A Conglomeration Of Impurities

Moments

2011-11-27T21:34:00.000-08:00

Very few moments are like those beautiful negative afterimages that appear for a second or two inside our dark, misty heads and then disappear into an abyss of dusty, deep crevices of unwilling oblivion. Very, very few moments, again, out of these, occasionally float back onto the delicate surface of old, blue memories tainted with fragile, moth-eaten pages of maroon and gold diaries. Of dried tear-marks. Of transparent fingerprints scattered around the keys and reeds and stops and bellows like the crispy leaves of Fall. Of long-forgotten tunes echoing back from antiquity to merge into the songs of today.

Such a moment was that moment, one of the very, very few.

I don’t know if I can live up to its bouquet of promises.

Brishti

2011-07-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

বৃষ্টি বৃষ্টি, evening sky
খোলা ছাতা, raincoat, passersby
একা নীল মেয়ে কাঁদে, anemic
কমলা আলোয় ভেসে, nostalgic
জানলার তাকে রাখা saxophone
বেজে যায় আনমনা, home alone
ভাঙা keys, unseen fingering
নেই কথা ফিসফিসে lingering
গাড়ি কম, জলে আজ flooded street
কাঁচ-ঢাকা সবকটা window seat
ছাঁট মাখে ভাঙা সেই saxophone
আর কিছু নীল মুখ, all alone

The Women Lay

2011-06-14T13:24:00.000-07:00

The women lay on the sheets, like strawberry pink polythene

Trembling on a pavement with dust, trembling on a puddle

Trembling on the gutter with a stench of sour rust and then

Flying away to another world of ceaseless, intense blight

To be picked up and thrust back into the circle of being

Plastic, dead, but strong beyond the grasp of putrefaction, elastic.

The women lay along the window sills, yellow sunflowers straining

Petals towards golden lights, away and further away from the brown core

That’s bound to spread its wings, a hawk roosting to devour life

And to savor it till its gluttony has oozed away in fatigued pleasure

Like copulating dogs panting delight in biting off the bitch’s flesh

To plant a pain that taints a body and paints a life in vain.

The women lay with their backs on the floor, their eyes on the ceiling

As clouds tempted their vision towards a paralysis of reality,

Magic and blues, their eyelids never closed like counterfeit Barbies

They never let a sound escape from between their chipped, faded pouts

The same well-curved smile they wore and dyed them anew

In scarlet, orange, maroon but mostly in some violet shade.

The women lay with silent stings, clutched the gash between

Tolerant banana thighs, all wings were clipped, their breath lost way

Among meandering sighs, and soundless blood that leaked

Hidden inside an unresolved bandage of rainbows, stars and polythene

As the women lay with vacant eyes, and prayed for bail from motherhood

All the same they understood, the wound is meant to be evergreen.

2011-04-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

For those who thrive on my flesh, I must eat on...
For those who live in my heart, I must beat on...

Kohl

2011-03-19T09:05:00.000-07:00

She is dying. In sleep she thinks she is a swallow, singing and singing and singing and singing and singing and singing… but no, she’s human. The more she wants to be the swallow, the more sleep evades her. At dawn, she stands before the mirror completely naked and dabs kohl on her lower eye lids until they are smudged in blackness. Then she moves closer to the mirror to admire her eyes. She can’t believe those are her eyes. More like a river, yes they are, more sad, more strange, more haunting, more hurt than any eye she had ever seen. As the day grows older, she suddenly feels shame, ashamed at her bestial nakedness of body and mind. Narcissistic? She knows not. But she hides her body behind her dress, she hides her mind behind her sanity.

“Have you been crying lately? Your eyes look red and swollen these days!” her acquaintances ask.

She never tells anyone about her kohl therapy. She knew they would forbid. They would make sure that she gets to see only her nude eyes. But she loved her kohl, she could never give out the secret. If she is to go blind, she thought, what better way than to love her eyes like her life before she lost them? She hates sunbeams, specially the yellow ones. Doctors would give tranquilizers. She never takes them though, she fears sleeping at daybreak, the time when she can look at her eyes silently. She even admires her sockets, her auburn sockets with their tiny violet veins just beneath her eyes. Sunlight blinds her eyes and thought. As it enters her room through the gaps in the curtains of the window, she sits crouched on the bathroom floor panting for breath. No, she had never smoked a cigarette in her life. Her lungs fail her without reason.

But she is scared. Scared to take the leap. She can merely bruise her knees again and again or prick her fingertips with a sharp needle until cute little red drops start oozing out. Dizzy… dizzy… food nauseates. Egg chicken mutton fish cabbage cauliflower cornflakes apples bananas mixed noodles hakka gravy veg non-veg… the waiter leaves as she vomits on her table and pays the restaurant for cleaning the mess.

The world is revolving. Five revolutions per day. Only blur. Not blindness. Blur. Madness. Nakedness. She drowns. They grab her fair neck and stick it inside the water until she drowns, completely. Does she resist? Does she force her head up to breathe? Does she…

Her dabbed kohl melts down her sallow, ill cheeks. Her tongue is black and salty in pain. She is dying. Maybe death can make her the real, singing swallow.

Old Year New Year

2010-12-31T00:31:00.000-08:00

As a child I used to feel strange every time New Year came. I could not distinguish between new and old, torn and full, smile and tears. I would start crying whenever I felt happiness creeping up my frail, fair body; it was like happiness spilling out of my self thorough my eyes… through tears. The children would feel scared of me, the children who were my friends when I smiled.

I wanted to die every New Year. My past simply slipped out from between my fingers and was forcefully pulled towards an unreachable Vacuum. Quiet. Or so it seemed. It seems. I lie like a mass of sensation on my narrow blue bed without a past, a root. Do I float? Do I fly? But then, nothing matters when time dissolves around you and you are dragged into a familiar dream. I take a lot of time in waking up when stories, histories and memories weave this strange mesh of lullaby. And when I do, the sense of loss had gone down the abyss as well. I ask for ice creams. I go to picnics. I watch rom-com movies. I visit friends, family.

The danger of the New Year passes by sooner or later, like Mr. Woodifield I guess, just as a new fly flies in.

Every time I feel equally threatened to know that I am the boss.

Spiral Ways

2010-10-24T12:23:00.000-07:00

I lost my life again today

On the spiral, forlorn way

Oh, nothing’s new, all is old

Same dull stories told untold

To keep awake the drooping child

I sing, I curse, I blabber wild

I want to stop, my tongue is dry

But every line just ends in ‘why’

There is no way, there is no way

I will lose life everyday

PTSD of Nationalism in Baaishey Shrabon

2010-08-08T02:49:00.000-07:00

[I met Rabindranath in a fine dream]

Me: Gurudev, I love you!

