Tuesday, 2 July 2013

মাঝে মাঝে কাদতে হয়-II (এক জ্বলন্ত পশ্চিমবঙ্গ)

চিত্কার   (The Scream)

চারিদিকে সন্ত্রাস !

যেন হাজারটা নরকঙ্কাল কাল নৃত্যে মত্ত হয়ে 

ঝাপিয়ে  পরে এক প্রজ্বলিত ধুমকেতুর গর্ভে 

এই উত্তাপের সামনে তোমার উষ্ণতা যদিও অবিবেচ্য, নিতান্তই নগন্য- 

উচ্চবিত্ত নাগরিকত্বের খোলস ছেড়ে বেরিয়ে আশা যে কত কঠিন
  
আমি জানি-

যাবতীয় প্রতিবাদ সেখানে বদ্ধ হয়ে যায় কবিতার কারাগারে ,

তোমার পিছনে চেয়ে দেখো ,

এক জ্বলন্ত পশ্চিমবঙ্গ  তোমায় তাড়া করেছে,

আর তার জমি থেকে উঠছে ডাকিনিদের নাভিশ্বাস !!!

পরে নাও কবিতার বর্ম  - নিয়ে এস মুখে শিক্ষিত , মার্জিত সহমর্মিতা 

আর…উচ্চস্বরে  কাঁদো... .!




প্রতিধ্বনি (The Echo
                                       
তোমার চোখের জল হয়ত বা মাটিতে পরেই বাষ্পীভূত 

হয়ত বা তার আগেই …

কিন্তু যদি হয় আরেকটা ফরাসী  বিপ্লব?


রক্তের বদলে যদি ঝরে অশ্রু বন্যা?

তা থেকেই হোক মন্দাকিনী !

যাতে শান্তিতে স্নাত হবে সেই সব নর-কঙ্কাল 

যারা দধীচির বংশধর !

যাদের ক্ষত থেকে বেরোনো আগুনে আজ জ্বলছে  পশ্চিমবঙ্গ !


হতাশা  (The frustration)

যদিও আমরা সবাই আসলে মৃত 

যদিও আমার শব এ  বাঁচে আজ রাজনীতি ঘুনপোকা 

যদিও আমাদের রক্তে পুরনো ব্যাধি ,

যদিও আমরা সবাই আসলে বোকা 

যদিও কবিতা আজ ও মুখ  লোকাবার মুখোশ 

তবুও আজ দশমী 

আজ বিসর্জনের বাঁধ বাধ;

মাঝে মাঝে কাদতে হয়, 

মাঝে মাঝে কাঁদো ....
                                        


Friday, 28 June 2013

WONDERINGS OF A LUNATIC

Do you know of that feeling?? That feeling which you have when you sit on the grass in a autumn evening with dew clinging to your surface, that strange feeling which is perhaps made of a quarter of pain, an ounce or a half of loneliness, quite a few grams of frustration, a pinch of nostalgia and a tinge of melancholy.
 What? What did you say? You don’t recognize that feeling?

No No No!!. How on earth could that be?

Wait. Wait a second, do you create?

Let me tell you a deep dark secret my son, every creator has known this feeling…in fact…in fact they are immersed in that feeling always. Saturated with the potion of sorrow, it’s from the ethereal sensation of nothingness they find their urge to create, to live and in most cases, to Die.

Let me tell you that no one in this world is happy, Can never be! Someone in the distant past said, ‘The scheme of this world is devilish’ and very agreeably so, my son… very agreeably so…But as Nietzsche would have said everyone is unhappy is just another way to say no one is.

 That’s exactly why I find this asylum the most transparent, happening and truly liberal place in this earth..

 I mean, at least you can blabber about the Ruling party here and Escape being labeled as a planned Anarchist, you can scream loud that you really liked the Nazi ideals and the Naxalite agendas really amused you, you have the liberty to label rape as a crime (although I personally feel it is also the oldest urge in some expressionist..Just the dam is broken) here you can even smoke Spider spleen and yet get away with it...Hell yeah, isn’t that fun? You know what? Here you can actually pee without any super powered nuclear nation’s intelligence watching you.

 At least you can have your opinions Remain as yours...Heh he.

 You getting me son?

Okay okay.. I can read from the wrinkles on your forehead that you are having a tough time with me, but nothings at my own disposal now.. Never mind.


Hey but I will strongly suggest you to get a grip on yourself, young man. Sometimes lights go off, but you won’t have to live in the dark if you befriend THAT feeling, you know? That sensation which is mixed with pain and nostalgia all along??
You know what; try to be Sad, really Sad and you will glow at night...

Friday, 14 June 2013

MAJHE MAJHE KAADTE HOY (A BENGALI POEM)

Majhe majhe kadte hoy.
Dhuye chole jay jate na –khosa pata
Sobuj moner jongol kete saaf
Asche bosonte tomar mone abar abeg er phool phute uthbe
Jodi tumi
Majhe majhe kado.
Tumi antorjatik,
Tomar oi kagojer mukhosher aarale
Shei aam-chor cheleta lukiyeche bujhi?
Prothom Kolkata jar chokhe felechilo obaak bismoy..
Ja jiboner toronge bodle gieche bardhokker bolirekhay.
Shei aamchor tar samner kaachta jhaapsa
Dhuiye dao…
Majhe majhe kaado.
Tomar pother pore roeche 25ti dhorshita jader sobai mrito
Onek mrito soinik
Jader poribar o mrito…
Tomar moner bhitore akfali jomite aaj bohu bochor brishti hoyni..
Take jol dao.

Majhe majhe kaado.

