Notes from a living room: 19

She posts a video...a song called 'Purab se Surya uga'. It used to be aired a long time ago in the Doordarshan for the 'Rashtriya Shaksharta Mission'. It reminded me of childhood. It made me cry. I am one of those silly emotional people who cry on silly little emotional attachments. It reminded me of my early childhood, the time when I used to try singing the song, in vain...perhaps I didn't have a powerful voice then. Today, as I started listening to it, I immediately started singing the song, and it made me cry. I knew the emotions, I felt the nostalgia in my heart. The chords that touch her heart touch mine too. And the fact that she is unaware if it, made me feel worse. Sometimes, we cry for reasons that are hard to find, hard to understand...


I have collected the lyrics of the advertisement and am keeping it here, in my blog, for anyone who wants it in future.

"Purab se surya uga, faila ujiyara

Yakeen nahin aata, yeh wohi kishan hai?

Purab se surya uga, faila ujiyara
Jaagi har disha disha, jaaga jag saara
Purab se surya uga, faila ujiyara"


I respect those people a lot who made it.


-29th Nov '11

Notes from a living room: 18

Categorizing people is important. And learning how to do it is more necessary. In order to succeed in any sphere of life, may it be academic, professional or personal, if you can identify what kind of people you are dealing with, half the job is done. That's the reason I keep telling that analysing people is perhaps one of the most important jobs one has to do continuously in the modern world. And for that, writing helps. It helps whenever you start writing the traits of that person, may it be in a piece of paper, or take notes in your head. You can always analyse those traits, go back the next day and behave in a way that is favorable to both your communications, conducive to further building of a better relationship between you two. In a world which is moving too fast, changing every second and throwing challenges to us every next second, people are the only strength we have...more precisely the favor banks. If you know how to control the mass around you, you know how to control the world around you. The key to success lies in the key to suppress the inner fear, staying positive and in the attitude that says 'I can not lose'. Life is a challenge, no doubt it has both highs and lows, but at the end of the day it's our fight that matters...whether we won or lost, doesn't, because winning or losing, is just a perspective of people around us.

- 27th Nov '11

মৃত্যুর গন্ধ ছাতিম ফুলের মত

এখানে, শহরের এই প্রান্তে আকাশটা খুব তাড়াতাড়ি অন্ধকার হয়ে আসে। যদিও পুরো আকাশটা নয়, শুধু যে প্রান্তটায় সূর্যটা এদিনকার মত অস্ত যাওয়ার উদ্যোগ নেয়। আমার মাথার ওপরের আকাশ যদিও এখনো হলুদ, কোথাও বা মেঘের গা থেকে ছলকে পড়া নীল। এইসময় লেক-প্লেসের চারদিকে লম্বা লম্বা গাছগুলো তাদের ডালের প্রান্তভাগ দিনের শেষ সুর্যালোক পাওয়ার জন্য প্রসারিত করে দেয়। দিনের পাখিরা গোধূলির আলোয় ঘরে ফেরার তোড়জোড় শুরু করে। পাখিদের চিৎকারে এই সময়টা লেকের চারপাশ ব্যস্ত হয়ে ওঠে। নীল জল আকাশের সাথে তাল মিলিয়ে কালো হয়ে ওঠে। লেকের ওপাশটায় যে ক্রিকেট কোচিং একাডেমিটা আছে তার প্র্যাক্টিস সেশন এই সময় শেষ হয়। আমার পাশ দিয়ে বিভিন্ন মানুষের যাতায়াত। প্রকৃতির যত জীবন্ত আর প্রাণহীনের দল এইসময় এক হয়ে যায়। দিন যে শুধু নিঃশব্দেই শেষ হয় তা নয়, বরং সে অন্ধকারকে এক প্রেতাত্মার মতন ডেকে নিয়ে আসে। যখন দিনের সব রঙ মিলেমিশে একাকার হয়ে যায়, যখন সকালের নীল বিকেলের হলুদের মধ্যে দিয়ে শেষে পশ্চিমের আকাশের রক্তবিন্দুতে পরিণত হয়, সেই প্রেতাত্মার উদয় ঘটে। আমাদের স্বপ্ন আর সুখের হাতছানির মধ্যেই জীবনের অবসান হয়। বিশ্বাসঘাত হয়। 

