruler needed this city. Barbarian, he was called by this ego-maniac King. "Barbarians belong to deserts, not fertile plains!" He would make sure that this land remained fertile forever. He would bathe it in an eternal river of blood.

The order was given. No sound was made, no torches were put off at the camp. The Army, as it would be called in centuries to come, was in motion.

                   CHAPTER 2: The Night

The city boasted of a fine military comprising of archers, swordsmen and foot soldiers. Invaders had attempted multiple times to breach the gates only to be dealt with effectively. These lands were open. None of the altitude war-fare schemes of the tribes had any significance here. The only battle, if any, would always be a frontal one. No matter what the physical capabilities of the armies are, fate of battles rely on supplies and sooner than later, supplies dry out. With no place to return as the defeated, the tribes are left for the mercy of the merciless. The King, himself, was the Leader of his army, a post his father had created and occupied before starting his dynasty. When it came to war-time intelligence, though, he deeply relied on the Commander.

The guards were posted outside the gates. The war camps were set, ready to either launch or defend an attack. No fight had yet reached to the gates.


This young Barbarian was different, the King knew. Unlike other tribes, this group had brought with it strange men. There were reports of medics being on the battlefields to treat the wounded. Medics! What sort of idiot expects a merciful fight? Surely, he was no idiot. This scum had plans for a siege. His wounded would not die. There would be waves of attack, he calculated.

But for the siege to be a reality, they would have to live. What would these ignorant pigs amount to in front of the trained warriors of the city? But something bothered the King. His troops outnumbered them in the ratio 2 to 1. But for a tribe to come to war with 600 men surely meant that it was not a single tribe. The Barbarian was a conquerer. A chill ran down his spine. The young filth was no fool, hence. Why would he risk everything for a lost cause? In battles, numbers mattered.


                        CHAPTER 3: Clash

The General signaled to his men as the city guards were in sight. 20 archers moved into a semi circle, pulled back their loaded bow and waited. The Ruler stepped ahead. He pulled his bowstring as it reached his chest. The arrow flew southwards piercing the skull of a city guard who stood directly facing the arrow. Even before the other northern guards could realize what had just happened, arrows rained on them in succession. BY the time the alarm was sounded, the Army was on them. The King accompanied by his Commander swiftly moved into the city walls. The north by now was lost. On the fields, the Army was on a hunt. The city guards were yet to receive orders from the Commander about any new strategy. Their training was the only hope.

"We need to drive them west!The guards need to be mobilised without delay. We need to corner them and let the archers take control from the walls," The Commander said.

"They must know that we would take east. What is their strength?" The King asked.

"About 100 foot soldiers and 20-30 cavalry men. They have unleashed their full force on one side. They hoped to take us out on shock."

"Why don't we attack from the west?"

"My King!" The Commander seemed lost to such a naive suggestion by the Leader at this hour. Surely the King had lost his mind.

"They must have something up their sleeves in the east. They want to corner us by the west."

"The east is the only way, my King. Just a hundred odd men..."

 "Leave the north, it's gone. Get the archers on anyone coming from the north. Divide the army for west and east. We need a two-way siege. I believe we have enough men to take the east."

The Commander had seen the soldiers fight. He knew that the guards were shaken. No number was enough. The more, the better. But he could see that the King had made up his mind. He asked, "Where do we go first?"

"West."

The Ruler saw the incoming wave of guards on the western front. He looked at the General. Change of plans was in order. 

to be continued ...

Ink, time and blood

There was a little more left to write. Subha let his thoughts circle for a bit longer. He wasn't sure whether the next line would be a good idea. He put the pen down and brought his face to his palms. It was a clouded afternoon. The mood of the city hadn't changed for quite some time. He shook off his worries and dropped the ink on paper....

Of all the risks I could have taken, you could have either been the best or the worst.

