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.

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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.

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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.