Notes from a living room: 13

I kept telling myself the same thing...'There is a reason why they are not in your life anymore. Accept it, and move on.'

Remember what the monkey had said, 'Look beyond what can be seen'

"Jo dikhta hai uske paar dekho"

31st Oct. '11

Notes from a living room: 12

Appeared in CAT 2011 yesterday.

Today is the day of Diwali. Lighted fourteen candles in and around our flat. And then the usual evening walk around the southern avenues and a visit to the Shiva temple. And Someone is back to Kolkata after a month.

Now I will have to gear up for the NMAT exam which is on the 30th November. And then the SNAP on 18th December, then XAT on 12th January, then the interviews...the list goes on.

I sincerely wish all the best for your academics and results in the forthcoming months, Soumyo. You have put up a fight, and an elongated and great one at that. Don't lose hope and keep fighting until you achieve what you must to succeed.


There are a few days...only a few, occasional days when I find myself alone...so alone, and I miss having someone to talk to, that way. I think I would never know what it is like, to have someone special around, to listen to someone's voice, to laugh with someone. It's the same old me all the time, typing boring English words out of a heart that has just learnt how to mourn in silence.


-25th Oct. '11

Notes from a living room: 11

Do you know what my experiences say?

Don't hurt a person who has been lonely for a long time. Don't hurt a person who wants to stay loyal to something. Don't hurt a person who has cared for someone in the past. Don't push someone away if s/he wants to stay close to you.

Value one's silence as you value his/her words. Value one's words as you value your own. If you want to understand a person, understand his/her past. Understand the emotions and morality s/he was brought up in. Learn to understand the limitations of people to understand their decisions.

And there isn't anything called a good or a bad option in this world. It's just that some things click and the others don't.



How I wish none of these, whatever happened, had never happened to me, at all.

-17th Oct. '11

Notes from a holy place

Varanasi

5th Oct.

4.15 am. Patna. Dark outside.

10.10 am. Varanasi. A dream is going to come true.

Night. Writing from LICI guesthouse Varanasi. Had thali for lunch today, and an afternoon sleep caused by the tiredness from last night. That night was horrible. No sleep! Sleeper class is hell.

Visited Rajendraprasad Ghat and Dashashwamedh ghat. Had Aloo ka paratha and paneer butter masala for dinner.

LIC has given us a fine room. Reminds me and making me contrast with the one Bharat Sebasram Sangha gave us at Hardwar.


6th Oct.

Visited Vishwanath temple. Offered Puja. Had Annapurna's bhog for lunch. A bit maths for me in the evening. And at dinner, lachha paratha and two items of paneer: paneer butter masala and shahi paneer.


7th Oct.

In the morning took an auto and went to see Durga temple, Sankatmochan temple, BHU, Birla temple and other places. Ramnagar and Sarnath got included. Ramnagar falls on the other side of Ganges. Came back at noon. Once again thali for lunch.

In the evening went to see the famous evening Aarti at Dashaswamedh ghat. Beautiful. Took pictures of ghats and the aarti. Varanasi is really mind-blowing and serene with all its old-age history, culture and rituals. It's making me nostalgic at times.

Had chicken and rice at dinner at a different hotel named 'Jolojog'.


8th Oct.

In the morning went to see the ghats again. Took pictures of the same.

Faces. Motions. Pictures. Far-off places. Simple faces. Descriptions. These are what makes a place what we see from the outset.

Rice and chicken for lunch at 'Jolojog'. A bit maths for me again in the evening. And then dinner in the guest-house itself.


9th Oct.

The day when it all ends. Nothing much in my mind right now. Probably I will remind of this day after a long time.

One thing I did realise, I fulfilled the cause of my visit. My love for her is full now. The circle of life makes it's last mark here.






-Signed Soumyo.

সে একলাটি পথ চলে

ঘ্যাঁচ করে ব্রেক কষল ঋষি। মেয়েটা একেবারে সামনে। ক্রসিং-এর লাল লাইটে গান বাজছে ‘যদি তারে নাই চিনি গো...’

এতো সকালে পথে কেউ থাকাটাই অস্বাভাবিক। সূর্য্য উঠতে আধ ঘন্টা মতন বাকি। নির্বাচনের এই সময়টায় ভোর থেকেই পথে ঘাটে মাইকে মাইকে গান। স্টেয়ারিং-এ হাত রেখে সে চারপাশে তাকাল। শূন্য সড়ক। আর তার মাঝখান দিয়ে অজগরের মতন চলে গেছে রাজপথ।

মনটা আজকাল আর স্থির থাকতে চায়না। লাল আর সবুজ আলোর দিকে তাকিয়ে তার মনে পড়ল এখন চারিদিকে পরিবর্তনের ঢেউ। কিন্তু কিসের পরিবর্তন? রঙের? মতের? নাকি মনের? সব কিছুর ওপর থেকেই যে তার বিশ্বাস চলে গেছে। কি রঙ, কি মত, আর কিই বা মন। তেইশ বছর হয়ে গেল। মন কেমন করা বিকেলগুলোয় সে একা বসে বসে শুধু ভাবে। মানুষের এই এক বদ অভ্যেস। শুধু ভাবে। কেন ভাবে? কি ভাবে? নিজের কথা। পরের কথা। ভালবাসার মানুষের কথা। ওর বাবা বলে, যারা শুধু ভেবেই চলে তাদের জীবনে কিছু হয়না। ঠিক না ভুল সে জানে না। তার তো ভাবতে ভাল লাগে। নানা কথা। জীবনে কত কি করেছে। ভুল, ঠিক। কাকে কি বলেছে। বলতে পারেনি। যত সব বলা, না বলা কথা মনে ভীড় করে আসে। এক ঝাঁক মানুষের দল। আসে, যায়। কেউ কেউ কাঁদায়। কেউ বা হাসায়। মুখ হল মনের আয়না। লোকের সামনে হাসতে হয়। একা থাকলেই কান্না পায়। কেউ জানে না কেন। কত কি চেয়েছিল ঋষি, কিছুই পেল না। এই ভাবেই জীবন কাটে। একটা গান তার মনে পড়ল... “আমার সাধ না মিটিলো, আশা না ফুরালো, সকলি ফুরায়ে যায় মা”। ঋষি দুঃখবাদী। প্রেমের রোমান্টিসিজম-এ তাকে বেঁধে রাখা শক্ত। তবে পথ হারায় মাঝে মাঝে। আবার ফিরে আসে। ভুল হয়। ভুলে যায় সে কি চায়। আবার মনে পড়ে। বর্ষার রাতে কেঁদে কেঁদে নিজেকে মনে করায়। ভুল হয়ে গেছে। আর হবে না। শপথ নেওয়া আর ভাঙ্গার মাঝেই জীবন চলে। কেউ ভগবান নয়। দিনের আলোয় যে সুখী, রাতের আঁধারে সেই সবচেয়ে একা। মন না চাইলেও জীবনের নৌকা এগিয়ে চলে। সামনের দিকে। টালমাটাল জীবন। সামলাবে কে? ‘মন মাঝি তোর বৈঠা নে রে, আমি যে আর পারিনে।‘ চারিদিকে আঁধার। চলেছে এগিয়ে। কেউ জানে না আলো কোথায়। আঁধারে যে হাঁটে সে পেয়েছে এক বৃহৎ আলোর সন্ধান।

বাড়িতে ঋষির আলাদা শোবার ঘর নেই। ভেতরের দিকে একটি ঘর। সেটিতে মা ও বাবা। বাইরের ঘরেই তার শোয়া, বসা, দিন কাটানো। এই ঘরে একটি আত্মা থাকেন। তিনি কে তার জানা নেই। রাতে আসেন, ভোরের প্রথম আলোয় চলে যান। লম্বা ঘর। এক কোনায় তিনটে চেয়ার পাতা। রাত গভীর হলে তার পায়চারি। অন্ধকারে মিশে যেতে ভাল লাগে। মনে হয় কেমন অদৃশ্য হয়ে পৃথিবীটাকে দেখছে। নিজেকে ভগবান মনে হয়। দেওয়ালে পিঠ ঠেকিয়ে দাঁড়িয়ে থাকে। একা লাগে। শূন্য বিছানার দিকে চোখ পড়ে। ছায়া ঘুমোয়, না কায়া। গভীর রাতকে মাঝে মাঝে বন্ধু মনে হয়। মাঝে মাঝে অচেনা। শত্রু। ভাবায়। হাসায়। কাঁদায়। কে যেন বলে গেছে সাধারন মানুষ তার মস্তিষ্কের মাত্র এক-চতুর্থাংশ ব্যাবহার করে। তাতেই এত কিছু। যোগীরা নাকি আরো বেশি। তাতেই তাদের শক্তি। অলৌকিক কতো কি শোনা যায়। সে কিছুই দেখল না। মানুষের জানার পরিধি কত সীমিত। মন কে বলে সব ছেড়েছুড়ে দিয়ে বেরিয়ে পড়তে। পারেনা। ডানার জোর না থাকলে পাখি উড়তে পারেনা। পথ হেটে চলে। একা একা। কথা বলে। নিজের সাথে নিজের তর্ক। একবার এ জেতে তো আর একবার ও। নিজেকে হারিয়েই সন্তষ্ট হয়। সে জানে সে অন্যকে হারাতে পারবেনা। কোনদিনই পারেনি। লাভের মধ্যে ভালবেসে ফেলল। এমন একজনকে যে তাকে চায়না। কোনদিন চাইতে পারেনা। শ্রীজিতা সে। তার সংস্কার, সে কি চায় সব গুলিয়ে ফেলে বলে বসল, ‘ভালবাসি’। একবার নয়, দু দুবার। সেই আওয়াজ পাথরের দেওয়ালে লেগে ফিরে এল। অনুমতি নেই। ছিল না। থাকবে না। পূজার ফুল বাসী হল। চোখের জলে বাধ্য হয়ে তাকে সব ধুয়ে ফেলতে হল। কিন্তু ধরে রাখতে পারল না। তাঁর পূজার ফুল তিনি নিয়ে গেছেন। ঘ্রানটুকু নিয়ে গেলেন। বাকিটা পড়ে রইল।

এদিকে মন বড়ই উচাটন। ভালবাসা চায়। কি আর করা? দেরাদুনের এক হস্টেলে সে মানুষ। যে সময়ে মানুষ নিজের মা বাবা কে চায়, সে পেয়েছে বন্ধুবান্ধব। এখন তারা বাইরে বাইরে। নিজেদের জগৎ। না পারে তাদের বলতে, না পারে বাড়িতে নিজের দুঃখের কাহিনী মেলে ধরতে। অগত্যা মনেই সব। সেখানেই শুরু, সেখানেই শেষ। যাকে ভালবেসেছিল তাকে না পেয়ে একদিন যাকে লুকিয়ে লুকিয়ে দেখত তার কথা মনে করে। পল্লবী। তিনি আরো মহান। অহংকারের চূড়ায় বসে মনোনিবেশ করেছেন অন্য কাজে। বৃক্ষের সাথে নুড়ির কি সম্পর্ক? হাত বাড়ালেও পাওয়া যায়না। ছেঁড়া কাঁথায় শুয়ে সিংহাসনের স্বপ্ন। তাতেও আনন্দ। মানুষের মন বড় জটিল। তল বোঝা ভার। কার মনে কি আছে কে জানে? নিজে কি চায়, তাই কি ছাই জানে? একবার এ ঘাট, তো আর একবার ওঘাট। লজ্জা ঢাকতে খান দুই টুপি কিনে ফেলল। ওই মাথায় দিয়েই চলছে। রাস্তায় চেনা কেউ সামনে পড়ে গেলে টুপি দিয়ে মুখ ঢাকে। ভাবটা এমন যেন দুনিয়া সুদ্দু লোক তার কীর্তিকলাপ জেনে বসে আছে।