Rabindranath: (smiling saintly) But personal love is selfish love. You would have to extend your heart, and accommodate the entire universe within. True love is universal and indifferent. It melts down any boundary that separates you and your neighbour, the East and the West, Asia and Europe, one human being or one group from another. It is this love that transcends petty issues like political or economic freedom and takes us to a higher plane of being where we all merge into one another without slightest distinction of any sort. So say, is your love this love?

Me: Erm... actually I told you what my mother keeps uttering often. It was not me, see!

Rabindranath: Oh! Then where is she?

Me: (pointing to her at a distance) There!

Rabindranath: Thank you. (smiles). I think I will just talk a little to her.

Me: (smiling ear to ear) Sure! She will be delighted. (aside) Will Maa be able to point to Dida on time? She seems nowhere near...

The Fissure

2010-06-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

The fissure has been found and been cleansed of all rubbish. It stands independent. Beautiful. Melancholic. Probably a little violent owing to the newfound nascent nakedness. Its clarity now wrings my goddamn eyes. Its emptiness sprinkles pathos like holy-water.

The consciousness of the fissure is a treasure to be had. To be kept wrapped inside ivy printed handmade papers with care. To be smelt every night like an infant's sleeping hair. To be welled up deep within Margarets during spring and fall.

I do not know if I should lay a white garland by its side...

2010-05-27T23:03:00.000-07:00

i am fine, i am fine

daily deaths, a little wine

waiting, tears, and time will flee

but till it does, just let it be...

... of Men and Women

2010-04-11T02:41:00.000-07:00

The other day a friend told me that he thinks men are more comfortable with female friends rather than with male ones. On further probing he confessed that he is talking particularly about emotional comfort. Then he went on to tell me how in their group of friends in college, there is this girl Roshni whom everybody wants to be with. If anyone is down, she is the soothing factor. People talk to her about their personal crises and disappointments and find shelter in her empathy. Not that she is extremely pretty or seductive. Not that she is flirtatious. Neither is she anything like extraordinarily generous or talented or helpful etc. It is simply because she is a girl, and she is single.

But then, there is another girl in your group too, said I. What about her? She is the more gorgeous one, right?

Then I got to know that this other girl, who is also a good friend, is in a relationship. And when I expressed wonder at this strange observation, he started generalizing. He claimed that two men can never be as close as two women can be. It is the inherent nature of man to maintain a strict distance from another man. But in case of women, relationships are more flexible. They allow emotions to overpower everyday distance, if required. They are not as rigid as men.

I don’t know whether his point is valid or not, but it definitely made me think. If, for a moment, we consider this statement to be true, why, then I ask, would a man feel emotionally easy only in the presence of a woman and not another man? Why? What is the cause?

Women are said to possess a higher degree of emotional quotient. Hence it is more comfortable to express emotions to them who would understand and sympathise whereas in case of men there is this perpetual fear of being unsympathized, even laughed at.
Men always feel a spirit of competence towards other men. So they are often extremely insecure to unravel their private agonies to their fellow rivals.
There might be an unconscious sexual undertone to this whole project of the man revealing only to the woman. And all the women are more tender and more understanding and more homely and more sympathetic etc. crap, is just a hoax. Because why, otherwise, would these people in the group my friend was talking about choose someone who is single over someone who is not? But then again, does a woman lose her sexuality on commitment?

What do you think?

Please ask yourself this question and feel free to comment. Am hoping to see some really interesting and enlightenening views.

The Lovers

2010-03-06T10:04:00.000-08:00

O you have grown so stagnant, my love! No longer do you dance along the breeze like before, like when you cruised all the way from the silver hills to end in me, said the Sea to the River. It seems another era when you would rush ahead, nomadic and beautiful, flowing like a constant wonder with a song in your heart. You are no longer the labyrinth that you still profess to be. Indeed, you are changed; you have lost the charm of flow.

But if I wander, thought the River, why, I might melt into another sea.

The Sea does not spare such spiral thoughts. He would rather think that the river is now a lake.

Some Days

2010-02-02T09:13:00.000-08:00

Some days remind me of violet evenings. Of floating along smokes of cars, and taxis. Of plunging into the beautiful quicksand which breeds yearning in its depths. Of sweaty fingers clinging on to each other. Of breath beating in the rhythm of light. Of slender visions in pretty frames. Of meandering memories and smoggy sight.

Some days remind me of foamless waves. Of tears held inside tender shells with care. Of tampered, yellow pages full of love. Of fainting faith, flesh wetted, rot. Of humid breeze amidst long, wild hair.

Some days remind me of musical nights. Of words unsaid with gaps and smiles. Of covering and uncovering moments. Of passion bursting itself into fragments that spread along the clouds, empty streets, windows. Of trembling muscles that wept for distance. Of promises cremated and then showered by flowers.

Some days remind me of those eyes. Of the spark of togetherness that cuddled thoughts. Of that craving which can never be quenched. Of green glass bangles jingling, sublime in pain. Of unvisited crossroads without a name. Of a touch cleansed by an indifferent winter rain.

Some days remind me…

Of you.

That Time of the Year

2010-01-20T10:45:00.000-08:00

That time of the year is back again. That time, when evenings spread around like melancholy mists and wrap into themselves the dying out light of January. In place of the dead sun, yellow streetlights shine like pyres ablaze. That time of the year is back again when night falls with the fall of withered leaves and the city heaves out a very fond nostalgia. Like a pain. Like a long awaited gift. Like sleep. Like blowing warm breath into frozen hands.

It was not this cold back in 1997, yet colder than ever. For, life had stopped then in ways more than one. Only sobs would erupt out of the huge volcano of silence that surrounded my inner self. I would sit alone inside the mosquito net and let my vacant sight wander into the pages of Tintin Comic Books. I would sit inside the mosquito net all day, all night. And think of nothing.

Then one day Dadu came and said that I will have to go back to school again.

I was a kid.

I had a very strange way of taking things in back then.

Horlicks. And seddho bhaat. And lots and lots and lots of books. Yes, this was my diet for everyday. I would make myself gulp in letters, words and sentences of Feluda. It did not matter whether I understood as long as I was absorbed enough to shut off my ear-drums to the talks of condolence and suggestions. I did not like Feluda or Tintin much. I did not like books where boys and men do all the stuff.

But still I read.

Drank Horlicks.

And slept.

Still, when I sit quietly under my lep at the dead of night and watch Maa’s nostrils beating along the rhythm of her breath as she sleeps, I hear those swallowed cries that entered my little heart as the bangles were broken.