                            আর তারপরেই সেই গন্ধটা ভেসে আসে।

গন্ধটা ছাতিম ফুলের। গোটা লেক প্লেসটাই ছাতিম গাছে ভরা। আমার স্ত্রী একসময় এই ফুলগুলো খুব ভালোবাসত, আর আমিও। অনেকদিন আগে আমরা যখন এখানে একসাথে হাটতাম, ফুলে ভরা গাছগুলোর নিচের দিকের ডালগুলো আমি হাত দিয়ে নিচু করে ধরতাম, আর রিনিতা ফুলগুলো পাড়ত। নিজের হাতের তালুর ওপর ফুলগুলো রেখে অনেকক্ষণ ধরে গভীর নিঃশ্বাষের সাথে ঘ্রাণ  নিত। ওই মুহুর্তগুলোতে আমি ওর দিকে স্থিরদৃষ্টিতে তাকিয়ে থাকতাম, আর নতুন করে ভালোবেসে ফেলতাম। সিমেন্টের বেঞ্চগুলোর কোনও একটায় আমরা ঘন্টার পর ঘন্টা বসে থাকতাম। আমার হাত থাকত ওর কাঁধে, আর ওর হাত আমার কোমর জড়িয়ে। চারদিকে সবুজের মেলা, সামনে রবীন্দ্র সরোবরের নীল জল, আর ওপরে উন্মুক্ত আকাশ।

“ মৃতের ডান হাত ভেঙ্গে গেছিল, যেন সে কোনও এক প্রবল শক্তিকে বাধা দিতে গিয়ে অমানবিক ভাবে অত্যাচারিত হয়েছিল। মাথা দু’বার থেঁতলে দেওয়া হয়েছিল, একবার ডানদিকের কোনায়, আর একবার পেছনের দিকে... ”

                               এবার বৃষ্টি এসে পড়ে। নরম, শান্ত জলের ফোঁটা। ঠিক রিনিতার মত। মিষ্টি রিনিতা। এরকম কেন হয়, যখনই আমি তোমার কথা ভাবি, আমার চোখ জলে ভরে যায়? এরকম কেন হয়, তোমার কথা মনে পড়লেই আমি এত একা হয়ে যাই? এত একা, চুপচাপ, গোটা পৃথিবী থেকে আলাদা। দেখ আজ আবহাওয়া কত সুন্দর। আজ এই বৃষ্টিতে আবার আমার সাথে ভিজতে তোমার ভালো লাগবেনা? তাকাও এই গাছগুলোর দিকে, দেখ এরা আজও তোমাকে ভোলেনি। তুমি কি ওদের আর চাওনা? তুমি কি আমাকে আর চাওনা? 

                      দূরে, রবীন্দ্র সরোবরের অন্য দিকটা গাঢ় অন্ধকারে ঢেকে যায়। লেকের সরু রাস্তাটা আবছা, ধুসর হয়ে আসে। ঝিরঝিরে বৃষ্টি চলতে থাকে। আমি ভিজে যাই। অন্ধকারে বৃষ্টির একটানা শব্দ আমাকে বাস্তব জগৎ থেকে অনেকদূরে নিয়ে চলে যায়। সে আমার স্বপ্নের জগৎ, রিনিতার জগৎ।

                   “মৃতের ওপর তিনবার অত্যাচার হয়েছিল। আর একবার মৃত্যুর পরে...”

আমার চোখ দিয়ে জল গড়িয়ে পড়ে। রিনিতা। আমার রিনিতা। যখন পুলিশের কাছে তোমার দেহ চাইতে গিয়েছিলাম, আমাকে দেখে তোমার করুণা হয়নি? তোমার রক্তে আর আমার চোখের জলে আমার গোটা শরীর ভিজে গিয়েছিল...কত চেষ্টা করলাম তোমার শরীর থেকে সব রক্ত মুছে নিতে, কিন্তু পারলাম না। শ্মশানে আমি একা ছিলাম রিনিতা, একদম একা।

                        আমি রাস্তার ওপরে হাটু ভাঁজ করে বসি। পায়ের কাছে হাজার হাজার ছাতিম ফুল। বৃষ্টিতে ভেজা কয়েকটা ফুল হাতের তালুর ওপর তুলে নিলাম। ফুলগুলো দেখে রিনিতার কথা মনে পড়ে গেল। 

“আমি ছাতিম ফুল ভালোবাসি...”

“আর আমি তোমাকে ভালোবাসি।”

                          একসময় বিশ্বাস করতাম মানুষ মৃত্যুর পরে ছাতিম ফুল হয়ে যায়। আর সেই মুহুর্তে আমি রিনিতার সঙ্গ অনুভব করলাম।

ভালোবাসা। আমি দীর্ঘশ্বাস ফেলি। কীভাবে মানুষ এমন একজনকে ভালোবেসে যেতে পারে যে আর এই পৃথিবীতে নেই? কীভাবে মানুষ তার লেখার মধ্যে তার সেই ভালোবাসার মানুষকে খুঁজে চলতে পারে? কী এমন আছে এই ভালোবাসাতে যা একজনকে আরেকজনের থেকে কোনওভাবে আলাদা করতে পারেনা? এমনকী মৃত্যুও না। 