আজ এই শূন্য সড়কের ওপর ড্রাইভ করতে করতে তার মনে পড়ল সর্বদা সবাই তাকে একটু এড়িয়ে এড়িয়েই চলত। বন্ধু-বান্ধব, চেনাজানা কারোর সাথে ওরও বেশি মাখামাখি করতে ইচ্ছে করেনা। তার ব্যাপারে লোকে জানুক, তাও চায়না। কি যে চায়, সেটাই বোঝেনা। ছোটবেলা থেকেই এই। বাড়ির বাইরে গিয়ে আরো কেমন হয়ে গেল। নিজের লোকেদের নিজের মনে হয়না। সবটাই কেমন ছাড়াছাড়া। বেহিসেবী। কে একজন ওর হাত দেখে বলেছিল, এই ছেলের সন্ন্যাস আছে। হায় ভগবান। ওই জানে ওর কি আছে। ওই লাইন তার নয়। অনেক সাধনা দরকার হয়। ত্যাগ দরকার হয়। নিজেকে মাঝে মাঝে ওর মুখোশ পরা এক শয়তান মনে হয়। কি চায়, কি করে ফেলে। কি বলতে চায়, কি বলে ফেলে। প্রেতাত্মা মনে হয় নিজেকে। একা একা হাটছে। পথ আর ফুরোয় না। হিসেবি মানুষ ধরে ফেলে। চীৎকার করে বলে, কি করছিস রে। চোখের পাতা আর পড়ে না। আগুন দেখেছে সে। জ্বলতে চায়। নিজের ভেতরটা একদম পুড়িয়ে নিজেকে শেষ করে তবে ছাড়বে। ত্রিকোন প্রেম, ডিভোর্স, আত্মহত্যা যোগ, সংসার, সন্ন্যাস কোনোটিই তো আর বাকি রাখেনি এই হাতে। লাফ দাও এই সাগরে। খেলো আগুন নিয়ে। কারোর মানা নেই। গেছিলে জ্যোতিষীকে ভুল প্রমান করতে। ফিরে এলে তো মাথা নিচু করে? কারোর কারোর এই জিনিসটা থাকে। সবাইকে ভুল প্রমাণ করার তাগিদ। তুমিই ঠিক, গোটা জগৎ ভুল। এবার ঠেলা সামলাও। তোমার জগৎকে আধখানা করে দিয়ে চলে গেল। অক্ষরে অক্ষরে মিলে গেল ভবিষ্যৎবাণী। কে আপন, কেই বা পর।

শুয়ে শুয়ে সে স্বপ্ন দেখে। বেনারস চলেছে। পথে হাজার লোক। এক একটা ঘটনা এমন থাকে মনকেও বিশ্বাস করানো যায়না। বেনারসের ওপর একটা অদ্ভুত টান ছিল। পল্লবীর কথা জানার পর সেটা আরো বেড়ে গেল। বেড়ে গেল সেখানে যাওয়ার ইচ্ছে। কিন্তু তার কি চাই সে তাই জানেনা। কেন যেতে চায়। পল্লবী কে খুঁজতে? সে তো তার বাড়ী থেকে একশ পা দূরেই থাকে। তার ছেলেবেলা খুঁজতে চায়? তা সে এখন কোথায় পাবে? মনের মধ্যে ঝড় ওঠে। পুরনো সব কথা। ভুলে যাওয়ার চেষ্টা করে।

জীবনের যত আলসে দুপুরগুলো। নরম নরম। ধরনটা কেমন মেয়েলী মেয়েলী। আকাশ পাতাল ভাবতে ইচ্ছে করে। আগে এটা ছিল না। ইদানিং হয়েছে। সব কিছু নিয়েই ভাবতে ভাল লাগে। বাইরের ঘরটাই এরকম। লোক তো লোক। কেউ নেই তো সব ফাঁকা। বেমালুম। মনে হয় কোনো এক দৈত্য যেন ভোজবাজির মতোন সব মুছে দিয়েছে। এই সময়ে একা একা ভালো লাগেনা। শ্রীজিতার কথা মনে পড়ে। মনকে বোঝালেও সে বুঝবে কেন? ভালোবাসা এমনই। সব নিয়ে চলে যায়। তার আবার আর এক ঝামেলা। লাল এক চেয়ার। বিছানার উল্টো দিকে তার দিকে মুখ করে আছে। সারা দিনই এরকম। রাত্রে মুখ ঘুরিয়ে দিলেও সকালে উঠে দেখা যাবে এদিকে হয়ে বসে আছেন। কোন একজনের অবাধ প্রবেশ আছে এই ঘরে। তিনি কে তা সে জানে না। জানতে চায়ও না। তিনি শুধু দেখেন। ঋষি কি করছে। মনে মনে একদিন সে বলেও ফেলেছিল, ‘আপনি যদি কোন শুভ আত্মা হন, আমাকে আমার ভালবাসা ফিরিয়ে দিন।‘ বলেই জিভ কেটেছে। কে ভালবাসা। কার ভালবাসা। এ সংসার শুধু দেহ দিয়ে গড়া। দেহ চায় দেহকে। মনের খবর কে রাখে। তায় আবার ভালবাসা। মাঝে মাঝে ভয় হয় সংসার থেকে মন উঠে যাচ্ছে না তো? সব কিছুই কেমন যেন আলগা আলগা। জীবনের প্রথম দিকটায় একা থাকার ফলে সে কেমন একটা রুক্ষ হয়ে গেছে। সবেতেই মেকী মেকী ভাব। আবার কারনে অকারনে কাঁদতে ইচ্ছে করে। তবে একটা ফন্দি বের করেছে। জার্মান একটা সিনেমার থিম মিউজিক মোবাইলে তুলে নিয়েছে। গভীর রাত্রে সবাই ঘুমিয়ে গেলে ওটা শোনে আর কাঁদে। বালিশ ভিজে যায়। কিন্তু সে পরোয়া করেনা।

সন্ধের পর ঋষি রাস্তায়। হাটছে আর হাটছে। এ যেন একটা খেলা। নিজেকে আবিষ্কার করার। নিত্যনতুন চলছে। একই রাস্তা। একই মানুষজন। চেনা, অচেনা মানুষ। চোখ খোঁজে পুরোনো কাউকে। পায়না। আর খুঁজে পেলেই বা কি? কেউ কারোর জন্যে অপেক্ষা করে থাকেনা। দুনিয়াটা অনেক বড় জায়গা। নিজেকে সামলানোই আসল জিনিস। কারোর হয়, কারোর হয়না। ফাঁদে পড়ে যায়, ছটফট করে, কিন্তু বেরিয়ে আসতে পারেনা। কেউ কেউ পারে, কিন্তু অনেক দেরি হয়ে যায়। জীবনটাই এরকম। এই আছে, এই নেই। সূক্ষ সূতোর মতন তফাৎ। বুদবুদের মতন। হঠাৎই সব কিছু থেমে যায়। এই দিন, তো এই রাত। জীবন বড়ই অদ্ভুত। হাসি দিয়ে শুরু। কান্না দিয়ে শেষ। কিন্তু মাঝের সময়টা...ওটাই সব। নিক্তি দিয়ে বিচার হবে, কি দিলে, কি নিলে। যার ভান্ডারে বেশি রইলো, সে জিতে গেল। রবার্ট ফ্রষ্ট লিখেছেন, A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom. এও সেরকমই। লক্ষ্য রাখো কি শিখছ। কি জানছো। পাখির চোখ। তবে এই সব কথা সে কাউকে বলেনা। নিজের মনেই রেখে দেয়। কখনও বা লিখে রাখে। অনেকদিন পরে, কাল রাত্রে সে একটা লেখা শেষ করেছে। ডায়রীটা পেছনের সীটে ব্যাকপ্যাকের মধ্যে রাখা।

ব্রীজ-এ ওঠার মুখে বাঁদিক ঘেঁসে গাড়িটা পার্ক করায় ঋষি। তার সামনে দাঁড়িয়ে আছে হাওড়া ব্রীজ। প্রকান্ড এক দানবের মতন। ধূসর, প্রাণহীন এক ধাতব দানব। গাড়ির ব্যাকসীট থেকে নিজের ব্যাকপ্যাকটা বের করে পীঠে ঝুলিয়ে নেয় সে। ঠিক দু’শ পা হাটলে সে পৌঁছে যাবে ব্রীজের ঠিক মাঝখানে। সে হাটতে থাকে।

কয়েক মিনিটের মধ্যে সে পৌঁছে যায় ব্রীজের ঠিক মাঝখানে। ভোরের আকাশ। আর কয়েক মিনিটের মধ্যেই হয়তো সূর্য্য উঠবে। একটা পায়রা দূর থেকে উড়ে এসে ব্রীজের ধাতব রেলিং-এর ওপর বসে। পাখিটার দিকে তাকিয়ে ঋষি চিন্তা করতে থাকে। তার সামনে এখন দু’টো রাস্তা। এক, গল্পের নায়ককে মেরে ফেলা, যা সে অধিকাংশ গল্পের ক্ষেত্রে করে থাকে...হয়তো আত্মহত্যা! এতো সহজ! একজন যে জীবনে প্রায় সব কিছুই হারিয়েছে, এখন শুধু একটা লাফ মাত্র, আর কয়েক সেকেন্ডের মধ্যে সে এই মরণশীল দুনিয়ার বাইরে। হয়তো এটা মিলনান্তিক শেষ হবেনা, কিন্তু মৃত্যু মানুষের বুকে দীর্ঘস্থায়ী ছাপ রেখে যায়...এই গল্প হয়তো আর কেউই ভুলতে পারবেনা।

কিন্তু তারপরে, সে দ্বিতীয় রাস্তার কথা চিন্তা করে।

সে তার ব্যাকপ্যাক থেকে তার ডায়রীটা বের করে আনে। আগের রাত্রের লেখা গল্পের পাতাগুলো বের করে সে। আঠারোটা পাতায় তার সেই পুরোনো নীল পেনটা দিয়ে লেখা গল্প। আঠারোটা পাতায় লেখা ‘আমি একলাটি পথ হাটি’, তার জীবনের দুঃখ আর কষ্টের কাহিনী। লেখাগুলোর দিকে তাকিয়ে তার চোখ জলে ভরে যায়। হঠাৎই তার পাশ দিয়ে কিছু পাখি উড়ে গঙ্গার অন্য দিকটায় চলে যায়। পূর্বদিকটা লাল হয়ে আসছে। আর ঋষি দাঁড়িয়ে আছে পবিত্র গঙ্গানদীর ওপর সর্বোচ্চ স্থানে।

পৃষ্ঠাগুলোকে ভাঁজ করে ছিঁড়ে ফেলে সে। আর তারপর সেই ছেঁড়া পৃষ্ঠাগুলোকে আবার দু’ভাঁজ করে ছিঁড়ে ফেলে। বাহাত্তর খন্ড হয়ে যায় তার গল্পের। তার হৃদয়ের বাহাত্তরটা খন্ড। তার মূল্যবান হৃদয়ের খন্ড।

আর তারপরেই সেগুলোকে সে হাওয়াতে ছুঁড়ে দেয় ব্রীজের ওপর থেকে। আকাশ ভরে যায় কাগজে... হাওয়াতে কাগজের টুকরোগুলো উড়তে থাকে। মুক্তির আনন্দে তারা যেন অজানা সুরে নাচতে থাকে। কিছুক্ষণের মধ্যেই কাগজের টুকরোগুলো নদীর বুকে ঝাঁপিয়ে পড়ে। এইবার সূর্য্য উঠবে।

ভোরের আলোয় পৃথিবীকে নতুন ভাবে দেখে ঋষি। পরিবর্তন সেও চেয়েছিল। তবে সেটা রঙের নয়, মতের নয়...মনের। আজ হয়তো সে সেটা পেয়েছে। যে লোহার শেকল ছিল তার পায়ে, তার হাত থেকে আজ তার মুক্তি হয়েছে। হাওড়া ব্রীজের ওপাশে স্টেশনের লাগোয়া দোকান গুলোর পাশ থেকে পাখীগুলো সারি বেঁধে বেরিয়ে আসতে থাকে। কয়েকটা বাস, আরো কয়েকটা ট্যাক্সী...এবার শহরের সরব হওয়ার পালা।

পূর্বের লাল আকাশের দিকে চেয়ে ঋষি এক নতুন নিজেকে খুঁজে পায়।


-Sent for the Anandabajar Patrika reader's writing contest '11

Notes from a living room: 10

They say you need to wait for it till the call comes from inside, they say you need to have patience until the right time comes...and when it does, you need to free yourself from your mortal body and let your immortal soul hover around your past, present and future and let it see whether the thing you wanted the most actually suits you, for the rest of your life, and if the answer comes as yes, go for it wholeheartedly, irrespective of all the hurdles on your way, as nothing is more supportive in this world than a yes from the deepest core of your heart... follow it and you will reach your destiny.