***********************************************************************
The traffic signal just turned red as Kalyan ran across the zebra to reach the auto stand. He looked around but Subha was no where to be found. The bastard had done it again. Kalyan dialled Subha's number only to receive a no answer. He cursed under his breath as an autowala nudged him, "Dada, kothay?"
He was about to gesture to the driver as his phone rang.

Kalyan : Ki re shuorer baccha! tui naki auto stand e?

Subha: ei dakh chole esechi. ulto foot e dakh.

Kalyan saw a beaming face waving at him from the other side of the road. Subha waited for the signal to cross the road. He patted his friend on the back woth his usual cheerful smile, "are tui taratari chole esechis!"

Kalyan : nijei bolis urgent dorkar. ekhon daat kelacchis.

Subha: chol, let's take an auto to Highland Park. boshe katha hobe.

Each of them had ordered a cold coffee and none seemed to start the conversation. Finally Kalyan spoke up, "are bhai bolbi ki hoyeche?"

Subha : kal Ratul phone korechilo. preme poreche.

A shocked Kalyan nearly spilled his coffee, "What?"

Subha : Yes. He doesn't know how to tell Sweta about it.

Kalyan : Bal ta! So is he asking you to inform Sweta? But wait. Who's the girl?

Subha : One of his classmates. Priya. He has been sleeping with her for three months. Now he thinks that he has fallen for her.

Kalyan: Wait. What?

Subha shrugged his shoulders as he sipped his coffee.

Kalyan : Does Sweta know anything about her?

Subha: I don't suppose so. He has been sleeping with her too.

Kalyan : Goodness! What is his master-plan now?

Subha: He would talk to Sweta. He knows she would kill him. THen she would call me. I should take care of the situation.

Kalyan: And what's your take on this?

Subha: I don't know. It's kind of tit for tat, you see. Sweta cheated on him. But nevertheless, Sweta got cheated upon now. SO she will be guilt free.

Kalyan : Oh yes! Guruji. She cheated on him with you.

Subha : It was just one night. One hell of a night. This kind of took my guilt away too.

Kalyan: Dude, be careful. Things are going to get really complicated now.

Subha: Why? I'm not going to sleep with her now.

Kalyan: I have a feeling Sweta will tell about it to Ratul.

Subha: I told him long ago.

Kalyan: What? aj eker por ek bomb felchis! What did he say?

Subha : Does it matter? He never told her that he knew. This asshole knows how to have his ways. Stud.

The two friends raised their glasses and emptied them.

********************************************************************


Whatever we had, was meant for us only. My stupid friends always judged us without even knowing what we were. For this entire lifetime, we have sold them our story. Can you believe it? "Once." That's all they know and judge us upon. You have always been the force of my life. Secrets, when respected become the greatest gifts. No one knows us like we have known each other. The deepest corners of your soul have nurtured me for all these years and I have cherished every moment. Thirty years. I know you were hurt when I decided to wed Santanu. But you, truly would never have wanted to get married. For you the kick was in secrecy. I'm glad I took the decision to cheat on this entire world forever with you. In the next life, I hope to be your partner in crime again. But as far as this life is concerned, I have decided that the final few years should belong to Santanu. I'm yours; have always been.

 Sweta's letter rested on the table. Subha knew this was to be the last one he would receive from her. Thirty years now stared at him from the table. He took out his pad and wrote his final reply.
There was a little more left to write. Subha let his thoughts circle a bit longer. He wasn't sure whether the next line would be a good idea. He put the pen down and brought his face to his palms. It was a clouded afternoon. The mood of the city hadn't changed for quite some time. He shook off his worries and dropped the ink on paper....

Of all the risks I could have taken, you could have either been the best or the worst.

Venom, it is

And the ink drop bursts on the ground
The venom crawls clinging to itself
Dreams, floating through the void
Ask him, Where have the wings gone?

A migraine rises through his veins
Feathers, Are they also this light?
Fading lights beckon him into darkness,
Wandering visions, mist and a glide.

Forsaken handshakes, forgotten boats
Long lost horizon, cascading smiles
"You pour venom through your words"
Sentences, multitudes lost in veils of time.

