Moira bhyatkaiya roise pachhaye porse jochhona.

"Madan khaborer kagojta khulte khulte mridu heshe bole, mrityur ekta romantic dik ache, tai aajkal majhe majhe bhabi morle kemon hoye?







Kichu hoye na he. Manish matha nare, morar modhye romantic kichu nei. Ekebare mota dager ekta byapar. Amader deshe goba pagla bole ekta lok chilo. Se gaito, monu re, baper khobor rakhla na, hyaye je moira bhyatkaiya roise pachhaye porse jochhona.







Ashlil! ashlil! (Madan)







Motei ashlil noye. Manish matha nare, ekdom ashlil noye. Pachhaye jochhona porar byaparta borong boroi korun. Mora torar kotha holei amar ei gantar kotha mone pore.















Neelu Hajrar hotya rohshyo, Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay.















Monish says "byaparta boroi korun" but i think the picture of moonlight bathing a dead man's bum goes quite a few steps towards romanticizing death. Why ,Shirshendu does that at the very beginning of the novel :















Nirjon ek nodi saradin elochule pa choriye boshe mrityurkorun gan gaye. Charidike nistobdho ek upotyoka, du dhare kalo paharer deyal uthe geche akashe. Ei birole shudhu majhe majke deergho swasher moto hu-hu batash boye jaye. Ajosro shada choto boro nuri pathor onor hoye pore ache. Khub shada, neerob, heem,oshar shob pathorer majhkhan diye nodi - uthsho nei, mohona nei. Saradin ekhane shudhu tar korun gan, mridu bilaper moto. Kichu nei keu nei. Shudhu harer moto shada pathor thake nithor hoye. Upotyoka jure ek mrityur sommohan. Elochule pa choriye boshe nodi obirol gan geye jaye.




"Sommohan" or hypnosis draws Baishampayan towards death. The very words korun, obirol, heem, elochul and above all nodi and neerjon bring the smell of the ultimate lonely and unknown aspect that sometimes or the other knocks at a somewhat fearfully neglected door of each and every person's mind. Monish who says he doesen't think the idea of death to be romantic at all himself cannot avoid mrityuchinta:



Aaj rate jodi more jayi.......... aaj rate tar khoob more jete ichha korche.



The Sommohan is not of death but the thought of death (mrityuchinta). The hypnotic charm thus continues it's work, leading Madan, Manish ,Baishampayan and me to think of that endless chasm, the mysterious woman with her heem nodiness who sings a song.

Ami khoob bhool korechhi. Maratmak, asojhyo aar joghonyo bhool. Nijer ei obimrishyakaritar jonyo nijer gale thash thash kore chor marte ichha korchhe. Kintu kichhu korar nei. Once done cannot be undone. Aamar bichokhonota lop peyechilo, ami churanto arbachinotar kaaj korechhi. Nijeke er jonyo konodin kshama korte parbona.

Dreamwater.

I had a dream last night. I stood on the banks of a river. It was very wide. The water was greyish brown. There were gentle ripples. They were calling me. Then out of nowhere came a man. He was very tall and thin. He was bald, had small grey eyes and a long pointed nose. He had a friendly smile on his face. He told me, "Jao, egiye jao, jolta khub bhalo. Jolta hate niye dekho, gaye makho, jao na." I, at once started moving forward as if i had been waiting for his consent. Strangely ,as soon as i started moving the water slowly started coming forward. It created puddles in hollow places. The puddles grew larger. The waters sprang up vertically, created more and more puddles. At a point of time there was water on both my left and right sides. The space above my head and the space below my feet were enveloped with the greyish-brown sheet within moments. i didn't feel frightened. i felt madly happy! I started slapping my body against the water with a fierce glee. Then i felt an excruciating pain....... a metallic, cold and salty pain. It was very real. I am still feeling it while i type. i wish it would leave me.

She.