Off to Varanasi for a week.

-4th Oct. '11

Notes from a living room: 9

Looking at a picture of her, posing in front of a car, needless to say in Canada, I felt proud of falling for someone who was worth it, and went on to the extent of taking an oath that, whatever happens with our fates, study remains the first priority of my life, and soon I will be looking forward to my dream of going out to gain exposure, and then afterwards, a degree from a foreign university.


Contrary to the popular belief, I know exactly what I am doing.


- 30th Sept. '11

Notes from a living room: 8

Times of India didn't publish my writing this year. So dejecting. Not in a mood to do anything.

Pallabi went to Canada yesterday.


-27th Sept. '11

Notes from a living room: 7

Many stories are due...plots in my head, but can't convert them into paper. 'Love is a four-letter word', 'At five in the afternoon', 'Salted' and others. Can't think of one at a time.

Attachments. Regrets. Betrayal. Decisions. Time. Love. Loyalty. Waiting...

Some happenings in my life tells me one day I will be free from every attachment I have ever had in my life. Either way, once I am out of Kolkata, there is no coming back for me. But it's a bit dejecting that this city has actually failed to give me something which can be an attachment for my upcoming life, that way. I mean, what should I come back for?


So many things I wanted to say. So many things are there. But there isn't anyone to listen to. So I've stopped. I have stopped spilling everything out. One day I will be someone busy with real things of life, and maybe I will not look back to people at all. It has happened in the past, and who knows, maybe it will happen again.


Was going through the first copy of Friday, the same novel on which I was working for almost three years now...and found out that I have matured in these years a lot, both in thinking process and constructing the idea. Friday will take time, though. Atleast not before six-seven years.


Now waiting eagerly for the Spellbound edition of this year.


-September 20 '11

…The night I ran

It had been pouring all day long. But I was determined to make it to the church that day, it was my birthday. The church wouldn’t have opened, my friends warned me about the infamous graveyard across the church, but it could not stop me. I had a different plan.

The district pickle-exhibition was happening just a few blocks away from the church and given the weather, I was sure that some of the volunteers would be absent today. So there is a possibility that I can act as one of them and get to taste the tastiest pickles from around the district. I was thrilled.

And it happened so. But unlike as I thought, the exhibition came to an end very late. It was already eleven at night. I took the shortcut via the old jail-building and the graveyard and through the college ground.

Just after I crossed the church, the old jail-building came into notice. It remained abandoned for years, and was used at the time of pre-independence to hang the rebels. Stories were that one could hear droppings of blood, hear strange cry from inside that uninhibited jail-place. Rumors and history had made it mysterious, forever.

And then something in the middle of the cemetery caught my eye: a figure wearing a white gown standing still. I don’t remember how much time had passed but eventually it turned at me, as I realised that I had stopped and was still stoned to the ground. I hurried my steps to make my way to the college ground.



And then I realised I was not alone. I looked back and found that the white figure has followed me to the ground.

I doubled my speed. I had to cross the ground diagonally to reach the main road, and all I knew was once I’m there, I’m safe. The scythe-shaped moon made the ground half-lighted, and as secretive as it could be.


I started running, only to find my follower doing the same. My heart thumped like a hammer, as the Neems and Peepuls kept going behind against the run, and then all my hairs stood up from the root in excitement and fear to bring tears in my eyes when I heard the sound…

Dhup.. dhup.. dhup!


It’s still following me! I realised that I was close to the main road and kept running. I jumped over the old abandoned well of the compound nearby and came on the main road. I found the night show of the local cinema hall has broken, and people have started to come out. I knew I was safe, and then out of curiosity I looked back.

I saw the white figure standing fifty meters away, looking at me. And then it turned into a wheel-shaped object, rolled a few times and fitted exactly on the mouth of the well I jumped a few seconds ago.


The last thing I remember was I threw a cry, as some of the men came running in and everything went dark afterwards.



- 9th September '11, written for the spellbound competition 2011, with loads of hope for it to get published.

Notes from a living room: 6

Today I have become a member of an NGO. It’s called The Institute for the People in Need (IPN). Thus one of my oldest dreams to help people has come to reality. Though it’s not that I haven’t before, but they were all in the form of casual giving away money to beggars and all. And in the hostel days giving clothes and money to help the poor. But anyway, now I stand a chance to do it directly…and I am happy about it.

By the way, received the Deutsch certificate and a prize from the Max Muller Bhavan on Saturday evening. Prizes were given only to those scoring above eighty. Feeling proud about it.

And that’s all for now. One thing I have learned in these years is that, when you put true effort to what you want from your heart, it’s going to happen in your favour. All you want is a bit of luck, and the nod from the other side. Hope you get it.


-30th August '11

Notes from a living room: 5

It’s only a few days to September, and as I found out walking back from the Southern Avenues, the Chhatim flowers have started blooming. A sweet smell, reminds me of so many things from the past. It reminds me of my ancient place, my ancient home. There is one of the very oldest memories to smile about attached to it when I am alone. There was a chhatim tree somewhere between our ancient home and the Town library. And the first time I came across the smell of the flowers is on the way back from a marriage ceremony. After that, every time I asked the source of the smell to my mother saying that it can be found only when you are on the way back from a marriage ceremony. I was mere a child then and my simpleness makes me smile every time I remind about it.

I am inclined to write about a friend, my friendship with him and a few words he said the other day. He was one of the oldest to know about my affection for Pallabi, he himself was from the same school which she used to go. We have shared or rather I should say there was a time when we used to share light moments about love and other things. He was the same person who told his story of ‘Varsha’ which I turned into a short story named ‘A love forgotten’. But then suddenly there wasn’t any news, we would see him in college and he would just walk past us. And a few months ago I realised he was in love. It was a girl from different college. I smiled in my loneliness and wished him luck, for he was a friend, and a true person at heart.

Well anyway, I wrote him yesterday that someday I would like to know more about them, he and his girlfriend, and how they met, or how their bond has grown. He advised me something like, ‘one day you’ll know yourself, and it’s worth the wait.’ I got amazed, read the line a few times and tried to find out the meaning. Another friend of mine fell in love with a girl a few months ago and that thing had also shaken my mind. People are out there who are experiencing it. People with whom once I walked, talked, laughed about love and other things in public. And now those people are coming out of their shell to post long status messages in social sites about how beautiful love is. It seems everything has gone perfect for them in their lives, at the very right time. One that is left is the one writing it all. Tears run down my eyes. I can’t figure it out whether it’s out of my misery, or out of their happiness.


P.S: I almost forget to mention this, but it’s been a few weeks that I notice the intuition line growing on my right palm.


-27th August '11

Notes from a living room: 4

I realised I do not compromise with anyone who question my abilities. I don't like the flattery either, but I guess it is the silent support and staying beside me is all I want.


Two years it has been after the Punjabi family has gone away from our colony, and here is a visitor this morning, asking for their presence. He is a man of about forty. Maybe a friend of the Punjabis. He wanders for a few minutes, and then goes back to his car and within a few minutes he is gone. It feels like he had some news for them, like he wanted to meet them after a long time coming from a land far away...


And that I wanted to write something about 'A billion or nothing' in relation to the words one must speak in order to woo a girl. Decided against it. All I wait for now is a message in Facebook. Social work calls. Let's see if the fate permits, or not.


P.S: What's wrong with Pallabi's head? Just because I am sending a friend request does not mean I am inferior, nor is that it makes me one. But not accepting it makes a person look stupid. Specially when you know him and you don't want to talk to him. I don't understand. What have I done wrong for which she doesn't talk to me? Have I done anything that has hurt her, in any way? I can't remember. Well, as a matter of fact, we all have our preferences...but giving reasons are important in order to maintain a healthy social life, atleast that's what I believe. As an Aries male I see things in the world positively, not in a secretive way. And I expect people will behave with me like that only.


-23rd August '11

Notes from a living room: 3

Sitting at one of the most silent places I have ever come across, the Golpark Ramakrishna Mission library, chilled to bones from the air-conditioner fixed a few feet above my head, with Ruskin Bond's 'Rain in the Mountain' in hand, and a romantic thought in my mind, that one day someone will gift me one of these books written by Bond and I will literally break into tears in her arms, I cried.


Within the first six hours of daylight the day proved again that my simcat-5 was going to be a futile one. Sad, I wanted to find peace somewhere. Had a sleep of half an hour which made me feel lazy all over again. And then I got up, had tea and realised it was time I gave a visit to the library. Within half an hour I was on my way to Golpark.


And then what else? Read 'Rain in the Mountain' again. It touches a person's soul every time you give it a read. Such a simple person, such a simple way of writing he has put up in it...sometimes I wonder, why on earth did he not get more fame than what he has now. Copied a poem written by him, which was put up in relation to love and friendship in the book, and I will love to share it here.

Enough for me that you are beautiful:
Beauty possessed diminishes
Better a dream of love
Than love's dream broken;
Better a look exchanged
Than love's word spoken
Enough for me that you walk past
A firefly flashing in the dark


My grandmother (My mother's mother) has come over by the way. She was unwell for some time and my mother went to the uncle's place and brought her here. Didi, Debasis da and my little niece are coming tomorrow. A yellow shirt, they carry for me. And I find this world funny enough to laugh about it in silence.

Possibilities are what drives us. Possibilities are on which we live. Do I have the power to find out the right possibilities? Time will tell.

-19th August, '11

Notes from a living room: 2

Time stops at a few places


Finishing a story after working four years on it makes you nostalgic, that too, at an extent where you tend to remind things from the past that were minute, and when you look back, they sort of make you smile in a way and makes you realise that the world is much bigger for only one person or one life to understand it fully.

As a matter of fact, I was thinking in my mind of a few things, and came across a series of happenings where my life has stopped and has remained in those moments just like that, and will remain there forever. It's like the time has stopped there. Just like Ruskin Bond once wrote, 'Time stops at Shamli'. I can remember a few, and am describing here for giving you examples.

I still remember the first time in class five at my hostel when I fell ill, that day I didn't go to the school, and stayed at the Bhavan (Hostel building). And in the semi-consciousness of fever and sleep, I could smell the smoke that was coming from a nearby garden where old leaves were burning. That smell, that smoke has remained with me forever. Whenever I get a smoke of burning of leaves, it reminds me of that day of my illness and that semi-consciousness of my sleep.

Another interesting happening, I just found out while listening to a song today, 'Kuch Kuch Hota Hai'. It reminded me of the first time I listened to the song. It was at my ancestral place. I returned from a prize distribution ceremony and was awarded the first prize for painting in my school. I took out the water colour and started painting as soon as I reached home. That moment, while painting, I heard that song of love for the first time, and it remained with me forever. It also reminds me now how I and my sister used to take notes of the lyrics of songs which used to come hovering in the air from nearby houses at our ancestral place. Life has changed a lot since then. And I don't regret.