A child broke that day. Along with the shankha. The pola. The loha.

That time of the year will always be back again. Evenings will always arrive like familiar fogs. Orange suns will always disappear without trace. Neon lights will always cast longish shadows. And a child will always sit by the dimly lit mosquito net and read alone.

All alone.

2010-01-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

And yet again…

But it has been a long, long time since real tears actually overflowed from my bloody eyes. I carefully placed a thumb on the little pores of the mouthpiece of my mobile phone to stilfe any sound that might raise questions. I hate questions, I hate them more than my money-bag. And you talked. You talked and talked and talked and talked. Is silence that awkward?

I tried to find a poem the day before yesterday. But then what is the point of finding it if I cannot make it yours, was the fucking thought that stopped me. I put the book back and left. There was a smile in my eyes and a grit in my lips, I knew with more certainty than my life that I will be back here one day, caressing its pages, smelling its glue, smiling at the bright Times New Roman letters. I knew that I will go to you one day and shower the poem onto your chest like withered eucalyptus leaves and wash them with tears of esctasy.

Shit.

I am sorry that I never told you that I was on wait. That I wanted to earn those lines for you. That I would have loved to give you a little surprise and then see you break into a smile. I forgot completely, that tastes of lovers often coincide. I forgot.

I will keep those lines to myself. But I wish you fulfilment in desires that I had to strangle. And more, of course.

And before I cremate it, here is the poem for you.
Dead.
But yours.

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,

Where bashful flowers blow,

And blushing birds go down to drink,

And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows,

That any brook is there,

And yet your little draught of life

Is daily drunken there.

Then, look out for the little brook in March,

When the rivers overflow,

And the snows come hurrying from the hills,

And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be,

When the meadows parching lie,

Beware, lest this little brook of life,

Some burning noon go dry!

A Dream

2009-12-22T03:04:00.000-08:00

I clutch my phone and go to sleep
My Nokia phone, my oldie-goldie
I fancy calls and weep-weep-weep.

The sky turns green, oh I love you
My torn loincloth will lie alone
Being together is long, long due.

Then it comes, the serpent long
Chasing myself out of me
All pink, all brown, all that strong.

I feel scared, Momma come to me
The snake will kill my girly-burly
Who has set that animal free?

Theatre halls will glittery glow
The sky is red with shame and fear
The serpent follows really slow.

Evenings pass by along a train
Beautiful wings might fall apart
I wince, I cry, I howl in pain.

Godard, Truffaut all flashing by
Antoine’s mother undid her socks
The Breathless hero must die, die, die.

Darkness fills my empty eyes
The serpent moves in fiendish joy
The sound will silence stifling sighs.

Momma, Momma, I miss your love
The snake will eat me everyday
And everyday I will look above.

I give it caress and give it care
And cry-cry-cry till dead
I give in to its slithering snare.

I want to do a merry-go-round
And have some pinky candyfloss
Till Papa comes and marks my ground.

My pillow is sticky, my pillow is wet
My loins all strained to soothe the snake
And if I fear Papa calls it fret.

It goes very sticky, it goes very thick
One, two, three, four even more
It makes me vomit, it makes me sick.

Look how it moves and how it groans
All vibrates with my fainted breath
And out of me it extracts moans.

My Nokia phone is ringing aloud
I jump awake to take the call
But all I find are bits of cloud.

I lie alone, I look above
Thank god the dream is gone
Yet I crave an unknown love.

Five, six, seven, eight and nine
I will get up, wash my face
Count till ten, and I am fine.

The Fall

2009-11-17T12:05:00.000-08:00

Winding along the breadth of pavements

Inflating lungs with wistful smokes

Of coffee shops and burning fuel

Painting life with carefree strokes

The winds run aimless

Yellow leaves will shed their shell

Somewhere among the huddling dins

My city bids autumn farewell...

Hawkers shouting bidden price

Tea-stalls filled with clinks of glass

The beggar woman cajoles her child

Here and there, the buyers pass.

Eateries, hotels big and small

Cinema-houses dead or old

The lovers’ eyes as bright as light

Trickling heat against the cold.

Skies have not been deeper blue

Dust parts rise with kicking feet

A few more hours, the sun subsides

Wayside slums all dimly lit.

The film of fog now whispers in

The yellow leaves are crimson set

A tender chill runs down one’s spine

All delicate lips are Vaseline-wet.

My city turns round; it’s time for home

Toes well sunk in blankets soft

The little bird comes flying alone

Its humble nest held soaring aloft.

Leaves have filled all grounds with sighs

Their rustle mutters a pensive note

Deep in, memories slither awake

In books, in beds, in a tattered coat.

Beauty, pain, raptures unknown

Each will cast its span of spell

Somewhere in a twilight moon

My city bids autumn farewell...

Things Fall Apart

2009-11-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

দেখেছি রূপসাগরে মনের মানুষ

কাঁচা সোনা,
তারে ধরি ধরি মনে করি
ধরতে গেলে আর পাবো না...

Dekhechhi roopsagore moner manush

Kancha sona,

Tare dhori dhori mone kori

Dhorte gele r pabo na…

How vain, how futile I have been, trying to capture curves and shadows in a digital camera, trying to sink my finger deep into the autumn sky and revolve and revolve and revolve it until spring. How silly it was to imagine of controllable happiness, of tears welling up and melting away at regulated intervals, of eternal bliss curling up my doorstep through bottomless bonds of domestic love.

Oh fuck!! Oh bloody fuck!

How do I move ahead? How, with full knowledge of self-disintegration into a mass of heavy, unchangeable, predictable, stationary, peaceful lump of contentment? And discontentment? I do not know. Probably, the usual inertia keeps me on the move. It is this concoction of love, repentance, pathos, desire and hope that stirs behind my eyelids every night when I sleep and wakes me up and then again lulls me back to a state of drowsy semi-consciousness. Difficult. Very, very difficult indeed, to be unable to pretend happiness in front of people who want to see you smile, very difficult to be filled with the colorless sky when expected to stare at someone’s eyes instead, very difficult to talk without being able to persuade yourself to enter into a conversation, very difficult to touch without tactile sensations, very difficult to master an encouraging word or two when the sun of undoubted conviction sets ablaze your naked neck and ears.

I do not know what lies ahead, what time has written on a sheet of whiteness and blown away with neglect. I do not know whether I will ever have enough strength to drift away. Neither do I know whether I am blessed with the rare ability to divide myself into distinctly different and well-constructed pieces of one integrated identity, each to be cherished and lived for its own sake even in incompletion.

