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...

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.

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.