Or should I tell you about that oldest friend of mine with whom I used to play in the afternoons at Contai, and when I became second in the science talent exam from the district, he started envying me and went away. That oldest friend of mine, hasn't come back since, irrespective of all my initiations.

Time stops at a place near a Shiva temple here at Kolkata when I think about a few moments I stood beside Pallabi. I confess, we didn't talk that much. Not that we used to on the first place. There was nothing between us so that one could call us 'friends', that way. But still, something I found within her, that I couldn't forget and won't be able to. As a matter of fact, I respect her decisions and ready to give my fate a chance.



...And there are so many stories to tell. I wish I had someone special with whom I could share these stories, but alas...I do not. How I wish someone had sat beside me and looked me in the eye while I said these things and we laughed together, but sadly so, it's not happening. Funny old world.


Another important thing, I am not writing stories any more, atleast not for a few months. I will come back time and again to write these notes, that's all. Sometimes writers need a break from the hassles of the world of words, only if you know what I mean.


-17th August, '11

The no-private room

GENRE: Scenes from a writer’s life



I like my room as much as one loves his own bedroom.

The room is really vast, enclosing about 400 square feet at its base. The entrance door is at north side, through which about a hundred people go in and out everyday, the same door opening to the road. Just opposite to this door, at the other side of the room, there resides the back door which opens to a narrow corridor. The corridor opens to a narrower lane which in turn opens to the local bazaar - the market place.

Just beside the back door, there are the stairs, which go straight to first floor. Eleven steps, and counting the last, twelve and in front of it is the room of my landlady living with her two children. All the three speak a lot… much are rubbish, a few boring and the rest concerning me. The landlady herself, a fat and dark woman and though very talkative, is a very cunning species. I took this room just six months ago and within these months, she has hiked the rent twice. I have decided after the last case, whenever after this she comes to talk anything about the rent, I will give her a hint of leaving this room.

My bed is at the eastside, just beside the window – the only window, the medium through which I can talk to the passers-bye, can smell all the things around the house, starting from the Chhatim flowers, the Jasmine flowers of my neighbour-the Punjabi family, to the rotten smell of vegetables from the market. And through the same window I can see the whole sky at a glance with its all glistening stars at night.

Under my bed, lies my trunk. It’s the same trunk that I carried to my hostel, in my childhood. And though in its old age, it still shows my registration number of the school hostel on it. Except these, I have some books with me- some of my college life-literature works, some are fiction stories, a few of Ruskin Bond- the same books which I was carrying since my childhood. These, and a colourful flower-vase which I have bought at a local fare a few days ago, remained without flowers – as a bachelor.

Two middle sized cabinets stand beside my bed, as two ghosts. I use one of them, and the other one stays locked. Still, I have tried to find out what resides inside it, but unfortunately have failed every time. Besides these, a dining table is at a corner of the room, which is of no use now, and a chair, on which sometimes I try to sit, knowing fully that at any moment it can break into pieces.


And here comes the speciality of the room. The back door of the room, being a short-cut passage to the market, makes the room public. This short route is like a hot cake here; and for this reason, everyday from morning to afternoon, I have to keep the doors open and watch people coming in and going out. People with different getup, different behaviour, different kinds of dresses…but all of them have a common thing in them: they all are curious about me. Some of them ask about my work, some about my family and some are even more confused…they try to narrate all their family problems to me. Due to the respect for them and because I don’t have many a things to do generally, I have to listen to their problems from time to time.

Beside the road, on the opposite side of my room, lives the Punjabi family, my favourite neighbour, and it is a nice job for me to watch them. They have two cars, and both the cars shout like bulls, and the little boys on the road shout at them. But you can curse them, laugh at them, though you can’t help but love the two daughters of the Punjabi parents, the same two girls aging between eighteen to twenty, who were the popular topics of the boys’ talking in the town.

Sameer, a young local boy makes me know about the hot gossips about the town from time to time, and it’s through him I get to know all the happenings in town. Sometimes I give him a rupee to have tea and he becomes so glad that it turns out to be hard for me to control him.

“What do you do?” one day Sameer asked me while eating some fruits in my room.

I told him that I watch people all the time, and that’s the only thing I do.
“Is it a work?” he asked again.

“Do you think it is?”

“Of course not, I mean, what is your work?”

“Well, I write stories and other things that are true…now, is that enough to be a work?”

“So you are a writer?” he smiled, and looking at him, I smiled too.


Life is the same here everyday, though not boring. At the early hours of morning, a hindustani passes the road selling the sugarcane-juice, pushing a four-wheeled machine that crushes the canes and juice gets deposited into the mug kept under it. I taste it sometimes, and it tastes best when it is mixed with lemon and salt. Then on the road it is the flower girl, making her way to the bazaar. She always uses the long road outside, ignoring the path via my room. I have never seen her taking the shortcut. Though, it’s very often that our eyes meet, and we wave our hands at each other.

Then come all the grocers of the bazaar. Some through my room and some are energetic enough to take the long route outside. Meanwhile, I do some of my business, buying fruits from some of my well known sellers. I try to start a conversation with them and it’s very often they are in a hurry to leave quickly. Later, in the second half of morning, the local people start coming in. Some in their dhoti and punjabis, some in pants and shirts, pass my room giving a quick smile to me and proving themselves pretty obliged and gratified. But this thing, to me is becoming unbearable now. After all, no one can let the people go in and out through his room all the day, especially when the rent is so high. So, I am planning to collect one rupee from every person willing to pass through my room to market everyday, which I believe – will reduce my problem regarding the rent.


My lunch, which comes from the local popular hotel, is very cheap though the quality of food is good enough. The lunch packet is brought to my room by Sameer – he is a worker there, and feels glad to serve for me. He is a natural joyous child and has simpleness in his wide black eyes…very black, which is also the colour of his body. The packet of food consists of the same thing everyday – the rotis, dal and a vegetable…sometimes a pickle and that’s all. I consume them sitting on the floor, and a white cat often tries to put her head through the windows for some food making me throw pieces of bread at her to drive her away.

And the idle afternoon hours, when I really have nothing to do, no one to talk, no one to hear. I have to listen to my old clock, ticking all the time. The hot may wind trespasses into the room. “A loo,” according to my landlady, “can cause you ill-health.”

There are sounds from the nearby ground of playing football, sometimes cricket – the sounds come floating in the air as a noise. And the sound of Ajaan, coming from the farthest part of the town – the Muslim-patti…which makes me lose myself in the past for a while. These wrap up the afternoon, which sometimes also have the barking of stray dogs, calling of a toyseller – the same man from whom once I bought a whistle and gave it to Sameer.

And after half a year in this town Sultanpur, here I am, sitting just about hundred kilometres away from Delhi, half way to my writing, half way through my next novel.




Narayan comes to chat with me sometimes; he is the brother of the local postmaster here. But apart from that he has another identity too, and that is the only person to have all the informations about everything happening in the town. He literally knows about all the happenings and secrets in town. It’s through him I have come to know about the history of this room, the room I live. Years ago, this house used to belong to the husband of my landlady. This room was just a store room back then. It’s only after the death of her husband, the lady realised that the store room at the ground floor can be used as renting purpose. Few changes were made in the room, and it was a ready resource for an extra income adding to the pension for the landlady. It was only then the back door was discovered and people started taking the shortcut through the room. Now-a-days, as I realise, the room has turned into something that is called a ‘dalaan’ in Hindi. It doesn’t have any privacy at all. At public demand, I have to keep both the doors open till evening. It’s not a regret by the way, because as a writer, it helps me talk to people of several type all the time…but sometimes you would really feel grateful to have atleast some level of privacy in your room. I don’t have that. And as I have already mentioned, one more time the landlady comes to me and talks about increasing the rent, I will leave the room.

And then one day while talking to me in my room; Narayan started telling me about the previous inhabitant of this room. He turned towards me suddenly and said,

“Have I told you about Arun?”

“I’m afraid not. Who’s he by the way?”

“Ah...I haven’t, have I? He was the previous boy here, just before you rented this room, actually. You see the cabinets down there…one of them was used by him only. He forgot to leave the keys to the cabinet before he left, and after that it has just remained the way it used to, locked. He was a nice boy by the way…used to work for the post office itself, as a junior clerk. It was only after he got a job in Delhi, he left the room within a very few days’ notice. All of us, who knew him, loved him. And the love was in a greater volume for the Punjabi girl I guess, who fell in love with him…”

“Okay” I said, “so, we have a love story here?”

“Not exactly a love story, I would say…because they never got a chance to be together…but still, in a town like this, where people love to hear gossips, a smoke is enough to keep people reminding about the fire that was once on…”


I kept thinking about the words Narayan said that day. It reminded me of several things but my work kept me reminding that I had to finish my writing very soon. My money was coming to an end and given the fact that I had received only three cheques from the ‘Delhi Journal’ in the last four months and that was only reminding me that I will have to write something of materialistic value and make it reach the market again…it was pretty clear that time was against me. I tried concentrating on the novel again, but it didn’t help me much too.

Soon the month of October came and the festival of the festivals – the Durga Puja started in Sultanpur. I locked myself up inside my room, worked day and night, only in the hope to finish my work soon. The first days of the occasion made me feel lonely all over again. I kept looking at the candles and lightings people used in their homes and kept losing myself in the past. I wondered what would have happened with Arun and the Punjabi girl. How far they had gone for their love? Why did they fall apart? Does that love still exist? The happiness of the people outside made me feel lonely to leave me with such questions.

It reminded me about my childhood. How I was sent to a hostel when I was ten years old. And when I came back, I found myself as a boy who could not cope up with his family anymore. For him, his world was his friends, and when that world came to an end, he didn’t find anything which could actually satisfy his needs. I started as a junior writer in one of the local newspapers when I was eighteen…and after a few references and probably with the help of a few good writings; I got a few chances to make it to The Times of India. A few more Journals, a few more newspapers, all national level this time…and then it was my turn to take writing seriously, as a profession. I left my home and started travelling, the only thing I wanted since my childhood. This story continued, getting cheques from the publishers once in a month, rarely twice and renting a room, writing a story and moving on again. And the same story has taken me here today, a town about hundred kilometres away from Delhi. I am happy as a freelancer. I am happy, writing.


Winter comes, silently. Some Decembers have seen a temperature of as low as four degree here, as I am told by the local people. Lesser people on the path in the morning, in the evening, lesser interactions, more warm clothes on the road, more steaming out kettles, more orders of tea and coffee in the stalls here and there, while my room keeps me giving trouble. Broken window, wooden doors helping the freezing wind to come in. I lit up a fire sometimes, and it helps. And then one night, to all my surprise someone knocked at the back door of my room when my table clock showed one hour past midnight.

It was Mohan, the vagabond. Most of the times he used to remain in the jail, because of his miscreant nature. He was a regular member of a criminal gang once, and irrespective of the fact that he said that those days were well after him, he still carried the habit of stealing from places. At present, he was drunk, and could hardly walk or stand. He was returning from the bazaar with an empty bottle of country drink. A true drunkard he was, and no man in his full senses would have liked to start a conversation with him.

I need a shelter for tonight, he said. No introductory words, nothing. Just those lines. I felt sad for him. I invited him in and offered some food, as he refused it. I understood the liquid had started doing its job quite well. Within a few minutes, he felt comfortable. Warmth and shelter, as I wondered that day and gathered can make a beast meet the heaven. The creature sitting ten feet away started singing…and it left me amazed. What depths can a person hide within himself that even after having such a low esteem for oneself in the society, he produces such gifts out of nowhere.

The song ended. Mohan looked at me and said, ‘why do you think some people end up on the wrong side of the world?’

I couldn’t answer at first. Here was a person, having the experiences of all the wrong-doings of the world, sitting in my room on a chilling night and asking me questions about something, the answer of which I have tried to find out myself.

‘I don’t know’, I said. ‘But perhaps with love, people can be brought back to normal life’.

‘Love is just a four letter word, mister. And it’s not me; it’s the experience, the real life talking.’