A mention of venom and his muscles wake up
The shoulder blades jerk the silence away
Blood rushes through the arteries to pointed nails
And starts an acid rain; black, hideous letters
Shoot through him like war trained horses
Leave behind the ones who fell behind
Heart sets fire to the canon; Venom, yes he is!

The Victory march

I heard the bells
Far away, they were singing
Of victory : The city, they said
Had fallen; And they were singing
Canons, bullets and shrieks;
The music was soft, piercing.

How many moments did we have
Before our flags were to be burned?
Murmurs of escape kept floating
The distant fire was just a gimmick,
Among hurried voices and records
I stood, engulfed in flames of failure.

It is ready, the General whispered
I looked at him, pondering over
My decision. Was I playing God?
"Sir", he waited. I touched
The cold red button, I took a moment;
The final one, triggering the third  in history.

Vapour and Ash

The fire slowly ate into the wood
The barks vapourised to reveal
A juicy flesh within but to the fire
Everything was same; kept digging deep.

He stared long into the burning log,
Two states, he thought; vapour and ash
But it wasn't important, the fire went deep
Some objects don't need to melt.

The molten state is for everyone to see,
For everyone to inspect, examine, judge.
The melted, even though an advanced state
Still clings to the ground and is never free.

He thought of the inner flesh, now burning
A sadness engulfed him; It doesn't have long
To burn out. He wanted it hard to come out
Such a shame that it never saw light.

He tore apart his letter for the third time
Relentless in this burning,
He kept searching for the final tide
Once, even for once if his truth saw light!
Vapour or Ash, someday the wood must fly.
 

An October drizzle

The rolling tyres made a faint approaching sound  from the horizon. Somewhere on the forsaken highway, Deep sat, strumming tides of the Bohemian Rhapsody. He had a hat on to neutralize the smiling Sun. Leaning on a milestone, he kept playing to his wishes as a few trucks sped by in hourly intervals. A sudden cloud cover alerted Deep. Just as he was beginning to consider his fate in the rain, the tyres came to a stop by the milestone.

"Hey ass! What took you so long? Bara kotokkhon dhore boshe achi bolto!"
Deep shouted at the driver.

Ali, the recipient, signaled him to get in the car in his typical manner : a wink.

"Sala faltu case khetam arektu hole." Deep was still complaining when the first drops appeared on the windscreen.

As Ali put the car in gear, Deep set the music to "Riders on the storm".

Ali: Memories, Man! Shei mone ache jokhon prothom gari ta niye berolam Pujoy, ami, tui, Batu, Alu, Shubhra... bhai kichu din chilo re

Deep: Stop fretting over the past. Except for us, all these bastards are married. They don't even bother to come home for Pujo.

Ali: You were the one who started it, remember? You stayed back in Kolkata while we all came here. What was the year... 2016? 17?

Deep: 14. Yeah, well I was in love for the first time. What do you mean by "You started it"? I arrived late that year but I did arrive. It all started with Shubhra. Asshole got married the same year in December, got Sneha pregnant and then all we know is he's not coming! Are bhai, at least pore ashti. He just gave up visiting Balurghat for Pujo ever since.

Ali: Fifteen years! The world has changed so much, hasn't it ? I can't identify with most things anymore.

Deep: I really don't think about it too much, you know. The world is what it is. It's just the way we see it, changes. I don't think we are significant enough to have changed the world in such a short span. Just because everyone around me is enjoying a family, doesn't necessarily mean that it has started raining in October!

Ali (chuckles) : And we are driving in the October rain.

Deep: Precisely, my point.

Ali : Ei sob funda kono sundori ke dile to elaborate na koriye charbe na!

Deep: Sundori te jacchis kano! Ora to antlamo dekhlei baar khaoyay.

Ali: Tui ki ebar Khuswant Singh hoyar katha bhabchis? Gyani..., gouno..., jouno...

Deep : jouno ta tao ache... tobe baki duto to serom holo na. Tai Khuswant Singh II hoyar icche borjon korai jay.