How inane, how ignorant I have been in trying to find fulfillment for more than a moment. In trying to round up happiness with repeated strokes of a delicate paintbrush. In trying to sew together all the beautiful threads of life. In trying to bring the wilderness of my spirit under the control of an idyllic bond.

I will break free.

I must not die.

Thoughts...

2009-09-21T08:55:00.000-07:00

Nope. That will be too much of a pain. Ugly, eh? What is beautiful? Arcs chiseled out of marble and rubbed and nipped and polished and turned into glass? Wow! How delicate! How brittle! How lovely! Yes, one might stare enthralled, the lower jaw hanging loose, the tongue pink and slimy, drenched in excessively overflowing salivation- I know it feels natural that way. But I would rather have the saliva inside my mouth, thank you, around the bit of white gum playing inside, the flavor of mint painting my lips dull.

Jafran is also sweet. Expensive though. They charge it very high in the restaurants. Along with the rice, or mutton, or aloo, or other palatable delicacies. The scent of garlic remains for ages after the tummy has been vacated and new smells have filled the olfactory lobes afresh. Garlic never stinks!! Who said so? Then rose water stinks too. And onions. And vanilla essence. Or say, sandalwood.

Yet, sandalwood incense sticks are so nauseating! My head aches. But then, aches are a cliché too. Every poet talks it wild. Talks and talks and talks it until you drop dead. Death is a little weird thing to deal with. All the dying, crying, being sad, fasting, grief, tears, photographs, garlands, flashbacks, whiteness, grayness, sepia, clothes, bed sheets, diaries, rooms, discussions, silences, strange implications meant to be understood…

Do yawns give everyone a double chin?

Skin-deep beauty is quite costly. But a good chin is a god’s gift. I don’t know his name. But gods are always he and goddesses she. Or is it not so? I don’t care! We don’t have to learn the genders any more.

I told you that I did not want more. I forgot to tell you that I simply detested less. And it is always less. Not always, but often. Many times. At least sometimes.

Sometimes I stand by the window too long. And catch cold in the incoming gusts of rain-wind. It cools my reddened ears. The veins in my eyes relax. And I passionately dig my nose for little chunks of toxins filtered by the hair.

No way. I cannot be pretty. We are too poor for this. And moreover I cannot endure too much pain. Ugly beauty is less painful and more affordable. Can I have a bit of that, mister?

First Glimpse

2009-08-24T10:10:00.000-07:00

On the down-slope after crossing the bridge, my rickshaw gathered its usual speed. Despite all the peak time Puja shopping, the road was relatively clear today. The rickshaw, thus, got the opportunity to accelerate its pace even more. I noticed the huge crowd at one of the openings of the bazaar and dismissed it as a simple triviality. That has been my habit for years. Years. All the LPG-less autos were also moving in full glory as everyday and stopping midway for passengers. And of course, the same sight of rickshaw-walas abusing them for taking the streets to be their baaper rasta. It is all so familiar, so predictable, so typical about this place that it has almost merged into my notion of a home. My home.

But then I saw it. Finally.
It sped along the bridge overhead… its colour light brown, almost a slithering serpent… the glassy windows shining along the orange light of a dying sun… soundless like sleep… yet, grand and overwhelming in its presence…

Before I could take it all in, my rickshaw simply crossed the over-bridge and the sight was left behind. By the time I had turned my head around, it had vanished inside the platform. Nothing of it was left but a piece of song that struck me along with the passion as I greeted the view.

নাগরীক ক্লান্তি তে তোমাকে চাই,
এক ফোঁটা শান্তি তে তোমাকে চাই,
বহুদুর হেঁটে এসে তোমাকে চাই,
এ জীবন ভালোবেসে তোমাকে চাই...

(nagorik klanti te tomake chai,
ek fonta shanti te tomake chai,
bohudur hente ese tomake chai,
e jibon bhalobese tomake chai...)

The essence of my city is inescapable. Glimpsing the newly extended metro railway along a dim-lit bridge for the first time is just one medium of feeling its pulse.

Long live, my love!

Yesterday... Tomorrow

2009-08-02T09:46:00.000-07:00

They missed me yesterday.

They remembered that I could sing. They remembered that I could fill up gaps in conversations better than either of them. They remembered that I could make silence more comfortable.
Did they remember anything more?

The rains always provide with the option of staring out of the window. Of being thoughtful without a reason. Of fiddling with little nothings just like that. Of gathering up the courage to try out music at last.
So they sang. Songs of innocence. Songs of experience. They would not let it be. They would always make an effort to replicate. They would always want to feel easy. Pleasant. They would never admit of finding the gap. The gap that had once been something like a ringing laughter. Something like a silly to-be-photographed posture. Something like a felicity lunch. Something like a relieving existence.

No. Please don’t come for her tomorrow. I know… yes, I know. A facet of meanness if you please. But I would beg of you. Don’t come for her. The crowd may not become enough of a veil. And I can’t melt before them. Them all. And you. I cannot melt before you. So don’t come to see her off. Please! Yes, begging is all I got to do. All…

Peace.
Peace.
Peace.

They missed me yesterday.
But did they remember anything at all?

The June Night

2009-06-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

The torrid June night has knocked again. The night that could never tell what it meant. That came tiptoed and kissed my forehead in sleep like a forbidden lover and went away, breathing an unreachable smile through its eyes. It refreshes me. Every time I die. It revives my spirit. It teaches me life.

What is it? A reminder, perhaps, to say that time has plucked one more of my parrot green years. Or to tell me that wisdom lies waiting to distil me of all juvenile ignorance. Or simply to bring the warning of an approaching end- to repeat that no beginning can come without a close.

Yet, this June night is an enigma, beyond any understanding and interpretation. It lulls me entranced. I wonder along the enmeshed alleys of a reverie that hangs as a part of some detached dreams. Or realities. Or reflections.

The lover chants along my breath…

“জন্মদিন আসে বারেবারে
মনে করাবারে
এ জীবন নিত্যই নূতন
প্রতি প্রাতে আলোকিত পুলকিত
দিনের মতন”

(Jonmodin ase barebare
Mone korabare
E jeebon nityoi nootan
Proti prate alokito pulokito
Diner moton.)

The June night makes way for a bright morning.
I love light.
I love life.