I wondered that night, lying on my bed about the world we live. About the sufferings we make. Are those people really bad whom the society has marked as bad? What could be their part of the story? Was there something the society could have done to bring them back, or have stopped to make them go to that level at the first place, and it did not?

That morning brought sunshine for the world but it filled me with several questions of life. Mohan had gone with the first daylight, and what was worse, as the representative of another world, he injected their core problems in my heart.


Within a few weeks, I end my writing with some two or three more murders and then introducing a few twists and turns in the end to make the murderer look like a psychopath, and eventually making him commit suicide. It looks as if I have done justice with the story. But then again, no one can really say. Unless and until you get that cheque from your publisher, you are once again up for another story.

I finish the first draft of the story. Assemble the pages and keep it inside my trunk. I write a few letters to some of the Journals and Magazines I am linked with and put them in my table to send them later. And then I go upstairs and knock the door of my landlady. I put a smile in my face, and make the conversation as light as possible. At the end of it, I make her know that I will be leaving the room within a week. I thank her for all the help she did all these months, as she keeps standing there hovering in the thoughts whether she actually did any, but I know I have done my job. She gets herself together, and reminds me to do some formal signings and payments, as I confirm her. I take my leave from her.


I realised I will have to take my formal leave from only one person in the town. And that was Sameer. I found him playing in the field in the afternoon. I waved at him, and he came running in.

“Sameer…” I said, “How are you? Where have you been now-a-days?”

He smiled. A bright one, at that. I felt bad for him. Within these months, he found me really close to his heart. When I will be gone, maybe nobody will even ask for him.

I am going away Sameer, once and for all. I said.

“I know sir…” he said. “Don’t worry about me; I know you think that I will feel bad once you are gone. But life itself is a sad song, isn’t it?”

I smiled. He knew way too much compared to his age.


And thus came the last night for me in Sultanpur.

Time. And it passes more quickly when it is not desired so. The nostalgic afternoon turned into a hasty evening in turn making the night a dead and hesitant one within a few seconds. With all my loneliness and thoughts of leaving the known…again, I became the only person awake in the room, in the colony, and probably in the whole town. I was going to a new place again, leaving the old. A new place, new people, new room and a new story. But will I be able to forget what this room has given to me? Will I be able to forget the people here? Mohan died in an accident two days after the night we talked. Sameer had decided to leave the town and return to his ancient place to help his father in farming. In a way, it seemed everyone was leaving Sultanpur. What was worse, I was leading them.


Fifteen minutes. That’s what I had before leaving the town by train. I got a seat by the window side and kept looking at the platform.

The vendors, the coolies and above all the passengers in and outside the train created nuisance to each other. The advertising boards, the beggars on the platform, chips and cold drinks at the stalls, a naked child crying his heart out standing on the platform…the colours of this wonderful world mixed forever in my heart.

Another life was beginning.

Months ago, a sharp, lightened afternoon saw me getting down in this platform to start a new life here: new people, new gossips to hear, and a new story to write. I came across a room that took away the privacy of my life, in a way giving me another view of life. The no-private room will be there, marking the presence of an emblem of confinement of human mind. In a way, it marked the symbol of an obstacle within me. An obstacle, which only helped me being dedicated to my work, and see those sides of the world I was not exposed to. In a way, as I believed…no-private room exists in everybody’s life. It’s just that you will have to find it out, and then gather your strength from that drawback of your side. It will try to confine you, and it will be your job to come out of that confinement. In a way, I succeeded.

Another life was finishing…

The engine whistled, leaving my memories of the happy past far behind.

“Don’t be unhappy. Life itself is a sad song…”

The engine whistled again.

“Life itself…life itself is a sad song.” The last words of Sameer made a smoke in the air. And then it blended with the steam coming out of the engine of the train.

I tried hard to control tears in public.

“I am not unhappy, because I know my fate. We can’t bet upon things we don’t have. I started as a writer and will end just like that.” I muttered.

Life gives us some time to live, and time snatches the most precious parts of our lives from us.


The distant signal kept getting hazier against the speed of the train and at last disappeared from my eyes.




-August '11

Discovery..!!

Okay, I know this can sound a bit weird, but tonight I was watching Iron Man and realised that she looks just like Gwyneth Paltrow. Call me obsessed, err...but that's what I felt.

Btw, Abhishek has come from Narsee-Monjee Mumbai, and the possibility of a meet tomorrow, maybe.


-12th August.

Notes from a living room: 1

Done with my Deutsch classes, and finally today, the Deutsch-Prufung(the test). Max Mueller Bhavan (Goethe Institute) has set its standards very high. Not only the pass marks is 60 percent but also the level of the exam is tough too.

by the way I found a few fascinating poems from Jibanananda Das' page. I will be more than happy to share one of them here.

"আমি কোন এক পাখির জীবনের জন্য অপেক্ষা করছি
তুমি কোন এক পাখির জীবনের জন্য অপেক্ষা করছো
হয়তো হাজার হাজার বছর পরে
মাঘের নীল আকাশে
সমুদ্রের দিকে যখন উড়ে যাবো
আমাদের মনে হবে
হাজার হাজার বছর আগে আমরা এমন উড়ে যেতে চেয়েছিলাম।"

For those who don't understand Bengali or have problems with Bengali font in their computer, here is my English translation...

"I am waiting for a bird's life
You are waiting for a bird's life
Maybe after thousand of years
In the blue sky of a spring
We will fly towards the sea
And remind that
Thousand of years ago we wanted to fly away like this"


The poem has made me emotional enough to confess something today. Many years ago someone wanted to see my stories, and I didn't let her see those. It wasn't that I was ashamed of something, it wasn't that I was shy, it wasn't that I didn't want her to see those or anything else...I don't even know why I said no to her that day. And given a chance, one day, I will sit beside her and read out each and every story of mine to her. But anyway, that's a whole different thing.

The monsoon always makes me emotional, and makes me wonder. So many good memories are there from the past. Times I spent at our ancient place, with my grandparents...our ancient home, the asbestos roof we had on our kitchen, and when the rain would come down it would make a rhythmic sound at the asbestos. I was a child of ten, or less. Soon I went to my hostel and found a different life there. Life has made me wonder on several things...and the best part is the best memories are always with me. I hope one day I meet Ruskin Bond, and I will discuss the effect of rain on human mind.

And finally, why do I call it 'Notes from a living room'...first, it has a similarity with one of Bond's writings 'Notes from a small room' and second, as I rarely mention it to anyone, it's a living room that I pass my life. Our flat is a one-bedroom flat and I have to pass my life at our dining-cum-living room. It's good by the way. But sometimes you would really feel grateful if you had some privacy. It's sort of a no-private room. But anyway, I live. And what is amusing, is that I have actually made a story out of this experience of living in a room where a person doesn't have any privacy, under the heading 'The no-private room'. It's kind of funny though. But I don't regret. Having a separate room for yourself is what everyone wants. Maybe someday I will have a big house for my family. I can wait till that.


And I have a question, as I intend to finish the note...when a person finds his true love, does that love find him back too? Just something to think about.


--11th August.

The thirteenth night

It was the same dream last night. In the dream, I was back at the cemetery again. The same monotonous dream. And towards dawn it ended, in a very shaky and subtle way. Since then I am awake, awake at the corner of my bed clinching the railings of the window.

Darkness, a few discrete scenes, silence unified with some distinct sounds and a smell...is all I can remember after I wake up from it every time.

I understand it could be the aftermath of the setback I had over my wife’s death. At her deathbed, she had told me that she will meet me on the thirteenth night, and we will be together forever. Being alone, without the only person you have ever loved is tough…but whose fate is it that I am seeing in my dreams?


There is a man in the dream, a man with a dark jacket. Then there are sounds of barking of dogs from a faraway place. A red handkerchief, rail-lines…and then the pinnacle of a church. And all of a sudden I am awaked with a shrill sound of a train. It’s a suicide.

I decided to visit the cemetery on the thirteenth night. In front on the cemetery I find a man selling Jackets. I like a brown one, very dark. The man hands it over to me and disappears, without saying anything, as I enter the graveyard.

The rain comes in. soft and gentle. I become wet and start shivering in the cold. The monotonous sound of the water dropping in takes me away from the real world…in the world of her. It’s a lonely, dark and a silent place, the cemetery.

The dogs started barking from a far place all of a sudden…


I knelt down, and found thousands of Chhatim flowers lying on the narrow path. I picked up a couple of them…all wet from the rain. They reminded me of her.

“I love Chhatim flowers.”

“And I love you.”

I had always believed that when people die, they turn into Chhatim flowers. And right then I was with her.


I found myself crying. I searched the pocket of my newly bought Jacket and found a handkerchief, a red one.

Fifty metres away laid a steep part marking the border between the cemetery and the railways station…the steep portion would lead to the rail lines crossing the stations.

I took the shortcut and came on the lines. And in the moonlight I saw the pinnacle of a church about half a mile away.

I realised I can’t feel the cold anymore. It’s the same me who was shivering a couple of minutes ago…is warm now in the thoughts of meeting with his wife.

The distant signal turned red now. And then the whistle came in…

In the half light of the cold December evening, I fell unconscious on the rail lines… in a way waiting for my own death coming towards me at a speed of hundred kilometres per hour.

For the rest of the world it will be a suicide. But for me, it’s the last meet forever.



(Sent for the TOI Spellbound competition 2011)

I feel good...after a long time.

Sent 'The thirteenth night' and 'The old dock' to Times of India Spellbound competition this year. Supplement will be published on 27th September with the main paper of TOI. Fingers crossed.

Have my Deutsch exam on 11th. Will give my best there. Fingers crossed again.

And I feel good, really good after a long time. Completely over with a wrong commitment. Over with a few bad memories and past. Life is pretty good from where I stand, at least for now. Possibilities, new way of looking into things...these were the things that I wanted for me for so long. And thank God I got them now. It's a very slight difference between good and bad, right and wrong...and it's the choice that makes us who we are. There were sadness, pain, suffering, lies, wandering and clinging to a stone that would not move from it's place. So I looked at it from a different perspective. I forgot the stone. And I looked at the Sun. That Sun, which was always my strength, showed me in a way my path and lead me to the right. I am happy. I am single. I am committed again.

It's a good habit by the way. Jogging around the lake places and the Southern avenue in the morning. Started recently, done about a month. And those freehands - sit-ups and push-ups, just tend to kill me at times. But then again, you need to keep your body and mind fit all the time, and happiness comes from the very inner peace of mind.

I know I need to have more patience, but you see...sometimes men really need someone to stay beside them.


And that's it for now. Will publish 'The no-private room' very soon. Till then take care, all of you.


P.S.: I am looking at Pallabi for the first time when she is wearing a saree. Nothing much to say because I guess she already knows how wonderful she looks. I just want to write a love story very soon, like a real 'love story'. She reminds me of so many good things of this world. I would like to repay that to her sometime.

Note from an inspector's room

Times come in our lives when we swear to ourselves that given the fact that we come out of the given situation successfully, we will do something that will dazzle everyone's eyes.



I sat with my documents at the inspector's place, as he went inside to bring my papers. I got ninety seconds alone, with myself.

I knew what I was doing. I hated my life for the most of the time I lived. But I sweared something to myself. All these years, I have considered myself a loser, and I thought there were only softer things and emotions attached to my character, but sitting at the place, I took an oath. I will not consider myself to be a loser anymore. I have done enough to contradict that thing. I have lived life, in my own way. And I respect it.

Note from an agent's room

Sitting across an agent's room, with one full hour to wait and nothing to talk really, that is when my writer mind woke up.



I used to think I was a loser, but now that I am sitting at an LIC agent's place, looking at him in the eyes and dealing a few things for my sake, I see things from a very different perspective. Life, in a way gives us few, takes a few more, but what it does is it gives the precious experiences and exposure one needs in the form of a few setbacks. Maybe now I know why all of them went away, why a few institutes rejected me, and I refused the others. Maybe now I know why I moved on with things. Maybe now I know what do I want in life.