To me , she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I was 15 then and so was she. We often talked about her and some of us had great fun describing her in the most traditional way for talking about the beauty of a bangololona. Her complexion was nothing less than doodhe-alta. She had the eyes of a horini and a perfectly banshir moto tikolo nose. Her lips resembled fresh koyas of komlalebu.........she was no less than a jibanto Durgaprotima. There was no flaw in her except the fact that she had bad hair. We often quipped: Kuchbaron konya tahar jhanta swarup kesh !( instead of meghbaron kesh). Nevertheless she deserved the other praises showered on her. We were never friends - I hardly spoke to her in the six years of secondary education yet she seemed to me a very interesting psychological case study. Our ways were different. We strongly disapproved of each other on every occasion we got to do so. Yet I know not why she did certain things she did! She, through some of her other friends urged me to recite a Tagore poem at a teacher's farewell. I got to know this only after the programme had ended as she feared that i wouldn't recite the poem had i known it was she who wanted me to do so! Another incident was just as weird as this. She was a very good dancer. That year, class 10 had to put up a programme with Pujo as their theme. Our class teacher wanted to do something really innovative so that we could put up a strong fight against our opponent - 10C. So she asked me to do a Birendro krishna Bhadro. I had to start with Ashwiner sharod prate followed by other slokas. She had earlier refused to dance as she hated the idea of wearing a saree but when she heard that just after my Ashwiner........ would begin Bajlo tomar alor benu she changed her mind. She danced really well and needless to say looked stunning in a bluish green saree. I heard she seemed to think herself very lonely. She loved a man who was several years older than her but was never loved back. She waited........ and sometimes hoped that her lover would die and like in Donne's poem his ghost would come to her bed which would serve as a proof that he really loved her but was afraid to say so lest she should refuse her. This horrified me . Can one call this love? But on the last day of our school i had seen a strange thing. She was staring blankly out of the window. I saw underneath her doodhe -alta facial skin layers of ash water laden cumolo nimbus clouds. She felt my gaze and looked at me. I quickly turned my eyes away lest i should see moss green shadows in her doe eyes. I had no desire to start conversation on the last day. Or was I afraid? Did i fear her more than i feared myself?

THANKS!!!

There are some people who can really become a bhorshar proteek when everything and everyone else fails or deliberately tries to confuse people. Amalendu Bandyopadhyay is such a person . A few days ago one of the news channels started creating unneccessary fuss on the UFO issue. They even went to the extent of suggesting their viewers to let lose their imagination and think of the prospect of weird extra terrestrials dessending on say Rashbehari more. The anchor went godogodo while anticipating the probable effects on the ETs as they watched the exclusive telecast of the channel. Thanks to veterans like Bandyopadhyay who sat awake for the whole night to get a glimpse of the "mysterious object". He assured the media that the much hyped UFO is nothing but Venus and the cause of its continuous change of shape are storms that take place in space which blow 35000 or more kms above the sea level and are thus not felt by earthlings. It is also astonishing that this bit of information wasn't avilable from the director of taramandal(BT) who was also present in the exclusive. He seemed confused and also emphasized on the fact that the thing in question could not possibly be a plannet. This is not the first time Bandyopadhyay clears confusion. In a T.V programme , a couple of years ago he, in his well known emphatic manner stated the utter futility of astrological gems and precious stones in improving a persons fate. He asked how could a plannet ,situated millions of miles away from the earth possibly affect the lives of human beings. We need people like Bandyopadhyay who can save us from being fooled by astologers or beguiled by the chatterings of mediapersons who sometime seem no worse than the former in confounding the common man.

ANTIcipation of anti-durneeti meeting.

Kaal i hobe shei moha sommellan,
Jekhane chawa hobe subichar.
Thakbe shetha bohu gunijon felte pseudo chokherjol
uthbe faaka awaj " bondhugon cholun shobe ,shuru hok moha ron!"
Tobe adhomer proshno ektai - "Hobe ki kono fol?"

Of Hypocrit Horidash Pauls and their f****ing assholes!!!

I know several people who are bloody self-advertising , conceited attention seeking asses. Yes and they are bloggers too! Take a look at their hypocrisy :-

BSA 1:- Why don't u post a comment after u have read my blog? Do u like my last post?
A:-*smiles* (Has nothing to say. Shocked at such sa).

Sometime later in the same day BSA1 says -" U know one never realises when one creates a blog that many unwelcome readers can read the stuff in ur blog and get to know things abt urself that u generally don't want everyone to know. To this BSA 2 replies - " Yes, u never realise so many people can be reading ur blog".
BSA3 in a comment on another BSA's blog post who whines and complaines abt several existing (or non existing unwanted readers) says ,to keep his actual feelings hidden from the voyeuristic glances of these unwelcome readers he writes in a cryptic manner and uses vague words and phrases.

Now, isnt this fucking ridiculous??? Didn't these dolts know that the phrase"publish post" meant that their brilliant piece of autobiographical fragment would be made available for everyone who has a net connection? Didn't these otherwise tech-savvy individuals know that they could have a select readership by clicking relevant buttons or are these superbly talented ,genius gone astray -s so full of themselves that they would just like to dwell on the utterly stupid idea that those unwanted readers would actually worry their asses to decodify their "mylifesucks" bullshit!!!

Heart's abhorrence

''Grrrrrrr, there goes my heart's abhorrence". Bloody fucked up OE answer scripts will come with a load of gloom subsequently folowed by deppression. i want to spew venom at everyone right now. i want to rip them apart .... chew their flesh..... smash their silly heads with sillier haircuts!!!! Why have they left me feeling miserably blue?