                দুর্বল পাদু’টোর ওপর ভর করে উঠে দাঁড়াই। আঁকাবাঁকা পথটা ধরে রবীন্দ্র সরোবরের অপর পাড়ের দিকে হাটতে শুরু করি। বৃষ্টি আর ডিসেম্বরের ঠান্ডায় কাঁপুনি আসে। সরু পথটার দু’দিকে বুনো ঝোপ। নোংরা, কাঁটা আর কাদায় ভরা অন্ধকার ঝোপগুলো দেখে নিজের কথা মনে পড়ে। আশাহীন, লক্ষ্যহীন, সঙ্গীহীন নির্বাক একটা মানুষ। মনে পড়ল সেই লোকটির কথা, যে আমার লেখা পড়ে বলেছিল, যে তিনটে শব্দ দিয়ে আমি আমার গল্পের চরিত্রগুলোর বর্ণনা করি- একাকিত্ব, নৈশব্দ আর অন্ধকার...সেগুলো আমার গল্পের মূল ভিত্তি। যে কথাটা সে জানত না, একই তিনটে শব্দ আমার জীবনের সাথেও ওতপ্রোত ভাবে জড়ানো, আজীবন।  

                           একশ গজ দূরে লেকের খাড়া একটা অংশ স্থানীয় রেলস্টেশনকে আলাদা করে রেখেছিল। ঘাস আর কাদায় ভরা জায়গাটা পেরিয়ে লাইনের ওপর উঠে এলাম।

পৃথিবী জানবেনা। কিন্তু শুধু যে একজন নেই, সেইজন্যেই নয়, বরং তার সাথে মিলিত হওয়ার এটাই শেষ সুযোগ। আহ, ঠান্ডালাগা ভাবটা এবার আস্তে আস্তে কেটে যাচ্ছে। একটু আগেই যে আমি ঠান্ডা আর বৃষ্টিতে কেঁপে উঠছিলাম, সেই আমিই এখন তার স্ত্রীর সাথে শেষবারের মত মিলিত হওয়ার জন্য উত্তেজিত। 

দূরের সিগন্যাল লাল হয়।          

    

অগাধ ভালোবাসা, রিনিতা।

                         এবার ট্রেনের শব্দ ভেসে আসে। এই ট্রেনটাই কতদিন আমরা লেকের ওপাশটা থেকে বেঞ্চে বসে দেখতাম। দ্রুতগামী ট্রেনের চলমান কামরার উজ্জ্বল আলোগুলোর লেকের জলে স্বপ্নের প্রতিচ্ছবি। আজ শেষবারের মত। 

                       সেই গন্ধটা আবার ভেসে আসে। এবার তীব্রতর। 

“তুমি এসেছ রিনিতা? তুমি আমার জন্যে এসেছ? আমাকে নিতে?” আমার সারা শরীর থরথর করে কেঁপে ওঠে। ওর প্রিয় পোঙ্গল শাড়ীর এক কোণায় ও ছাতিম ফুলগুলো বেঁধে রাখত। সেই ফুল আজ পুরোনো। আমি ছাড়া আর কে এই ফুল ওকে সংগ্রহ করে দেবে? 

“আসছি রিনিতা, আমি তোমার কাছে আসছি।”  

                          শীতল ডিসেম্বরের কাঁপানো রাতে সংজ্ঞাহীন একটা দেহ রেললাইনের ওপর লুটিয়ে পড়ে, শেষবারের মতো ।।    

-24th Nov '11

Notes from a living room: 17

Life is all about coping with situations. Admitting things you never wanted to, accepting people you never sought, staying silent in situations where you wanted to shout at your loudest. Some happenings in life stir you in such a way that you start writing a note at 2.30 AM in the night out of a disturbed sleep, and still don't regret. You tell yourself, this is it...this is why they say maturity comes with time and experience and patience. Perhaps this is because we tend to regret when we do something out of a quick response, but a controlled emotion leads to a situation where we tend to look back and realise we acted matured. Time...it's a great teacher, and also a magnificent tool for anything. People have little idea to what extent it can be used to achieve something.


By the way, though not related to the theme of this post, but forced to post here...my cousin brother is getting married on the 20th.