Ali: Ta tui ei highway te guitar bajiye show off korchili kano?

Deep: Bal! Dekhar lok kothay peli tui? Emni sokh holo eka boshte.

Ali: Hat pore country singer look niye Balurghat er dhare highway te Jim Croce eshechen!

Deep: Jim Croce hat porten na by the way!

Ali: tui dekhechis, na porte? Bal oi to youtube video te curly hair-e duto chobi dekhechis! Batela.

Deep : "If I could save time in a bottle"...bhai.. only if

Ali: "But there never seems to be enough time..."

Deep: Probably, the best song I've ever heard...

Ali: "If I had a box just for wishes
       and dreams that would never come true...
       the box would be empty,
       except for the memory
              of how they were answered by you..."

The Santro faded into the Southern horizon as the October rain slowly made way for the Afternoon Sun.

kuttar baccha

hothat bohu din por aj "amake amar moto thakte dao" shunte icche holo. kano holo, seta niye noy nai bakyo byay korlam. andhokar akash-e jemon hothat bhor er alo chhute chole ashe, temni onek kichu ektu age hothat-i poriskar hoye utheche. rastar kukur gulo ei samay tai govir nidrar swad pay. saradin klanto, khudartho hoye edik sedik ghure beroy. pete khabar na jutleo lathi, tara esob jutei jay. sei kukur der i ekjon ektu age khub dakchilo. ghum nosto kore ei kukur er awaj boroi birokto kore tullo amake. tarpor janala diye baire cheye dekhlam. amar dike takiye nihstobdho hoye dnariye roilo kichukkhon kukur ta. tarpor du bar deke shuye porlo. kukuer baccha sala! amar ghum bhangiye nije lej gutiye ghumate chole gelo! khub raag holo. mone holo soja giye juto peta kori. kintu porokkhonei mone holo saradin ami chobbochosso gilechi, gaan shunechi, mon bhore sobai ke galagal diye paisa-o kamiyechi. kintu ei bechara kukur ki peyeche? roj hoyto ei dokan theke lathi kheye anyo dokan jay. sekhane keu mukher samne ek tukro biscuit chnure day. pet e khide niye kukur korun chokhe jei tar monib er dike takiyeche, omni "jah jah" bole tariye deoya hoy take. ebhabei porityakto hoye ghurte ghurte konodin hoyto ek mosto dami gari rastay pishe diye jabe take. neri kutta ke manush kukur bole sommodhon o korena. edike nijeder wolves der descendant bole prochar korte ei kukur jatio kokhono pichpa hoyna. asole "roots" bole katha, pet porishkar rakhte naki sahajyo kore. are fnaka pet abar porishkar! jai hok ami janala bondho kortei abar gheu gheu korte shuru kore dilo. abak hoye janala khullam. dekhlam sei kukur r nei, tobe bhor hoye geche. kukur ke jaate tullam ki na janina kintu mukh diye berolo shuorer baccha.

kukur niye kobi kichu bhebeche. kintu kukur to kobi ke niye bhabe ni. tai kobi r kutta mile "kobita" toiri holo na. lompot kukur, hoyto satyii jaate utheche.

bela

Ful tulecho?
Toloni?
Amar priyo bokul gulo aj pothei pore roilo, tahole?
Amari uchit chilo
Sokale kuasha mekhe tader niye asha
tumi to kokhonoi chaoni, uthte..

ami je bhebechilam anbo
tomar kol e ek ek kore sob sajiye debo
kintu pothe jano.. icche holo na
jantam na emon hobe
kokhon je saanjh neme elo...

Kintu amar je sokh mitlo na
ki hobe? din je furiye gelo
tamosha ghonacche.. deep jwalabe na?
aj bhoy korche hothat.. thak amader ful
tumi deep jwele amar kache thako.

Deep to poloker janyoi jwolbe
Bhoy er bela to kokhon periyeche
R amader bela to besh boroi chilo bhebe dakho
tokhon samay chaitam amra..
samay amader chaiche aj, esho gaan dhora jak.