A City Night

2009-05-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

Up on the attic
Of skyscrapers and whispering sighs
Melting in crazy dreams
Dizzy with pretty lies
I fall, fall, fall…
Oh that bottomless trench
It moves forlorn by
Along the roadside stench.
Some dimming stars
A pitch-black night
Cars whooshing highway tracks
Psychedelic lights
My desk is dusky
Windows near,
Breezes breathing smoky dust
And faintly I can hear…

My city sings of lonely voids
It touches, oh it feels my eyes!
The evening rain has died so long
Now it’s time for more goodbyes.

Shaggy motels along murky lanes
Cheapness flooding women of doubtful birth
Trudging tramps with staling cigarette ends
Singing aloud the tunes of drudging earth.
Skinny dogs rolling in wetted sands
The puddles still mirror-clear,
All I need is a sleep ahead
But still a throb can hear…

My city sings of lonely voids
It touches, oh it feels my eyes!
The evening rain has died so long
Now it’s time for more goodbyes.

Cozy cafés, heated warm in neon beams
Secrets clogged with stories old
Spilling bins and vodka tins
Caffeine, pleasure, bought and sold.
Dreary bus stops staring blank
Lovers huddling empty parks
Darkened trees all swishing past
Painted walls and watermarks.
Bygone music, records known
Transistors fade with use and age
The stubborn baby still cries alone
The labor-man still counts his wage.
Oh my tongue is dry,
With laze and fear
But hark once more
And I can hear…

My city sings of lonely voids
It touches, oh it feels my eyes!
The evening rain has died so long
Now it’s time for more goodbyes.

Kalboishakhi...

2009-05-03T11:01:00.000-07:00

The gray whirlpool of the dead dust has leapt to life again. At last. At long, long last. A strange afternoon, I’d say, of swishing trees and fluttering plastic bags. And yes, the dimming lights of a faded day. It held many stories, mostly unknown, and some, half-forgotten among the everyday sweat… among a lull that brings anything but sleep… among the lifeless groan of tedium and monotony… among dreams that only enhance disenchantment.

The rain did not matter. Or may be, it mattered less than the wind, or the dust that revolved round a spirit of aggression; very characteristic; very familiar; yet enigmatic in a way that inspires nothing less of an unfathomable awe. In short, nature at its paramount in an indiscriminate brutality.
Every kalboishakhi is special. Each brings a different darkness. A different aroma. A different tinge in the psyche. A different solitude. A different rapture. A different whisper. The ruthlessness breeds ache and alleviation with the same intensity- twin sisters rocking in the cradle of quivering fervor with the sudden strikes of lightning thunder.

I let in the dust. Through my window. Through my eyes. I let in the storm… the lightning… the rain. As my body felt their cruel touch, I allowed my mind to soar into heights that seemed unreachable before. That seems unreachable every year before this moment… this dark… this music… this unrest.

It’s a moment of rebellion. Strong. Wild. Mysterious. Passionate. Beautiful.
I’m too moved… too feeble to resist…
I’m giving in…

Journey

2009-03-28T12:20:00.000-07:00

I confess. I saw eternity the other day. In the bustle. In the grey platform. In the bird-like animals along the high rising over bridge which must have been men and women in reality. My eyes were moist with silhouettes. I couldn’t see anything… only voices and noises flew along the heating air. I felt the dirty water licking the hemline of my long, flowing skirt…

The train was rushing in…
The world was spinning fast…
I gasped for breath…
My stomach gave a lurch…
A farewell smile blurred out of view…
The whistle could burst my ears…

I wanted to look away. But anyway, I couldn’t see anything… only sounds resonated inside my throat. I was dry and full. So I decided to keep still. Okay, I admit, I couldn’t have moved in any case. Roots, strong… adamant… rowdy, kept me fixed to the spot where I stood.

Did I stand at all?

And then the train came… Chugging and shrugging into a slothful halt.
Finally, I saw countless moves… the sea of unleashed colours which must have been men and women in reality.

The chocolate was melting inside the warmth of five clutching fingers…
My jaw was stiff with ache…
My cheek-muscles twitched…
And then…

Nothing happened. Only that I became deaf. Blank. Numb. It was an age before I discovered a change. A slight change. A beautiful change. A change that was not a change at all. It was all the same… the crowd… the fading sounds… the smudging colours… the ash jeans and black skirt… only that another five fingers clasped the melting chocolate over the previous five. It didn’t feel like a change, in fact. It was an end. A completion most obvious. A gift. An eternity.

One more shrill screech, and the train slowly left the station. I wanted to crane my neck for a last glance. But I was too full. Too heavy. Too captivated to move. The blue kurta and ash jeans still hung loose inside my skull… a smile that I tried to recollect couldn’t find a way out. My lips were parched and dead. Yet the train gathered speed… yet the crowd was scurrying about… yet the blue bench stared blatantly into my eyes… yet a waving hand disappeared among a thousand businesses...

Only I remained. Rooted. Quiet with inertia. Frozen with light. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to flee… to die…
But there I was! Standing amidst distorted images of reveries, realities and dreams. The whole of my consciousness was flooding with a glow… the beam was drenching my soul… liberating my pains… sweeping away all shadows of dilemma and doubts.

I knew at the instant, that I’ve undergone a journey... it was a religious cruise down my psyche. I felt it too deeply to deny.

I didn’t care whether my eyes were red… whether my hands were sticky with the remnants of melted cocoa... all I could manage is to utter “Happy Birthday”…
I needed it.
I was indeed born again.

Questions and Answers

2009-03-07T02:15:00.000-08:00

But of course some questions do not have any answer is all that I manage to convince myself. Finally. No, convince will be incorrect to use. Argue would be better. It shocks me every time I realize that questions and spring are independent of each other. The temporal similitude of origin disturbs me. The co-incidental complement between the two seems extremely vexing. May be its only my unimaginative nature that refuses to accept any impediment to the linear flow of sense.

Or may be, I’ll say, I imagine too much. That is what makes reality all the more incoherent and illegible. Images simply swim inside my cerebrum. Sounds flutter and then fade away. All what remains is a set of questions that seems to have no answer. Bloody shimuls rain over my shoulders while the answers that never were lulls me dead.

It’s weird to die everyday.
It really is.

I have a fetish for communication. For touching finger-tips instead of kisses. For phone calls instead of Bournvilles. It might make me odd… but one can hardly deny one’s dislikes. And likes, of course. Communication leads to lesser questions. Better answers. And bonding. The attachment that I am always deprived of.

Am I complaining?
Do I know what satisfies my queer needs?
Am I still the child that Mom tries to spot in me every time I get out of control?
Can unconditional love exist but for in myths?
How long will I be able to persist with this search?