Tuesday, 11 June 2013

MONOLOGUE ON A COSMOPOLITAN

Yes, you have got the correct information about the cosmopolitan. He went back to the well. He was fully aware of what could befall on him if he was reborn. Yet he took birth. Growing up to be a cosmopolitan was not much of a task as was enduring the same.  Urban life was filled to the brim with restlessness, volatility of emotion and spectrum of crimes took suck a wild, colorful form that he often wondered in his leisure as to what bequeathed him on earth than his city. Solemnly in the fearful depths of his mind, where even he himself dared not to frequent, he knew his city was saturated with aimlessness, fatigue of a different kind. He felt it while staring acidly in a metro, or in front of  the swanky skyscrapers that seemed to literally sprout from thin air, or in the filth of the fishmongers arena… always, always that sense of despair was intricate in the air. One day, after his visit to the local brothel, which he often did, he read Duncan and wondered what to do with the days he was left with before he was again summoned by the gods. “By Zeus”, he thought, “I don’t want to go back to the heaven. Boy have I loved my city very dearly in the short stay here”.
In this way, even by knowing the loci of major pitfalls, he fell into one in life.

“He was engulfed by his city, wasn't he? “, one of my friends asked after hearing the news of his suicide on one fine autumn morning.  Another ensured, “you sure it isn't a murder? They keep dying these days on casino flings at Northern Square, you know……Police? Hah ha...” a sarcastic smile escaped his lips like he was playing the part of Joker in a Batman Piece. “…they are as numb as a mole, a mole..” he trailed off. He was drunk probably and so was the cosmopolitan. Although forensics confirmed sleeping pills in his entrails, his castrated parts, lay besides his carcass in his flat at 36 Northern Square, as if they underlined his fate, and laughed a hearty laugh at it. Now who would be so frustrated with ones masculinity that he would suicide by castration, especially who had fairly high regards at The Central Brothel?
The only loss, I thought he suffered, was to be denied the celestial beauty of the cosmopolis at autumn, under the fine rays of a dying sun.

Thursday, 30 May 2013

The circus called LIFE.

I often wonder, which is often the mora vidium of a mind at recess, that how aptness of certain colloquial proverbs excel ‘excellence’ itself. It is said that, ‘public memory is very short’. I was wondering on how the motion of vitality flows ceaseless through the seeming unending expanse of time. People come, people go; and so do geniuses. We forget the most, we remember a few, and that too not without reason- we remember Edison because his name mocks us from the streetlights to encroach on our personal bedroom night lamp- see, Not without reason.
                     How many names can you come up with when you are asked for socially working leaders? I doubt that many of us even care?
A creative soul passes away; people shower tears and ‘RIP’ messages galore in social working sites, spontaneously under the action of momentary remembro-consciousness, and go to sleep to wake up next day to be ready for office. Condolences vanish faster than camphor in the gargantuan realm of urban struggle. True indeed, that we cannot possibly loose our job and end up getting condolences ourselves by mourning for a bygone artist. Thus the bread of the day becomes,’ Let bygones be bygones.’

We have to compete in order to keep from perishing ourselves. Thus as a obvious result the ‘mortal’ loss of a intellectual although starts off a wave, but, nonetheless ends in ripples. Maxim Gorky understood this herd “forgettance”, and thus said, “Live for yourself, work for your pleasure; life is circus and you have to change camp sooner or later”.

Friday, 8 March 2013

of cities and burnt charcoals....

" Living in Paris had its benefits because Paris never forgets to return a favor".
                                                                                                                                               - Ernest Hemingway

Today I was taking a leisurely stroll in my roof, when suddenly, I was struck by the cupid with firm attachments for my city. Although i have known myself to be much of a pygmy from time immemorial, hopping from one hostel to the other. Ever the detached soul, i always faced a dilemma while filling up the 'permanent address' and 'local address' in any forms of applications. Given the person I am, emotional grounding should have struck me as the last man living. But still it did, leaving me enthralled, embarrassed even.

Though I may sound as a mystic or someone stoned as hell, I found layers of curtains rising in front of me, and scenes unfurling. Collages a bit... those of 60's and 70's... renaissance and riots.. prophets rising and men being stabbed, burnt to ashes, beheaded. I saw both the turbulent Calcutta in the riot  the revolting Calcutta which knows 'the philosophy pf the bomb', the rising Calcutta through the poet, the orator, the reformer and the searcher of god.
I saw despondent Calcutta  begging. Not for alms but for spent lye. Content on having even fermented vegetables, i saw Calcutta lying on a bed of corpse and skulls. I saw pen being mightier than the sword, literally, when theatres being staged i the city instilled fear in a particular omnipotent power. I saw the gates of science being opened. I saw Calcutta changing the world in the laboratory of medical college.
I saw the most qualified and logical skeptic ever to be produced by the east treading its path. i saw. I saw glitters.
 Yet, Calcutta seemed unfazed by turmoils and glory.
Like the great river conspicuously flowing by its side, Calcutta doesn't know to cross boundaries. Just a mute observer of the fleeting moments of emotions surfaced by its inhabitants, Calcutta remains. young and full of vanity.

Thats when i realized that the city does not love us, nor does it hate us... it just is. like the smoke of a burnt charcoal.

Thursday, 7 March 2013

just another evening realisation....

It's a bit strange that sometimes we wake up to situations that we have somehow perceived to find ourselves in, but yet had not wanted to be in it actually. Stranger is such positions come to us conspicuously, we don't even have time to acknowledge or appreciate them. They arrive sporting beards of litany, coats of dilemma finely guarding their face against netted oroshins of pathos. Like a traveler from the distant east.
Life snatches away someone from you, promising to give some more valuable gift in return. You believe in him unsuspecting that fate twists its claws in unfathomable ways.
You will get your chance to interrogate him, though, just before the court of justice, becomes adjourned for, say, this time.