Doing it the Hemlat way!

i'm writing after a long while. today i feel like blabbering away a bit of nonsense. i can easily write my heart out without bothering about stupid things like grammatical errors and fear(s) of offending anyone. The kingkartabyabimuhro has got this bit of a cyberspace just to its self. Thus this can be it's secret diary which never will be thwarted by unwanted attention or raised brows. In my previous post i talked about the utter nyakami of emoticons, comments on one's blog posts and forthat matter the whole illusionary and pseudo-sensitive nature of cyber activities like chatting and blogging. But it'll be hypocrisy if i didn't admit the oppurtunities it offers to someone like me who would like to rant sometimes without wishing other people to hear it's rant. This will allow me to curse and swear at abominable wretches, a bunch of stuck up pseudo intellectual fools and nasty middle aged people who would love to act like 8yr old kids playing para cricket. In this way i'll be able to ''give vent to my anger" - as Hemlat put it in Hemlat-the Prince of Garanhata.

(Un)connection

Sometimes i feel that i am an extremely unconnected person. Neither do i possess a mobile-phone nor am i member of any of the popular chat sites like orkut, facebook etc. Some of my friends insist that i should immediately get a phone for myself and also join sites like orkut as it would be easier for them to track me and communicate with me. But so far i have done nothing of that sort. "Why''? they ask. i often ask myself the same question. When the whole world is going gaga over those 'really smart ultra cool' ways of remaining connected, when almost everyone( from 8yr olds to octogenarians) is all praise for the boon that is - Saral mobile sandesh(SMS) why do i keep away from these things? The answer to this in my parents' words ( and also in my friends' - who will definitely not say the words in front of me) - "U r a fool. U don't realise that the cell-phone is not just a glam accessory nowadays but it's a necessity." Well i don't disagree with them on the first sentence nor can i refute the utter usefulness of the mobile-phone. Then what keeps me from being the owner of the ultimate mushkil-ashan? The key word behind all this reluctance of mine is - Responsibility. It haunts me in every possible way. When u r the owner of a cell-phone u have to make sure - 1. not to lose it. 2. to keep it away from ur younger sibling- who will invariably be after playing silly games installed in the phone lest u r in the imminent danger of being shouted at by ur mom who will hold u guilty for alluring the kid away from his studies.3. u hear the ernest ringing of the phone when u r out in the din and bustle of the city and answer the call.4. u reply and send messages to the ones who r very sweet to do so to u,complete with cool short forms like gr8, 2 sweet, btw, asap etc not to mention the occasional smileys and emoticons. When i list these problems i feel discouraged and am forced to abandon the idea. Ha! these are but lame excuses with which i conceal some dark doubts. My head screams as it questions the abilities of those electronic messages and smses. Don't the emoticons(at least sometimes) conceal more than they reveal? How genuine and warm is the love which is conveyed just by typing Lol? Sometimes, i feel these devices just make us more alienated than ever. Our emotions r reduced to mere punctuation marks and brackets - friends that's the emoticons for u. I have seen people who rarely talk to each other when they are face to face communicate with excellent ease at sites like Orkut. I wonder what keeps them from talking when they are face to face? Why do they need the electronic pardah between them? Why the damned communication gap comes between them? The above accusations may seem to be the mad cry of an anti progress fanatic but that's the reason of my being unconnected. Many a times have i been unable to touch a person's heart even when he or she stood just beside me. On several occasions i have seen people misunderstanding each other or rather pretending to misunderstand each other for the lack of some damned words. Can these ultra modern devices solve these problems?Can it get me to only connect?

Nimnochap

I am tired of the ghyan-ghyane brishti. it's like constant whinnying. Why r the heavens so sad? It seems that the gods r just like some of us. They cannot cry their hearts out. The authorities call it nimnochap - depression.Neither the met-office nor the municipality corporation can do anything to get rid of this psychological disease that sits tight on the shoulders of the city like the old wretch of the sindbad story. As a result - our streets are flooded by the 'tears of the immortals'.

An 'earlyspring night's dream'.

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It was all imagination. The longest day was missed. The fool waited for something to happen, something that would acertain that it was true. But in reality this was the end. Or was it ever there? After drinking whole night one has to tackle the nasty hangover. Will the fool get over with it soon?

Spent a whole day being dukhho-bilashi. The sickening orange light-bathed dreams of the afternoon made me feel stangely lethargic . i sat doing nothing and stared fixedly at the walls. i was almost in a trance. i started getting addicted to this wonderful drug called self-pity, ie- dukhho-bilashita. Unlike some of my 'would-be-intellectual' class-mates who often seek refuge in narcotic-haze i get addicted simply by doing mundane things like staring at walls, watching the strange geometric patterns created by the roddur, or weaving an utterly impossible story about myself or someone else in my mind. May be that's why i have fallen short of being an antel.