Questions never fetch me any answers. Instead, they take me to mellow winter afternoons of orange dust and dreamy smokes. Of the telebhaja breeze. Of the chill making my nostrils arid. Of the golden light trickling down my ruffled hair. Of gutters blocked with empty Pepsi cans. Of the cozy constriction of the Cornfield Road. Of ripened suns and neon lights.

I no longer feel too tempted to stop seeking answers. I dig into myself. Into others. I go on trying… and trying… and trying…

I’m a creepy creature, eh?

Cuckoo-Phobia

2009-02-12T08:32:00.000-08:00

I fear the cuckoo sing. It brings fever. And phlegm. And unwanted footbaths. It’s very tricky you know… makes me rush to the window, stand clutching the railings, look at the resurrected krishnachura tree, inhale the pollen-rich happy-go-lucky breeze, gulp in all the light pouring onto my window sill and then…

I miss my childhood springs. Times when Ma would read out slices from different texts- English, Bangla, History, Geography, Life Science, even Physical Sciences and I would lie under a bed sheet groaning in fever. The Annual Exams were always such a pleasure so. I could jolly well manage excuses to fail. Or rather, to do badly. Or… umm… rather to do not so well. I fear gratifying expectations too.

The cuckoo brings my favourite sun.
So I really fear the cuckoo sing.
Suns are too infectious to escape. They bring light. They shoo darkness. They inflate me with smiles. With bliss. With confidence. And hope. I die to jump and snatch a lump of the beams they rain.
But sunlight burns my eyes. I thrive on antibiotics. And vomit. Am very bad at swallowing things. The vomits are often green. Even pink. Or red. All depends upon the cough syrup I take. My windows are kept closed to the sun. But some lights always manage to peep in. I fear intrusions too.

Fevers are like dreams. I easily catch my pet butterflies once again. The moths that were butterflies to me, that is. I gave them ants to eat. Both red and black. And I can once again teach the red ants to swim in empty ice-cream cups and help them out with a piece of wool. I can’t remember the colour. Only the ants come and go and tickle my fingers and caress my palm and jump into the water and struggle and swim and climb up the wool back to my finger once again. I miss the insects these days. Really. But the dreams persist. Nothing less than occasional violent shudders of cough can keep me awake in these times.

The cuckoo is a lovely bird. But I don’t like it sing. It reminds me of some old paintings. Some songs that I never managed to sing and so killed silent. Some cravings incomprehensible yet. Some myths that faded half way through. Some stories that were never woven. Some soliloquies that failed to find any readable expression. Some cold clouds that always bring fever.

Ah! I just realized. I fear long pent-up thoughts as well.

Dead Passions...

2009-01-30T08:29:00.001-08:00

Dead passions never die.
Buried, indeed they are…
Latent, dormant, sleeping flames-
Damnation follows their murky trail
I clasp the corpse behind sweating breasts
The passion burns more
And myths are curved along
The lines of forgetful love.

Foggy shadows are not all,
Much more remains for the voyage.
The touches and oaths haunt all over
August clouds bursting inside
How it rains! How it pains!
How I gain one lifetime more
Each time they come
And go and come
The bliss overflows in frenzied calm.

I do not mean to live in past
But dead passions are never dead.
The threads are blocked in a smothering knot-
No life no death will slash them away
They wake in graveyards, ancient ghosts
And never let me sleep alone
With whispers filling the air around,
“Dead passions do never die.”

Strange Times

2009-01-25T23:31:00.000-08:00

I have seen strange times. Times when everything was too normal to breathe. My family was at peace. Exams, presentations and term papers keeping us fussed and frustrated. The yearly spring was in the breeze, especially in the campus of Jadavpur University where every March the grass is soft (without ants), the sky is a violent shade of ultramarine blue and the breeze too seductive to resist.

By strange I mean normal.
Always!!
Err…
No...
I guess… sometimes…
There is an unimaginable pleasure in believing that I’m mad. Whimsical. Totally. Good-natured. But essentially crazy. May be its because of my irritating habit of escaping responsibilities. Never know. But all the same, loneliness comes as an indispensable corollary to business. And madness. And so it came. Tiptoed. Through Literature and the Other Arts. Through the Book Fair. Through regular visits to the Film Studies Department for the term papers. Through Hiroshima Mon Amour. Through Valentines Day. Through Sanskriti. Through the fossils of a yellow rose. Through Oresteia.

There were only two alternatives to escape. Hugging the pillow. And not awaiting those goddammit missed calls. I chose the first. Way lot easier an option.
I prefer easier things to effective ones.
Always!!

Err…
No… I mean, most of the time.

I’m not good at telling stories. But then, good for me. Everyone is interested only in reality. Or Art. And of course there are people who claim to write about Art and then give us the same old utterly personal hotchpotch. I don’t care. I look for stories. In reality. In Art. In life. But I have seen strange times. Times when love was just a fact. Kissing, formality. Touches, habit. Literature, duty. Family, pretentious smiles. And life had come to a stalemate.

By strange, I tend to mean normal… just tend to. But then, what is normal anyway?

A Deathday Anniversary

2009-01-23T07:27:00.000-08:00

Incense churned the nausea wild
White and gray swam all around
Some tears swelled up, burst away;
Others bridled into stifling silence.
They strangled me with pity,
With ropes of sodden love
I sat like a fleshy pillow
Listening to chants and sobs.
It meant that Horlicks was to come
With the smoke of tuberose air;
The white garlands still lay alone,
I held an empty stare.

The portrait is the same today
Incense sprinkling sandalwood
Fussy people, futile ceremony.
My misfit hand forced closed to pray
Peace to a long dead father’s soul!!
The comedy tempts forbidden smiles
In me. I strain to be deeply sorry-
The past that I had for long
Thrown with dirty sanitary pads
Is brought back to me by those
Filled with inane grief and pain.
I don’t know what they gain
Stranding me amidst discomforts.

Fate never mocked me so much as
This winter day does every year.
The feeling is strange but rituals have
Ceased choking me with sympathy.
The garlands dropped from many to one
Sandalwood still nauseates me-
Yet I try to pass the day
Away, rapt with wretched sanity.

Memory

2009-01-19T07:37:00.000-08:00

Some whims stick to the ego
The fetish with memory for me.
Childhood bruises form my blue
Mercurochrome red
And greenery is my dirty sock.
Other colours converge in the shutters of the window
Where tongues of sunlight lick it gold.

I cling on to my craving for a piece of shadow
Away from the halo of love
Solitude lulls me to bliss;
A room of my own to hide that smile
That slipped out once
To be torn away and thrown away
And a teen-age girl would just moan away
Away… away… away…
The breeze was kissing
Yes. That’s the breeze I know.

