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.