I have hated my life for more than last ten years. Maybe now I know why. Life threw challenges towards me and I accepted them. Those who don't live in challenges or tend to avoid them live a happier life.


-15.00 PM. 01 August '11

আমি একলাটি পথ হাঁটি

তেইশ বছর হয়ে গেল। মন কেমন করা বিকেলগুলোয় একা বসে বসে শুধু ভাবি। মানুষের এই এক বদ অভ্যেস। শুধু ভাবে। কেন ভাবে? কি ভাবে? নিজের কথা। পরের কথা। ভালবাসার মানুষের কথা। বাবা বলে যারা শুধু ভেবেই চলে তাদের জীবনে কিছু হয়না। জানি না ঠিক না ভুল। আমার তো ভাবতে ভাল লাগে। নানা কথা। জীবনে কত কি করেছি। ভুল, ঠিক। কাকে কি বলেছি। বলতে পারিনি। যত সব বলা, না বলা কথা মনে ভীড় করে আসে। এক ঝাঁক মানুষের দল। আসে, যায়। কেউ কেউ কাঁদায়। কেউ বা হাসায়। মুখ হল মনের আয়না। লোকের সামনে হাসতে হয়। একা থাকলেই কান্না পায়। কি জানি কেন। কত কি চেয়েছিলাম, কিছুই পেলাম না। এই ভাবেই জীবন কাটে। একটা গান মনে পড়ছে...“আমার সাধ না মিটিলো, আশা না ফুরালো, সকলি ফুরায়ে যায় মা”। আমি দুঃখবাদী। প্রেমের রোমান্টিসিজম-এ আমাকে বেঁধে রাখা শক্ত। তবে পথ হারাই মাঝে মাঝে। আবার ফিরে আসি। ভুল হয়। ভুলে যাই আমি কি চাই। আবার মনে পড়ে। বর্ষার রাতে কেঁদে কেঁদে নিজেকে মনে করাই। ভুল হয়ে গেছে। আর হবে না। শপথ নেওয়া আর ভাঙ্গার মাঝেই জীবন চলে। কেউ ভগবান নয়। দিনের আলোয় যে সুখী, রাতের আঁধারে সেই সবচেয়ে একা। মন না চাইলেও জীবনের নৌকা এগিয়ে চলে। সামনের দিকে। টালমাটাল জীবন। সামলাবে কে? মন মাঝি তোর বৈঠা নে রে, আমি যে আর পারিনে। চারিদিকে আঁধার। চলেছে এগিয়ে। কেউ জানে না আলো কোথায়। আঁধারে যে হাঁটে সে পেয়েছে এক বৃহৎ আলোর সন্ধান।

আমার আলাদা শোবার ঘর নেই। ভেতরের দিকে একটি ঘর। সেটিতে মা ও বাবা। বাইরের ঘরেই আমার শোয়া, বসা, দিন কাটানো। এই ঘরে একটি আত্মা থাকেন। তিনি কে আমার জানা নেই। রাতে আসেন, ভোরের প্রথম আলোয় চলে যান। লম্বা ঘর। এক কোনায় তিনটে চেয়ার পাতা। রাত গভীর হলে আমার পায়চারি। অন্ধকারে মিশে যেতে ভাল লাগে। মনে হয় কেমন অদৃশ্য হয়ে পৃথিবীটাকে দেখছি। নিজেকে ভগবান মনে হয়। দেওয়ালে পিঠ ঠেকিয়ে দাঁড়িয়ে থাকি। একা লাগে। শূন্য বিছানার দিকে চোখ পড়ে। ছায়া ঘুমোয়, না কায়া। গভীর রাতকে মাঝে মাঝে বন্ধু মনে হয়। মাঝে মাঝে অচেনা। শত্রু। ভাবায়। হাসায়। কাঁদায়। কে যেন বলে গেছে সাধারন মানুষ তার মস্তিষ্কের মাত্র এক-চতুর্থাংশ ব্যাবহার করে। তাতেই এত কিছু। যোগীরা নাকি আরো বেশি। তাতেই তাদের শক্তি। অলৌকিক কতো কি শুনি। কিছুই দেখলাম না। মানুষের জানার পরিধি কত সীমিত। মন কে বলি সব ছেড়েছুড়ে দিয়ে বেরিয়ে পড়তে। পারিনা। ডানার জোর না থাকলে পাখি উড়তে পারেনা। পথ হেটে চলি। একা একা। কথা বলি। নিজের সাথে নিজের তর্ক। একবার এ জেতে তো আর একবার ও। নিজেকে হারিয়ে সন্তষ্ট হই। জানি অন্যকে হারাতে পারবনা। কোনদিনই পারিনি। লাভের মধ্যে ভালবেসে ফেল্লুম। এমন একজনকে যে আমাকে চায়না। কোনদিন চাইতে পারেনা। শ্রীজিতা সে। আমার সংস্কার, আমি কি চাই সব গুলিয়ে ফেলে বলে বসলাম, ভালবাসি। একবার নয়, দু দুবার। সেই আওয়াজ পাথরের দেওয়ালে লেগে ফিরে এল। অনুমতি নেই। ছিল না। থাকবে না। পূজার ফুল বাসী হল। চোখের জলে সব ধুয়ে ফেললাম। কিন্তু ধরে রাখতে পারলাম না। তাঁর পূজার ফুল তিনি নিয়ে গেছেন। ঘ্রানটুকু নিয়ে গেলেন। বাকিটা পড়ে রইল।

এদিকে মন বড়ই উচাটন। ভালবাসা চায়। কি করি। হস্টেল এ মানুষ। যে সময়ে মানুষ নিজের মা বাবা কে চায়, পেয়েছি বন্ধুবান্ধব। এখন তারা বাইরে বাইরে। নিজেদের জগৎ। না পারি তাদের বলতে, না পারি বাড়িতে নিজের দুঃখের কাহিনী মেলে ধরতে। অগত্যা মনেই সব। সেখানেই শুরু, সেখানেই শেষ। যাকে ভালবেসেছিলাম তাকে না পেয়ে একদিন যাকে লুকিয়ে লুকিয়ে দেখতাম তার কথা মনে করি। পল্লবী। তিনি আরো মহান। অহংকারের চূড়ায় বসে মনোনিবেশ করেছেন অন্য কাজে। বৃক্ষের সাথে নুড়ির কি সম্পর্ক? হাত বাড়ালেও পাওয়া যায়না। ছেঁড়া কাঁথায় শুয়ে সিংহাসনের স্বপ্ন। তাতেও আনন্দ। মানুষের মন বড় জটিল। তল বোঝা ভার। কার মনে কি আছে কে জানে? নিজে কি চাই, তাই কি ছাই জানি? একবার এ ঘাট, তো আর একবার ওঘাট। লজ্জা ঢাকতে খান দুই টুপি কিনে ফেললাম। ওই মাথায় দিয়েই চলছে। রাস্তায় চেনা কেউ সামনে পড়ে গেলে টুপি দিয়ে মুখ ঢাকি। ভাবটা এমন যেন দুনিয়া সুদ্দু লোক আমার কীর্তিকলাপ জেনে বসে আছে।

বাড়িতে হইহই। বড়মাসী, মেসোমশাই হঠাৎ। কি কাজে এসেছিলেন, ঘুরে গেলেন। আমার মতন মুখচোরা ছেলে হয়না। জিজ্ঞেস করলেন কি পড়ছি। ভাবলাম বড় মুখ করে বলি, জার্মান শিখছি। পারলাম না। ‘টুকটাক’ বলে ছেড়ে দিলাম। চেনাজানা কারোর সাথে বেশি মাখামাখি করতে ইচ্ছে করেনা। আমার ব্যাপারে লোকে জানুক, তাও চাইনা। কি যে চাই, সেটাই বুঝিনা। ছোটবেলা থেকেই এই। বাড়ির বাইরে গিয়ে আরো কেমন হয়ে গেলাম। নিজের লোকেদের নিজের মনে হয়না। সবটাই কেমন ছাড়াছাড়া। বেহিসেবী। কে একজন আমার হাত দেখে বলেছিলেন, এই ছেলের সন্ন্যাস আছে। হায় ভগবান। আমি জানি আমার কি আছে। ওই লাইন আমার নয়। অনেক সাধনা দরকার হয়। ত্যাগ দরকার হয়। যে ছেলে সুখের খোঁজ শুধু মেয়েদের কাছেই পাবে মনে করে, তার দ্বারা এসব হওয়ার নয়। নিজেকে মাঝে মাঝে মুখোশ পরা এক শয়তান মনে হয়। কি চাই, কি করে ফেলি। কি বলতে চাই, কি বলে ফেলি। প্রেতাত্মা মনে হয় নিজেকে। একা একা হাটছি। পথ আর ফুরোয় না। হিসেবি মানুষ ধরে ফেলে। চীৎকার করে বলে, কি করছিস রে। চোখের পাতা আর পড়ে না। আগুন দেখেছি আমি। জ্বলতে চাই। নিজের ভেতরটা একদম পুড়িয়ে নিজেকে শেষ করে ছাড়ব। ত্রিকোন প্রেম, ডিভোর্স, আত্মহত্যা যোগ, সংসার, সন্ন্যাস কোনোটিই তো আর বাকি রাখেনি এই হাতে। লাফ দাও এই সাগরে। খেলো আগুন নিয়ে। কারোর মানা নেই। গেছিলে জ্যোতিষীকে ভুল প্রমান করতে। ফিরে এলে তো মাথা নিচু করে? কারোর কারোর এই জিনিসটা থাকে। সবাইকে ভুল প্রমাণ করার তাগিদ। তুমিই ঠিক, গোটা জগৎ ভুল। এবার ঠেলা সামলাও। তোমার জগৎকে আধখানা করে দিয়ে চলে গেল। অক্ষরে অক্ষরে মিলে গেল ভবিষ্যৎবাণী। কে আপন, কেই বা পর।

শুয়ে শুয়ে স্বপ্ন দেখি। বেনারস চলেছি। পথে হাজার লোক। এক একটা ঘটনা এমন থাকে মনকেও বিশ্বাস করানো যায়না। বেনারসের ওপর একটা অদ্ভুত টান ছিল। পল্লবীর কথা জানার পর সেটা আরো বেড়ে গেল। সব কিছু ঠিকঠাক চললে এবার পুজোয় কাশী দর্শন হবে। জানিনা মনের কি ভাব হবে সেই সময়। কি চাই তাই জানিনা। কেন যেতে চাই। পল্লবী কে খুঁজতে? সে তো তোমার বাড়ী থেকে একশ পা দূরেই থাকে। তার ছেলেবেলা খুঁজতে চাও? সে এখন কোথায় পাবে হে? রোমান্টিসিজমে না তোমার অরুচি? রাতে রুটি খাচ্ছ কার পরামর্শে? মনের মধ্যে ঝড় ওঠে। পুরনো সব কথা। ভুলে যাওয়ার চেষ্টা করি।