Jei gaan amader

Circles

Condensed mist rolls down the railing
The rewind button's on autopilot mode
Strings question decisions and ambitions
Past/ future, sorrow/ happiness; damn highway!

Human moods; circles on a circumference
Steps hate to remain stationary nowadays
Droplets of despair succumb to hope
And the weakness slowly makes way for strength.

Irony : The Infinite Potential of Imagination.

The cigarette kept slowly turning into ash and finally gave him a violent reminder before succumbing to its inevitable fate. Dev, irritated with his miseries cursed at the bud and threw it away. Life quite wasn't going the way he hoped it to be. He was yet to receive his incremented salary, even though the management had promised the hike half a year ago. His best friend had recently started dating a girl and Dev, expectedly was left to fend for himself. He missed his parents but home wasn't just a mile away. To Dev, life seemed to go into a downward spiral. To make matters worse, his college sweet heart, Preety had texted him few minutes ago, saying she missed him nowadays. Dev didn't have even the slightest remnant of love for Preety. He was annoyed with her text and ended up calling her up on the phone. By life's tricks, Sujoy (the worst villain of his yesteryears) picked up the phone. Dev, feeling terribly betrayed by his own luck threw away the cell phone and lit the story-starter cigarette.

                                                                With nothing else to do at midnight, he called up Sreeja.
Checkpoint:  Sreeja Chatterjee : lives alone, average-Bong height, intellectually close to Dev (or Dev's desire, still doubtable!), fair, not typically hot by appearance, looks fantastic in blue, and other features to be discussed along the way.

Sreeja picked up with her trademark tone of "hello!", a strange solution of warmth and playfulness. Ignoring his thoughts on her tone, Dev asked, "Can we talk?"
Sreeja, the smart woman spoke in a little discouraging tone, " Yes, sure. Is anything wrong?"
Dev usually respects Sreeja's tones but tonight he didn't care, "Can I come over to your place? I'm not feeling alright." Before Sreeja could add to the conversation, he added," At all!"
Sreeja and Dev lived within twenty minutes of each other. Given, they were good friends for sometime, she didn't have any reason to ask him not to come.

Fourteen minutes later...

Sreeja opened the door as a sweaty Dev walked in with an apologetic smile. They went to her bedroom and sat on opposite ends of the bed.
Sreeja :What has happened?
Dev looked straight at her, got up from his position and kneeled down in front of her.
Sreeja was quite taken aback by this unexpected behaviour. She wasn't quite ready for this or what was about to follow.
Dev started crying. He was inconsolable. It is extraordinary how human emotions work. Sreeja, on one hand felt terrible for her friend's misery and at the same time a pride swept through her that she had somehow earned this esteemed position in his life.

One and half months later...

Sreeja (sobbing) : Tell me what I can do! How long am I supposed to wait? It is already late by a month.
Dev: I don't know. Are you sure about the strip?
Sreeja: Why? Do you want to check for yourself?
Dev: Okay, let's see a doctor.
Sreeja: What am I going to tell Mihir? My parents will never talk to me!
Dev: No one needs to know anything.
Sreeja: What? Are you suggesting I kill it?
Dev: Are you suggesting otherwise? Come on!
Sreeja: No, I'm not. But cold blooded murder! It's all your fault! Why did you throw yourself on me?
Dev: 'because I've wanted nothing else more in this life ever. I wasn't stopped, either.
Sreeja: Please! Don't justify yourself now.
Dev: Every time I saw you walk away, every time you spoke close to me, I have wanted you. I have wanted you in my senses, in my dreams. I have wanted you while wanting you was sin and I have wanted you ever since!
Dev pulled Sreeja close to him and kissed her lips deeply. Sreeja's palms moved all over Dev's back to the back of his head. Irresistible it was. He tore open her nighty and dived into her soft breasts. Sreeja pulled his shirt out in a desire so violent that everything seized to exist nearby. Dev sucked her firm nipples and pulled her up by her thighs. She kept biting his lips, neck and whatever she could dig her teeth into. He pushed her to the wall. This union was the most natural experience of their lives. Both of them had existing sex lives. But this was raw. For once, they were animals.