-18th Nov '11

Notes from a living room: 16

Not talking doesn't help. I have seen people around me who have kept this thing within them. For them, if some people are not worth of being a part of their lives, they are not worth of talking at all. So all they do, is ignore the person altogether and gradually they voluntarily go away from their lives, or stop interacting with them. This does not help, and doesn't do good to either of them. Only a human being is useful to another, and neglecting someone and thus driving him/her away once and for all closes a door to our lives. And once that door is closed, it is not going to open. What is worse, this process is not an exception. Rather, it gives birth to a life long process which tells you to ignore every person whom you think is not necessary to your life. This, has both good and bad sides. One, you are blocking all those unwanted persons, who most likely would've wasted a good amount of time of your life and two, you are avoiding all those persons who had an honest intention of being a part of your life and help you in a way you would've never thought of before. Thus the walls we build around us, restrict us from getting the real experiences of life. It prevents us to get to know people, the real way. So go on, get out, there are amazing people out there, and there are numerous opportunities of life waiting for you. The more you hesitate, greater are the chances that you lose out on the valuable opportunities of life.


-16th Nov '11

Notes from a living room: 15

An idea is what binds a person together. Let's look at it this way, when we fall in love with a person, do we love that person only physically, or is it just because s/he is just too funny? or is it for his/her good grades, good looks or a caring attitude? If we look closely, we will find, above all these cute little attributes, there is something else which binds all those qualities inside that person together...for some it's their moral character, for some it's an objective in life, for some it's respect, and there are many others. When we learn to accept and love that 'something' which makes that person 'special' to us, we fall for them. But this, has another aspect too. There are numerous people around us who possess the same qualities, the same set of attributes...but what they lack is that binding potential, which makes them complete. That's the reason they remain being a possession of a set of attributes, not something more than that, for which one can call them a real human being. For them, the rest of the world is a place to fit in. What is optimistic, is for people like us, the world is a place to fall in.


-15th November '11

I was in a relationship…for three hours

No, I am not one of those hook-up guys, as you might as well have started taking me as one already. And neither do I leave girls in the middle of a situation…some call it a relationship, but that’s arguable. Rather, I am one of those sex-starved guys you will find in thousands on the streets who look at cute girls’ faces hoping that one day one of those girls will come and…no wait; not fall in love with me, but just talk to me. Yes, yes, I have very low feeling about me and I keep a very low profile because girls tend not to like me, and run away from me whenever possible. I don’t know if it is because of my nonsense gibberish talks I present when I am with a girl or is it because of my moustache…on a second thought it might as well be the outcome of the said two.


But then again, I was in a relationship this afternoon, for a full three hours. It felt awesome, to be in one. I mean, I liked every bit of it…the awe it presents, the soothing breeze it brings to the heart, it feels like heaven. And at midnight, now that I have lost her, here I am, mourning about our relationship that could have resulted in a wonderful and happy chain of incidents ending in a marriage. (Yes, I often dream about a marriage, that’s not a very uncommon thing for me). Now, as I would like to describe how I fell in love and the tale of my sweet love story, I advise all of you to fasten your seat belts and watch the wonderful love story, its twists and turns and then how it ended in a catastrophe.

Fact 1: I add a random girl in facebook.

Fact 2: Given the fact I keep the picture of a red hat as my profile picture, she asks me how exactly do I look like.

Fact 3: I get excited.

(Thinking process in my mind: Wao, she wants to know how do you look like…that definitely means she is interested in you. Come on man, she has got to be single! Approach her, flirt with her, woo her and then see what happens.)

Fact 4: ‘Gibberish’ I say.

And what I do is a few of those flirting messages.

Fact 5: She answers back with a smiley.

Fact 6: I get doubly excited.

(Thinking process in my mind: Dude, What have you done? She has fallen into you! A smiley, it must be followed by a few messages, a few more smileys, another few more messages…And voila, you are in LOVE!)

Fact 7: Another few more flirting messages from my side. This time they are a bit objectionable in content. Yeah, I have always liked to get into the wits of girls.

Fact 8: I go in the market and several thoughts go inside my mind. What could be my next step? What if she wants my number? What if we started talking from tonight? What if both of us can actually have a relationship that can take us to a marriage… yes yes…why not a marriage?

Fact 9: I come back home and check facebook.

“Jerk!” she has replied, as she has deleted me from her profile.

Fact 10: ‘Too sad’, I thought…for the girl obviously.

I look at the clock. I was in a relationship for nearly three hours. ‘Quite an experience’, I mutter.


And that’s all about my recently broke-up relationship. Hope you all have enjoyed it. Thank you. Until next time, it’s the same lonely, seriously funny writer, from his no-private room. Take care.




-11th Nov '11

Notes from a living room: 14

Walking alone on the road...and then came to see a couple, holding hands and talking about love. I felt bad...for me, and for my life. Looked at my own hand and reminded of someone whose hand it held once. But then looked on the footpath and saw a person cooking, on the path itself. 'Poor man', I thought. And then I realised something...no matter how pleasing the senses a love, or a relationship can give you...it does not beat the feeling of a struggle.

Struggling in life has an objective, but I can't find the same for love, for now.


-6th Nov '11

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.