আলসে দুপুর। নরম নরম। ধরনটা কেমন মেয়েলী মেয়েলী। আকাশ পাতাল ভাবি। আগে এটা ছিল না। ইদানিং হয়েছে। সব কিছু নিয়েই ভাবতে ভাল লাগে। বাইরের ঘরটাই এরকম। লোক তো লোক। কেউ নেই তো সব ফাঁকা। বেমালুম। মনে হয় কোনো এক দৈত্য যেন ভোজবাজির মতোন সব মুছে দিয়েছে। এই সময়ে একা একা ভালো লাগেনা। শ্রীজিতার কথা মনে পড়ে। মনকে বোঝালেও সে বুঝবে কেন? ভালোবাসা এমনই। সব নিয়ে চলে যায়। আমার আবার আর এক ঝামেলা। লাল এক চেয়ার। বিছানার উল্টো দিকে আমার দিকে মুখ করে আছে। সারা দিন এ এরকম। রাত্রে মুখ ঘুরিয়ে দিলেও সকালে উঠে দেখব এদিকে হয়ে বসে আছেন। কোন একজনের অবাধ প্রবেশ আছে এই ঘরে। তিনি কে আমি জানি না। জানতে চাইও না। তিনি শুধু দেখেন। আমি কি করছি। মনে মনে একদিন বলেও ফেলেছিলাম, আপনি যদি কোন শুভ আত্মা হন, আমাকে আমার ভালবাসা ফিরিয়ে দিন। বলেই জিভ কেটেছি। কে ভালবাসা। কার ভালবাসা। এ সংসার শুধু দেহ দিয়ে গড়া। দেহ চায় দেহকে। মনের খবর কে রাখে। তায় আবার ভালবাসা। মাঝে মাঝে ভয় হয় সংসার থেকে মন উঠে যাচ্ছে না তো? সব কিছুই কেমন যেন আলগা আলগা। দিদার অসুখ। শুনে মনের কোন পরিবর্তন হল না। ছোটমামার মৃত্যুসংবাদ পেয়েও ভাবলেশহীন ছিলাম। সে আজ পাঁচ বছর হয়ে গেল। জীবনের প্রথম দিকটায় একা থাকার ফলে কেমন একটা রুক্ষ হয়ে গেছি। সবেতেই মেকী মেকী ভাব। আবার কারনে অকারনে কাঁদতে ইচ্ছে করে। একটা ফন্দি করেছি। জার্মান একটা সিনেমার থিম মিউজিক মোবাইলে তুলে নিয়েছি। গভীর রাত্রে সবাই ঘুমিয়ে গেলে ওটা শুনি আর কাঁদি। বালিশ ভিজে যায়। যাক। বাবা বলে আমি মেয়েলী। ছেলেদের সেই দৃঢ়তা আমার নেই। একাই চলে গেলাম চেন্নাই। একটা ইন্টারভিউ দিয়ে ফিরে এলাম। লোককে ভুল প্রমান করতে বেশ লাগে। বিশেষত বাবাকে। কথা কাটাকাটি, মতের অমিল, ব্যাঙ্গ। আমি যা করি তাতেই ওনার খারাপ লাগে। এ আমাদের ফ্যামিলীতে নতুন না। বাবার সাথে দাদুর ছিল। তাঁর সাথে তাঁর বাবারও থাকতে পারে। অহংকার আর অভিমানই সব। কেউ কারোর কাছে মাথা নিচু করবেনা।

সন্ধের পর আমি রাস্তায়। হাটছি আর হাটছি। এ যেন একটা খেলা। নিজেকে আবিষ্কার করার। নিত্যনতুন চলছে। একই রাস্তা। একই মানুষজন। সেই উড়ন্ত পর্দা। চেনা, অচেনা মানুষ। চোখ খোঁজে পুরোনো কাউকে। পায়না। আর খুঁজে পেলেই বা কি? কেউ কারোর জন্যে অপেক্ষা করে থাকেনা। দুনিয়াটা অনেক বড় জায়গা। কাউকে ভাল লেগে গেলেই হলো। বসে যাও তার হাত ধরে। এ জন্মের মতন শখসাধ ঘুচে গেল। নিজেকে সামলানোই আসল জিনিস। কারোর হয়, কারোর হয়না। ফাঁদে পড়ে যায়, ছটফট করে, কিন্তু বেরিয়ে আসতে পারেনা। কেউ কেউ পারে, কিন্তু অনেক দেরি হয়ে যায়। জীবনটাই এরকম। এই আছে, এই নেই। সূক্ষ সূতোর মতন তফাৎ। বুদবুদের মতন। হঠাৎই সব কিছু থেমে যায়। এই দিন, ত এই রাত। জীবন বড়ই অদ্ভুত। হাসি দিয়ে শুরু। কান্না দিয়ে শেষ। ওটাই সব। নিক্তি দিয়ে বিচার হবে, কি দিলে, কি নিলে। যার ভান্ডারে বেশি রইলো, সে জিতে গেল। রবার্ট ফ্রষ্ট লিখেছেন, A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom. এও সেরকমই। লক্ষ্য রাখো কি শিখছ। কি জানছো। পাখির চোখ।

শেষটা করব শ্রীজিতার পাঠানো একটা কবিতা দিয়ে...

“আমি স্বপ্নকে দূরে সরে যেতে দেখেছি,
যা পাইনি তা হারাতেও দেখেছি
ফুল তো সদাই হাসে, লোকে বলে,
কিন্তু আমি সেই ফুলকে কাঁদতে দেখেছি।”

This is life

FORE gave me the final offer letter yesterday. I can't join though. My German classes have started. I am all set to join an NGO. And I have mentally prepared myself to try out again. And they expect me to join after putting my fate under such long time of doubts and uncertainties. It's not happening this time.

And Srijita refused me for the second time. I guess she will never know why I went back to her for the second time.

A part of me died when she said she didn't feel anything for me all the time we were together. A part of me which I cared the most, loved and waited for the right time to come and share it with her.


This is my life. I know I am different. A person who studies engineering and doesn't even sit for campus interviews. Gets five B-school offers and rejects every single offer. Waits for a person patiently for two years to have her consent. Lives his life in a dining/living room. Writes stories which end up being the stories of his own life. Secretly likes someone but doesn't want to make her know. Walks in the dark places of the city being a flâneur. Believes that one day he will have something which is extraordinary and people will look up to him and his works...

...wao, I have already started hating it.


-21st June 2011

...when Delhi met Chennai

(It's not a comedy. Rather it was a rough-work of a role-play written for one of my friends, Sourav Nath that is. I know the conversations stated below will not make you laugh, and it is not intended to do so, but just because I don't have anything lighter happening in my life right now, I am inclined to upload this piece of work, well ofcourse if and only if you can call it a 'work', that is...)



Delhi guy: Hey, can you help me out with an address?

Chennai guy: yes sure why not.

N: Oh, thank God. See I am just coming from Delhi, it's my first visit to Chennai. Can you tell me how to go to a place called, err...let's see here,(reads a piece of paper) is it Nanga..something??

S: (Takes the paper) oh, it's just Nungambakkam..!

N: Yes, that's right, Nanga..err whatever kaam (!!) it is, just tell me how to get there...

S: Oh it's easy as gulping down a bottle of water(Smiles). You see Chennai is one of the nicest places to visit.

N: err...I am afraid I have heard the other way round.

S: Yes, did you just say something?

N: Oh no no, never mind, just tell me how to get there...

S: See, take a bus to Thoraipakkam. Take another bus from Thoraipakkam to Tharamani which goes through Thiruvanmiyur. Walk from Tharamani to Madhya Kailash, take a bus from Madhya Kailash that goes to Nungambakkam. It's easy as shit.

N: (Vacant eyes. No expression)

S: Yes I know you are very much excited to visit each and every place I mentioned, and I am quite sure you are dying inside to know more about these places. (smiles broadly)...But in order to have the real feeling of...(interrupted)

N: Dude, are you kidding? How come Tamil people have such enthusiasm to even pronounce these words?

S: What? Are you debasing our culture?

N: Come on man. Why can't it be like things are in other places of India? Why do you guys have to pick up such wonderful names that are alien to people other than tamil. Man !! These words are terrible. No offense but I think Chennai sucks.

S: Well atleast people here help others to find their way out...The place where you come from, Delhi...a place of thieves and frauds. Everyone is waiting for just a chance to rob people out.

N: That's a lie. Not every single person from Delhi is like that. Can you produce a Virender Sehwag from Chennai? Huh??

S: That does not prove anything. The point is, people from Delhi think they are the heroes, and other people from any parts of India are duffers. They think they can rule wherever they go and they just can't adapt to a situation well. Like you are now, just like a fish out of water.

N: Don't argue man...people from Chennai don't know anything but to wear dhoti, eat Dhosa and sambar and what not, talk in a language that nobody but only a handful of people in India understand. Tamil..! huh. Don't tell me.

S: ...and who are you to talk about things such proudly?

N: You really want to know who I am?

S: Yes. Yes, I do.

N: I am Shahrukh Khan.

S: Never mind.

N: What?

S: I am Rajnikanth..!




PS: My friend tells me that he has got the following feedback from his institution: "Your script was good but you should have prepared well."

My rating: Lame.


-June '11

JUNE

GENRE: Complex relationships



“I hope love hurts you as it hurts me.
I hope you love, and aren't loved back.
I hope you choke on your passion.
I hope you yearn, and are never reunited.”



Fingernails. Clung tight to the railings of the windows. Head is tilted, and the hair is touching the metallic grill. Eyebrows are curled, nose in the direction of wind…season wind that is. The cloud has left sad and greyish impression in the eyes. Monsoon is on its way... as I grip the cold grill of the windows in my bedroom to reach my eyes on the road.


“So what do you want from her?”

“I am trying to create a new writing style. A style that will redefine the way literature is presented… A word comes first, it defines the surroundings. Human behaviour included. Nature shows you which way the character is going to react. You add all these and make a paragraph where the last sentence shows you the outcome…that is the activity done by the character.

Also, a dialogue comes first...maybe a person talking to oneself, or to another, it leads to an atmosphere where the situation is tense... where the expressions find their way out. The speech is followed by a series of actions taken by the character, also shown in a passive way."



Eyes. Lowered. And then it follows a way. It ends to another pair of eyes. Smiling. Lips glistening in the neon. Talking something… cannot fathom what. Some of her hair fall on her forehead. Flying high. A mole on her right cheek and another on her left forehead. Eyes dance in the tune of happiness. Pain finds its way in silence. I keep looking at her.



“The bus took him to a place fifteen kilometers away, to his college. And when the college ended, he became hungry. But he was a person who could withstand a few things, even the primitive needs too. He had an institution to visit for some reference studies. He headed for that. And these visits took long enough to call the September evening. It was eight in the evening as he headed back to his home. He walked across colonies thinking about the vegetables his mother was going to cook for him in dinner. He walked thinking how tiring day it was. And then he uttered those words…

'I am tired tonight.'

He was hungry. He was thirsty. The place he used to live, they would call this wind a strange one that blew from the southern part of the city, and it had started blowing now. It made him look tough, and then it made him tough. In the midst of a dark evening, the boy became one of the fewest wanderers in the streets. But the boy hurried. He was hungry. He was thirsty.

He reached home. And then he realised the atmosphere was warm. Whenever there were arguments in the house, it would become silent. No one asked for him. No one gave him a glass of water. No one talked to him. He became deserted. He silently started to put his shoes off. And then he heard the argument starting again.

I have not seen many people who can control tears in the presence of others. But this boy, on the other hand, had a rare gift of that. He looked at his parents vacantly, who were fighting over the case once again. He looked at his feet, on which he believed, he put on the shoes, and got out once again, as he entered a few minutes ago, silently, getting merely noticed.

The boy headed towards the same road he travelled in the morning while going to catch the bus. It was the same road he travelled while he returned home. And it was the same road on which he was walking now.

He walked towards the lake place for no reason. The wind from the southern part drenched him thoroughly, increasing his hunger. He looked tougher. His eyes narrowed. He shivered, and it came from his hunger. He looked at the still water of the lake. He looked at the chhatim trees nearby. He looked at the large flats and other buildings around. He reached the avenue which was at the southernmost part of the city. He took a turn, and started walking towards the well-known bridge. He kept walking until he felt the colour. He saw red in his hands; he saw red on his face, in his nose. He tasted the colour, and found it to be salted. He tasted blood."



A girl comes in mind... a girl from Varanasi. She is beautiful. She is serene. She loves classical dancing. And she has a habit of writing poetry. One of the very few occasions when I tend to like a girl intensely. We don’t talk, however. It’s seldom we look at each other, an occasional nod perhaps. People start calling us together. A few phone calls, another few words exchanged…and within nine months we fall apart.