june,23,2006

One whole year has passed since the fateful day- June, the 23rd,2006. I remember the day as it were just yesterday. There was i, a dazed and confused soul trying my best to find my room where iwas going to sit to write my admission test,which once cleared will open the gates of Jadavpur University Department of English (JUDE) for me. Efficient,as i am i finally managed to find my room and quite confidently took my seat in the DSA Seminar hall on the fourth floor of the UG Arts building. There were two volunteers with weird headgears sitting on the teacher's desk. Their attitude (and also their headgears !) advertised that the JUDE country was meant for people who are somewhat "different" from the "rest". i looked longingly at them and thought how extremely lucky they were to be JUDEans. i looked outside the window and could see the jheel and after staring at it for a couple of minutes i realised that i had fallen in love with JU. i insanely, desparetly,whole-heartedly wanted to be a part of this university. i wished 'it' to be my university. i wanted the piece of roddur on the jheel to be mine, i wished to own the ledges outside the classroom, i didn't want to leave out the chairs and tables from my wish list either. i was shaken from my reverie by a firm but a kind voice and turned to see that a prof. had entered the room. He had a very impressive look. Most of his hair was grey but his face showed that he was only in his late forties. After instructing the volunteers he turned to us and curtly told us to switch off the mobile-phones. i was half amused at the way he did so. This is because his eyes became ardhonimeelito (half-closed) while he spoke. Needless to say i liked him very much and thought it would be great to be taught by teachers like him. i suddenly noticed my watch. It was 11:15 by my watch. There was exactly 15 minutes to go before the exam started. Suddenly a girl,a candidate like myself entered the room and to my annoyance came up to me . She said that i was occupying her seat and suggested that i check my roll-number with the invigilator on duty. i thought that the poor girl was making a nasty mistake and tried to argue by showing her my form number. At this she politely replied that we were supposed to sit according to our reference-numbers and not our form-numbers,as i had done. Cold sweat ran down my spine. i realised that it was not she who was the "poor'' girl but it was i. In utter horror i hurried to the prof and told him my plight half fearing that he would shout at me for my callousness. To my relief, he very kindly said, "Na baba tumi bhool ghore chole eshechho. Tomar room er neecher floore. Shiri diye neme dandike.Volunteerder jigesh koro dekhiye debe"(No, child you have mistaken your room. Your room is on the third floor,on the right hand side of the stair-case.Ask a volunteer to show you the way). i looked at my watch. Only five minutes were left. I started running downstairs. This time i finally managed to find the right room and was just in time to grab the answerscript which was supposed to be filled with important informations like ref. number etc -a task which my fellow examinees had already accomplished and had started reading the question paper. i took a deep breath, glanced at the paper and dived in . After a year i am in a room with a prof. from the Comp-Lit deptt. trying to assort the forms of the candidates who are willing to enter the JUDE country and telling her my expirience as an examinee, a year earlier. i am looking keenly at the scared faces and shouting out instructions to them. Yes i am a volunteer today. i have half a mind to scold a "poor" little girl who has mistaken her room and has made me run after her to see that she makes it to the right room- but i refrain from it. i remember that another"poor" girl had done exactly the same thing a year earlier .

the story of the green tub

Do we always get what we want ? Sometimes we spend a lifetime yearning for a particular thing which perhaps is never to come within our grip. That is the story of my green tub. i don't know since when i developed a strange but strong liking for the colour green. i was bearly three or four years old when in Dr Parbati Sengupta's chamber i got to lay my hands on a very cute plastic green spoon. It was a bit peculiar because it had been manufactured by a medicine company. You could use both ends of the spoon to have medicine. I was strangely attracted to the spoon. Whenever i visited Dr. auntie's chamber she gave me the spoon to play with. What i liked about the funny spoon was not it's shape but it's colour. The green was very soothing to the eyes and at the same time it made me feel sad. Perhaps the oldy stucture of her chamber, the dark and ancient smelling maroon curtains had something to do with it. Apart from the spoon there was another thing which i liked. It was a blue tub placed under a blue tap in which she used to wash her hands. The tub and the green of the spoon somehow got combined in my mind and i asked my parents to gift me a green gumbla (green tub). As a kid i had somewhat weird choice of toys. I had once asked my parents for a plastic tap(a real one!). Though they gave me my tap they thought it ridiculous to give into my second demand. They thought it was a child's whim and that i really didn't want one after all. But both my dad and mom started doing a funny thing after that. Whenever they wanted me to do something which kids generally do not want to do they said in a strange sing-song voice "green gumbla pabe na"( You won't get the green tub if you don't do it). Today when i have grown up reasonably enough to stop yearning for such things i sometime wonder whether i have really stopped yearning for weird things. The green tub has become a symbol for all those unattainable things for which i really craved . A sing-song voice is always there to mock my failure as it softly whispers in my ears "green gumbla pabe na".

the first one.

This is the first one. Invariably i am at a loss regarding what to say. I am writing this just to check out what a post looks like.