The friendship bands still fill a desk
Friendships melt with candyfloss.
The ink stained scarf was never wet
The cheeks never pink with youthful blush
Yet I touched the moon with a softer glance
Than the ball I see today.

Memory paints my picture bright
For nothing is right or wrong.
Call it fret; I won’t disrupt
It can’t be ever gone.
The breeze will blow my reckless hair
The girl still lies alone
And strike a chord,
There’s still the moan.

The Mobius Strip

2009-01-16T10:07:00.000-08:00

The stranger that I glimpse in me
Am not I for sure!
But is that else? It’s hard to tell
With half in heaven half in hell
The ex-centric self hammers my soul
Harder than Iscariot’s final nail.
Its neither betrayal nor belief
Just a potion of yes and no;
The pendulum never stops to pant
The motion flows to and fro.

I love the stranger not for its being
But for it’s being other than my own
For the way it kisses and sucks
For the way it licks the boiling tears
For the way it stabs the pokers with sleeping calm.
The reflection flickers in Freud’s zone
Hide and seek is not just a game.

No I can’t tear apart…
They form my Mobius strip.
Dissections increase the number of rings-
The paint never divides but continues to cling
To the surface called me…
Yet I’m sure! I’m definite!
I swear,
It’s only a stranger that I get to see.

2009-01-15T06:57:00.000-08:00

How long since I've spent a whole night
in a twin bed with a stranger
His warm arms all around me?
How long since I've gazed into dark eyes that melted my soul down
To a place where it longs to be?
All of your history has little to do with your face
You're mainly a mystery with violins filling in space...

You stood in the nude by the mirror and picked out a rose
From the bouquet in our hotel
And lay down beside me again and I watched the rose
On the pillow as is faded
I sank and I slept in a twilight with only one care
To know that when day broke and I woke that you'd still be there...

The hours for once they passed slowly, unendingly by
Like a sweet breeze on a field
Your gentleness came down upon me and I guess I thanked you
When you caused me to yield
We spoke not a sentence and took not a footstep beyond
Our two days together which seemingly soon would be gone...

Don't tell me of love everlasting and other sad dreams
I don't want to hear
Just tell me of passionate strangers who rescue each other
From a lifetime of cares
Because if love means forever, expecting nothing returned
Then I hope I'll be given another whole lifetime to learn...

Because you gave to me oh so many things it makes me wonder
How they could belong to me
And I gave you only my dark eyes that melted your soul down
To a place where it longs to be...

[Love Song To A Stranger by Joan Baez]

2009-01-04T01:44:00.000-08:00

Inertia…

A breeze sweeping through my thoughts
Of nothingness.
I float and float and float and float
And lose my way and breath and time,
Smelling the void is my smoke;
I choke.
But linger hours of pain in empty bliss.
It’s this
That’s real, the real I miss.

It’s not the distance but the warmth
The killer heat gives stifling glow
And burning is not still for love,
Nor for passion,
Nor for touch ,
Only ether seems worth a drink.
Life oozes out
In falters, jerks, halts and doubts
Creeping, creeping
Lazy, slow.

The salt of blood and salt of tears
Have met the salt of aimless seas.
I lift the waves
With heavy lash
The sky never comes at fingertips.
Vacuum wins, thought subsides
I close my eyes
For unseen dreams.
The play is over, it's time for sleep
But nothingness still hangs in breeze.

2009

2009-01-01T12:20:00.000-08:00

Still…

I tell you
There’s still hope
Still new, still sky
Still hue
Fills our eyes
I tell you again
There still is…

I tell you
There’s still smile
Still dew, still kiss
Still few
Dreams to hug
I tell you again
There still is…

I tell you
There’s still light
Still adieu, still tears
Still you
Somewhere deep
I tell you again
There still is…

MERRY CHRISTMAS

2008-12-24T21:37:00.000-08:00

Winter

2008-12-14T01:57:00.000-08:00

When will this white heaven die? Not white. Off white. Or rather a dirty shade of it. This fever is sick. I still sweat and we are supposed to be amidst December. Go hell with the meteorologists! Born pessimists… yes they are. Can anybody tell me if chills and north-winds and mellow afternoons sell? I don’t have money. But I badly need some hope at least. Badly.

I miss lep, to be very frank. And sweet peas. And colourful scarves. And sneezes. And my shoes. I still wear choti. Else it stinks. Wyaghhhh!
I guess it pains even more when you have to face an ever-bugging-mom forcing socks with choti, and Johnson’s baby cream on every exposed body part after bath everyday. God! Give me winter!! I want to be covered with better material than creams and lotions.

Even the mosquitoes seem irritated. Go on singing to me whenever I plan a nap. I don’t mind the lullaby part… only they sting!

Anyway, back to Bazin. I just don’t know why this guy is so obsessed with the realism crap!! My vote is with Eisenstein. I’ll prefer to create a meaning, thank you. Offfffffffffff I go. Wish you all a very, very blissful boredom.

Agami Prithibi'r Jonno...

2008-12-11T08:41:00.000-08:00

Aajker T2 te ekta obhutopurbo jinis dekhlam. Ek jhank chhoto-chhoto shishuder chobi. Norom swasthojjol gaal. Tultule maari ber kore okatore haschhe. Notun marble-er moto chokchoke chokhguloy ei sundor prithibi ta ke dekhte pabar alo. Dekhei sokkal-sokkal amar mon tao uthlo hese. Coffee-r cup haate besh onnekkhon dhore khuntiye dekhlam oder chhobi. Karo boro-boro chokh… karo kopale kajoler tip… karo motku double-chin er bhaare mukh ta hnaa kora… ekjon to abar dibbi ghomta tene punchki bou sejechhe. 28 din theke 1 bochhor --- sobkotai mon-bhalo-kora mukh.

Aloshyo bhore oder mukh dekhte dekhte mone pore galo kichhudin agei dekha arekta sundor mukher katha. Telegrapher-i front page-e dekhechhilam. Tuktuke rong, norom sonali chul ,fola-fola golapi gaal, khudi-khudi sajano daant, chhotto chyapta naak. Haate ekta lal ball. Chokh ta kamon r dekha hoyni. Kannay boja chhilo chokher pata. Mukhe hasi-r bodole chhilo bhoy. Atonko. Baba-Ma ke haranor onubhuti hobar moto boyos hoyni. Tai dukkho chhilo na lege. Shudhu bhoy. Goto-dingulor bibhishikay ojhor dharay kende cholechhilo kromagoto.