She is beautiful. She loves dancing. But there is a mishap. She has lost her right palm in an accident. She feels embarrassed. We talk about life, about feelings. Within a few months I end up writing a story on her. She realises I pity on her. She walks away from my life.

She is beautiful. She loves classical dancing. She loves painting. And she has a passion for writing. She understands I love her, I understand she loves someone; she understands that, that someone loves someone else. She wants to have it with someone else. I call her confused. She argues back. I let it go.


“June won’t be the story of your success.”

“But it won’t be the story of my failure, either.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s true I won’t get her. But it’s also true that she will change.”


Lakme-Sananda organises a beauty contest. She becomes first at it from the city. The beauty that all girls want. Like the peacock’s feather brings pride to a head, applauded beauty does vanity to a girl’s heart. She goes away. I praise about her poetries. She doesn’t answer. No words... Nothing at all. All that remains… is a memory of a few words. It’s really a happy new year.

She is ashamed because she is handicapped. I call her special a couple of times but she refuses to believe it. I collect a few information and come to know that her passion lies in dancing. I try to cheer her up. One day while chatting I insist her to let me see her blog, as she refuses. I insist more and she keeps refusing. I get annoyed, and tell her that in order to make the world believe that she really is special; she has to share herself with people. I tell her a few more things, in a harsh way. She becomes silent. Suddenly there is a distance that starts growing between us. And then it broadens. She goes away…once, and for all.

The way back home is a legend. And tonight, it is broken by a boy brought by her. Three shadows move in the murky evening. Two are close, other moving apart. It seems they have known each other for over a decade. They talk about several things, as I continue to struggle with my thoughts of gifting her a rose from the nearby flower-market. Anger and agony makes me wonder…as we part from a juncture where he takes her number in front of me, touches her cheeks and I become dejected.

After four days, same thing happens again.



"His nose bled. He searched his pocket thoroughly but didn’t find a piece of cloth. It was clumsy. People were starting to notice him on the road, with the bloody nose. So he went to a shade, stood there, as the blood kept oozing out and he kept dropping those blood drops in the mud…until it stopped oozing altogether. His clothes were full of blood stains. But he started walking once again.

He found the tube-well at the end of the Southern Avenues, and left the deep sigh from his heart. He washed his face thoroughly. He splashed water on the upper part of his body. He kept on drinking the water until he didn’t feel hunger anymore. It wasn’t the source of drinking water, but he didn’t care. He was a boy from the hills… not literally, but he was tough like them. He could eat, drink or live on anything in the world. Little were his needs. And he knew how to fulfil those. He gulped down another mouthful of water. And then he felt satisfied. He saw this tube-well building, couple of years ago. Just as this evening, he was on his way here that day. As he saw those workers digging deep. He saw through what was happening. He stood, waited there for a long time to see. He admired those workers for building up something like that which helped him today profusely. And then he started walking again. He thought of going back home, but it could’ve been that the dispute wasn’t over yet, he thought in his mind, so he continued walking.”



Dust. It flies in the air. Sound of air…like a forthcoming tempest. Stretched fingers trying to cover the eyes; lowered and wrinkled in pain…and in silence. Tiring legs dragging a body towards home.

A sound comes floating in the air. Sound of thunder from the distant horizon. Sudden flash in the sky. For a moment, it is daylight all around. One, two, three... a few seconds, and then the thunder strikes. It strikes hard, on the earth… and on the mind of a boy walking on the road.

One drop of water. Then the second, third…and it follows. Road becomes empty in quick time, as a lonely person keeps walking…drenched thoroughly in the rain. Sky pours it heart out on a person who tries to do the same. Difference, one does it public, other does it in silence.


I catch a fever that night. Tears, the evening shower and pain do their job well.


We don’t talk. I fall apart. I hear some news that they are close. Close enough for me to stay away.



Two hundred days pass.


“I could say that I would be your aegis. You can come to me when you need someone. I will try and take away the loneliness. But I guess I will end up hurting you even more. I am sorry I couldn’t be there beside you when you needed someone. ”


We agree on a meeting.

It’s her birthday. It’s a date for me. I am happy. But maybe she is not. I am confused.

She confesses that they got physical, in the end. I become silent. It feels like a dagger is piercing my heart. She calls herself bitch, she calls herself slut. A smoke comes in my notice. Something burns…inside my heart. I am silent, half the road. The way back home becomes the saddest part of my life.


A few days pass in thousands of thoughts, thinking about a person I love, the decisions she made in the circumstances she was in…and I decide to stay beside her.


“So, what do you want from her?”

“I see a fire. A yellow one. It will become red once she is with wrong person. I just want to turn it into a holy fire.”

“Is she a witch?”


Silence. Eyes. Narrowed, filled with tears. A few long hair fall on the forehead. Pain strikes the heart. Eyes remain vacant.


“What do you want from her?”

“Warts and all. Virtue and vice. Love and lust. Caring and satisfaction. Bonding and the power to let it go. Life. Physicality, I won’t lie. But not without the mental consent.”

Wind. Love. Loneliness. Always there.



I wake up at dawn. Take my backpack, the same one which I carried to Chennai when I visited the place for an interview, alone. I put my diary inside it. The same diary on which I was taking notes for my upcoming story, June. June is finished, last night. I bring the diary out again, put my right hand on the pages of the diary where I wrote it down. Eighteen pages, written with my old blue pen. I put it inside the backpack again.

I take a taxi. It’s 5.45 in the morning. The car speeds on the highway, as I lose myself with my thoughts again.


“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe forget her once and for all. It’s not easy with a person who keeps herself entangled with a person she has left behind, willingly. Nobody would want his Zahir to be committed to someone else.”

“What about you?”

“What about me? Well, I don’t know… maybe I will keep chasing my dreams, as usual.”

“You are hurt again, aren’t you?”

“It does not matter anymore, you see…people who have a reason to come close to you when they need you and go away when they don’t, will keep hurting you. All you have to do is keep an eye on people and try to understand whether they really are worth you.”



I leave the taxi at the bridge entrance.

Before me, lies the Howrah bridge, big and proud…like a demon. Hundred and fifty meters of walking and I will be at the middle of it. I adjust my backpack and take my first step. And I keep walking. Thousands of thoughts gather around my head. The first day I met her. Then her. And then her. And I lost them all. My jaws stiffen, as do my hands, when I remember them in someone else’s arms. My eyes get narrowed.


I have reached at the middle of the bridge. It is early morning. The Sun is all set to rise in the east. A few minutes, maybe. And then it will stretch its first lights to the world. A pigeon comes flying in, and sits beside me, on the railing. I look at it, and start thinking. Before me, lie two options from which I have to choose one. First, to kill the main protagonist as I do with every character in my story. Maybe a suicide. It’s too easy. A person who has lost everything. Nobody would even know about him. A small leap now. leap of faith. And he is out of this mortal world within a few seconds. It would not be a happy ending. But a suicide makes a mark in everyone’s mind. Empathy. Feelings. A story to remember.


But then, I gave some thoughts about the second option.

I take out my diary from the backpack. I open the pages where I wrote down the story ‘June’. I tear the eighteen pages off the diary. I place my diary inside the bag again. I hold the pages of ‘June’ in my hands and I keep looking at them. All of a sudden a few birds fly past me chattering. The east is red as climax. Within a few seconds, the Sun will come out. The world is coming to life. And I am standing highest above the holy Ganges.

I fold the pages half. And tear them from that folding. I fold the torn papers half again. and tear them again from that folding. Seventy-two pieces of my story. Seventy-two pieces of my heart. My precious heart.


And there they go in the air..! Papers in the sky. Papers in the air. Floating free, dancing in joy, in the tune of happiness. Within a few seconds they will touch the water. The Sun will come out now. The first colour in the east makes the Ganges bleed. It frees me; from human bonds, from the sufferings I endured.

I keep standing on the bridge. I look at the Sun. The world is coming to life. A few cars on the bridge, a few buses, and a few people looking at me in surprise. A few more birds coming out chattering beside the hotels near Howrah station.


With the Sun rising in the east, I see June coming.






- May '11

An advertise that made me wonder about love, after a long time

I wondered about it…love that is, and it came after a long time.

It is the advertise of a Cadbury…dairy milk or something. The lady character asks her husband, when was the last time he told her those three words, ‘I love you’. The man gets amazed by the subtlety of his wife…but soon gets back to his own self. He gets up, brings out a Cadbury from the refrigerator and gives it to her.

‘Just now…’ he said, as he handed over the Cadbury.

‘Oh, it’s just the Cadbury. The one thing you give me everyday…’ as she finishes her last words in amazement. She understands it’s everyday he tells her that he loves her, just another way.

The last two scenes are the only things that will remain a long time, in everyone’s heart. Just when she realises everything, the man closes his eyes for one moment, to say something to her, in silence. And in return, the lady too, closes her eyes, and lowers them, as a pinch of shyness gets attached to it. The commercial finishes at that very moment, but it leaves an everlasting effect to the viewers’ minds.


Many people around me have seen love, heard about love…some even experienced it themselves. For them, it is holding hands in public, caring for the other person, supporting the other person both mentally and physically, kissing in dark places and other things. They say if you cannot make the other person happy; while you are with him/her…there isn’t any love at all. Some say love comes from respect, but that’s arguable.


But nobody talks about trust. About being loyal. About compromisation. About the wonderful platonic aspects it has. Sometimes I wonder about love, standing or wandering in the most dark places of the city. I haven’t experienced it, being truthful to myself…well, but that doesn’t stop me speculate about it.


Yes well, I am a bit frustrated about my life, a bit deserted, a bit lonely, sad, dejected…and many a things that involve the negative aspects of life. But anyway, it doesn’t matter to me. Just thought about the short term romanticisms life brings to us, out of nowhere. The advertise showed me, somehow…that those moments of life have not died out, in the hassles of life.



-Somsubhra Banerjee
 Follow My FlickBazar.com Blog here -->  http://flickbazarindia.blogspot.in/

-May '11

...Alone again

I love her. Almost 730 days. And I don't get anything from her side. I fear, there isn't anything at all.

She writes a note called 'Reflection' :


"Everything about it is clandestine. Stripped of purity and comfort. The pulsating carnal taste of emotions. The desire to let everything go and plunge into the darkness of wrong. It takes a very long time to resurface from such a maelstrom but when you are sitting at a safe height, looking away from temptation, a flitting glint catches your eye, forcing you to look its way. And you are thrown right back into what you escaped from."


I feel she is just trying too hard to have it. I advise her to control her mind...but then again I hesitate...I am not her father, I am also not a person she would want advise from... I am just a person who is another one-sided lover of her. So, what am I doing here?


A few of my last status...found some connection and sharing here:


"Studied till 2 AM after a long time. Suddenly got motivated, don't know why.

It's quiet outside. The whole New Alipur is sleepy, and I hope the same goes for other neighbour colonies. Went to the balcony...barking of dogs and a few people sleeping on the footpath. It's just like the calmness before a storm.

Life is tough. But sometimes the best thing needs your best effort..!"
Friday at 2:04am


"On the way back from the interview, took a bus and sat at the corner. Narrowed eyes in the stormy wind as the bus pierced the bypass...talking to oneself, imagining myself to be someone else and answering back, taking down notes for an upcoming story and proving myself crazy to people for sure...

Strange people. Strange places. Strange life..!"
Sunday at 2:36pm


At the end of the day we all are human beings...and decisions can change at any moment..! Maybe I had my share of bad luck but someday I will square with my life.


Writing a story named 'June'. Hopefully people will stay in my life, atleast until it gets finished.

So dejected, and lonely. Hopefully When I say 'God will help me surely', God actually hears me saying that someday.



P.S.: 1. I cried after seeing an orphan's acting from a movie called 'Orphan'.
2. IISWBM gave me the final offer letter. Won't be joining though.


-May '11