Epilogue

Sreeja masturbated as her husband slept soundly by her side. If only, her imaginations were her memories.

Dev kept sleeping soundly as his wife masturbated alongside him.

The Commander

The Northern wind whistles again;
The Men, the dagger-hearts step out
By the fire; giving strength to the night
Flickers of snow and air burn together.

Horses, tired and wounded beg with silence
Animals, it is said, have undiscovered senses
Warm citadels sleep, myths and closed eyes
And yet, whatever is spoken of, isn't a lie.

Sides, centre, roads await the next strike
Red, green, blue - everything's dark at night
The truth reveals itself only to the truly blind
For men have other senses, apart from sight.

The commander rises, arms of steel;
He has tonight, a new vision of darkness
He knows the arrow's flying for him
He blows the horn, his heart's ready to bleed.

p.s. We know what's coming...

A dedication

And I have this night, supposedly
The full Moon silently reflects
Another lonely soul, may be
For billions of years, they say.

What's in a crowd that laughs aloud?
Answers, unknown, might seek solitude,
 Feathers still remain but the bird doesn't
I have this room, this night and memories abundant.

(Inspired by "Aj jotsna raate" by Rabindranath Tagore)

The Starving Stranger

"I am dying of starvation",
Said the man with the bow;
His quiver was empty
And his eyes pictured sorrow.

"My life revealed itself", he said
Lines of regret along his forehead,
"What you search for, is your fuel
And your search must not be answered!"

Was he a soldier, I wondered
Or was he a mere hunter?
His feet bled and his voice echoed,
"Every passion ends in disgrace!"

He spoke like a hermit, a defeated sage
His arms seemed weak, signed by age;
"I have food but I cannot eat,
 I have answers but have no need."

Finally he spoke directly to me,

"I starve for ignorance,
 For ignorance is bliss.
 Renounce Renounce Renounce
 For you are not Him."

A Writer's Dilemma

A few days ago, I was talking to a friend about writing a detective story. The discussion led to a very disturbing line. He said that to write a suspense thriller one has to write backwards,i.e., one writes the twist and then works back in order to make things fall in place. There was even a hint of glory in his voice when he said that any piece of writing is like a puzzle,like you write different portions and fit the blocks to get the whole body. Now the thing is, I have till date liked most of what he has written. But this statement of his shouts out loud that writing is a craft. Two nights ago, I resumed writing my detective story and I found myself constantly perturbed. I somehow couldn't accept the fact that writing is viewed from this point of view. Probably there are successful writers who would back his claim but for me it is not just a constant irritation but also a deep point for introspection.

Writing is art. There is a sharp distinction between art and craft. For craft you need talent. If you have talent, if you have skills, you can hone them and be better at what you do. An artist on the other hand is 'gifted'. He/she will always have something extra. Both art and craft produce creations, of course. But on a sufficiently long time scale, art presents with much more superior results than craft. Some things make you clap, others make you speechless. An artist has to have craft, he/she has to work on his talent and sharpen the outcome.

From a writer's point of view, I must say that I find poetry no different from prose. Personally, I like writing poems more than long articles. Poetry is fun. You can do everything being a poet. Yes, you can even put a twist in the tail. But that twist just flows with the rest of the poem. I cannot imagine myself writing various stanzas separately and putting them together at the end. A river flows from mountain to sea.Period.
Why should articles/ short stories/ novels follow any other route?

I can easily put a disclaimer here saying that I'm not an artist. But in this blog, I write to myself and hence, I don't lie. Yes, I have had plots in mind, I have had certain ideas those I wanted to talk about. But I have followed the chronological sequence of my words. Something in me tells that I'm not a craftsman. Am I an artist? At times, I am.

In my head, here is a sketch of an Artist.