Rabbi r Rivka ar nei. Roye gachhe shudhu Moshe. Sei 2 bochhorer shishu-r je mukh ami sedin dekhechhi, ei ato hasi mukh-o bhuliye dite pareni tar chhobi. Barbar mone pore jachhilo Moshe-er pithe chhap fela 5ta anguler katha. R ghrina-r songe onubhob korchhilam bismoy. Moshe-er gaaye-pithe oi chhap keu felte pare? Keu sojhyo korte pare or oi golapi gaal diye goriye pora chyat-chyate chokher jol? Oi ghumonto shishu ke jor kore ghum theke tule or samnei nirdwidhay keu korte pare or Baba-Ma’r hotya? Ora ki kala? Ora ki ondho? Ora ki pagol? Naki sottiy manob sobhyota-r jontrikoron hoye gachhe?

Kichukkhon pore Moshe bhule jay. Khelte thake oi lal ball ta niye. Kintu amra ki kore bhulbo? Kano bhulbo? Kichhu ekta somadhan ber na kore ki kore roj raate dibbi ghumiye pori amra? Ekbaro mone hoy na je agami prithibi-r jonne ki rekhe jachhi? Amader porer projonmo ke ki debo? Hingsa? Bidwesh? Sontras?

Manush bodhoy born-optimists. Tai Mosher oi mukh dekhar poreo ajker hasimukh gulo dekhe notun kore bhalo lage. Notun kore swopno dekhar bhorsa pai, ashwas pai… amader jonno, oder jonno…

Amra jani na
Ek shotabdi poreo e prithibi benche thakbe kina
Amra jani na
Moha-plabone bhese jabe kina sheshotomo jibon
Amra jani na
Somosto seema-i ekdin hobe kina Hiroshima
Amra jani na
Himalay abar doob debe kina Tethys sagore
Amra jani na
Amader sokoler-i nokh hoye jabe kina dharalo chhuri
Amra jani na
Bhalobasar katha shunlei sobai bodhir ar ondho hoye jabe kina
Amra jani na
Mukti shobdo ti shudhu lekha thakbe kina itihaser patay
Amra jani na
Itihas rochonar jonne thakbe kina kono oitihasik
Amra jani na
Ekdin shesh hoye jabe kina sob proshno
Tobu amra ek sundor prithibi-r swopno dekhe jabo
Amra agami prithibi-r jonno diye jabo amader gham o oshru
Amra poroborti der jonno rekhe jabo ontoto ekti swopner upohar.

(AGAMI PRITHIBI’R JONNO--- Sunil Gangopadhyay.)

শয়তানের কারখানা

2008-12-09T23:33:00.000-08:00

পরীক্ষা শেষ হবার পরের দিন্‌গুলো সবচেয়ে রহস্যময় ঠেকে আমার কাছে। ভালোলাগা আর মন্‌কেমন-এর এরকম মল্লযুদ্ধ আর বিশেষ দেখি না। না... দেখি। দেখি কোন শোকাচ্ছন্ন বাড়িতে। মৃতদেহ-র বেগুনি মুখের ছবি বড়জোর একদিন রাত জাগায়। আবার পরেরদিন সকালে দুধ্‌মুড়ি, লেবুচা। আবার STAR আনন্দ, AAJ TAK। আবার sms, missed call। বরং কিছু উপরি পাওনা ঘটে। Australia-নিবাসী মামা আসে তিন বছর পরে। দিদিভাই দিল্লীতে পড়া শেষ হবার ছমাস আগেই একবার দেখা দিয়ে যায় বাধ্য হয়ে। বড়মাসি রা ভূপাল থেকে ছুটে আসে। খাটে সবার জায়গা হয়না। মেঝেতে মেঝেতে পড়ে তোষক। খেপে-খেপে আসে চানাচুরমুড়ি, ডিমের ওম্‌লেট। এতদিনের জমা যত গল্প, উজাড় করে দিই একে অপরের কাছে। পড়াশুনা বাদ। মা জোর করলেই মেজদিদা বলে ওঠে, "খুকুর যত বাড়াবাড়ি! আমাদের ছেলেমেয়েরা কি পড়াশুনা করেনি নাকি? সব আকাট মুখ্যু?" সমালোচনার ভয় আর কারো থাকুক না থাকুক, মা'র আছে। তাই কেউ মারা গেলে আমার অন্তত পোয়া-বারো। খাওয়া-দাওয়া আর আড্ডার আড়ালে মৃত মানুষ টা বেশ সহজেই হারিয়ে যায়। অবশ্য খুব অস্বাভাবিক মৃত্যু হলে অন্য কথা। তখনই আসল দ্বন্দ্ব। হইচই-হুল্লোড়ের মাঝে কোথায় এক কোনে দাঁড়িয়ে থাকা একাকীত্ব। সমষ্টিগত আড্ডার সঙ্গে একাই লড়ে চলে নিরন্তর। কখনো পারে। কখনো হেরে যায়। আর রাজায় রাজায় যুদ্ধ করে আমার মন করে তোলে অতিষ্ঠ। ভেবে পাই না কোন্‌দিকের পাল্লায় চাপিয়ে দেব আরেক্‌টা বাট্‌খারা। বিচারক-এর ভূমিকা আমার কাছে বরাবর-ই অস্বস্তিকর।

পরীক্ষার পরের সময়টাও এক্‌টা অদ্ভূত অনিশ্চয়তায় ভরা। একদিকে এতদিনের আশা পুর্ণ হবার উচ্ছ্বাস, আরেকদিকে একটা তলিয়ে দেওয়া শূন্যতা। এতদিন ব্যস্ততার মধ্যে সারাক্ষণ হাঁস্‌ফাঁস্‌ করতে করতে মনে হচ্ছিল পরীক্ষা বুঝি দুহাত দিয়ে জাপ্‌টে ধরেছে সময়ের গতি। আমি আর এগোতে পারছিনা। ঘড়ির কাঁটা টা থম্‌কে গেছে আপাতত। আর যখনই চলছে, এত বোঝা কাঁধে চাপানো যে পা টেনে-টেনে খোঁড়াচ্ছে ক্রমাগত। কিন্তু এখন সে দিন নেই আর। আমি এখন September-এর ঘুড়ির মত মুক্ত, বন্ধন্‌হীন। সময় তাই হয়ে গেছে ঘুড়ির সুতো--- আমায় এগিয়ে নিয়ে চলেছে... দূরে... আর-ও দূরে। সময় পিছলে যাচ্ছে; পিছলে যাচ্ছে লাটাই-এর শরীর থেকে। সব সুতো এক্‌সময় ফুরিয়ে যাবে... আমি উড়ে যাব চিরমুক্তির সন্ধানে।

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