Obantor 3

Majhe majhe, prakton premika'r chhobi dekha bhalo
Ekta purono bishfool'ke khnuchiye rosh ber korar anondo pawa jay
Nijeke abar besh purono shei bagher bachcha bole bhul hoy.

Majhe majhe, prakton premika'r chhobi dekha bhalo
Chokh'er sathe chokh, ar naak'er sathe naak, angle'e bodol'ta bojha jay.
Bujhte pari, ei ko mash'e, aro khanik lomba hoyechhi.

Majhe majhe, prakton premika'r chhobi dekha bhalo
Knaad'te knaad'te haath mara'r onabil anondo labh kori
Ar bojropaat poroborti odhya'e purotai kali-kolom ulte makha bishonno tebiil.

Majhe majhe, prakton premika'r chhobi dekha bhalo
Matha'r modhhe'ta dhipdhip kore othe olpo sholpo praktoni biplob
Ar amio habijabi bolar ekta dohai pai.

Obantor 2

Bhalo thaka'r bara bhaat'e chhai diye
Nimnange tejoshkriyo bhalobasha
makhiye koltola'y chan kori

Ar Kolkata'r ghum bhange
arek juug'er paaltola shokale
bullet, bishonnota, ar shathe toritorkari

Ami Kobita Likhte Pari Na

Ami kobita likhte parina
ami bolte pari na oi
khete khawa abchhaya
ar tar bondhu'der rawgrawge golpo

ami kobita likhte pari na
ami parina roddure gachh'er
bakol chhariye banate
amar oshlil baghchhal

ami kobita likhte pari na
oshushtho alapcharitar
o half-galaj'er budbud'e
bheshe berai janala'r deshe

ami kobita likhte pari na
nijer mukher shathe
pet'er shathe, daant'er shathe
anchor-kamorer hisheb melate

ami kobita likhte parina
kebol majhraate proshob-
byatha'e chilchitkire raag'e
keyboard nongra korte pari

Ami kobita likhte pari?
Na.

Obantor 1

ami bnachi nehat'i
du-ek'ta sneher du-ekta haather porosh pabar jonno
ar du ek dana khnuudkuro
jai niye chhaad'er kona'e, uthal
patal tor asha'e
lopat hoi niye, amar dowstana'gulo..

Shubho Deepa-Boli

Prottek bochhor'er moton ebochhoreo ami ekrash ghenna ebong ek chhotak pitti ugre rasta'e nami.
Alo'r mala'y para'gulo ke beshya'r moton laage, rasta'e baaji poranor daag, beshya'r jothorer khide.
Akashe rongin shell ure jay, ar phire ashe na. Tukro tukro rongin agun neme ashe pith lokhho kore, hothat kore nijeke Vietnam-bashi ek bridhho mone hoy.
Kuashachhonno rasta'e ami ganja'r dhnowa bhebe pora carbon monoxide gili,
ar ek fnaake tubri'r jhor'e itostoto bikhhipto ghilu'r kona kuriye ni shobar chokh'er arale.
Ami manush'er moton na, eta ami jani, kintu paa'er pata amar moteo boro hochhe na, bhalo kore lokhho kore bujhi.
Kebol matha'ta bhari laage, moneybag'er bhetor 'joy matadi' chimti kete chole jounange.
Amar hijre protibeshi'r mukh dhaka daari ar haath'e jolonto mombaati dekhe 'Mother, mother, ora Talibaan'ke dhongsho korbe bolchhe?' bole proshno kori.
Jolonto chorki chhnure maare amar matha lokhho kore prottek chhad theke, ami jyano Kalo Kashyap'er cinema'r hero, eshob eriye nordoma periye chhut maari.
'Daddy, amar'ta purchhe na, puriye dao na?', proshno kore kucho bachcha tar kyelo baap'ke. Ichhe kore thatiye thappor mari, shala, meye'ke 'baba' bolte shekhaoni, banchot?

Tarpor ek shomoy, shob alo nibhe jabar por, jokhon para'r rasta'ta shunshan hoye jay, ami etolbetol shobder dhal namiye, habijabi ittyadi matha'r opor shajiye bari phera'r poth dhori.

Amra pourushhin, 
amra oshohay, 
amra bhije knatha matha'y jorai, 
amra digboloyhin math'er uddeshshe chhut mara, 
amra shada shaheber ghora'r chnaat kheye keliye pora race course'er majhkhan'e, 
amra chalk'er khori'r modhhe abodhho uchhishtho, 
amra...

Nishi

Ghor’er modhhe boshe achhi, janala shob bondho, jaate alo na dhukte pare. Jaate keu na dhukte paare. Raat tokhon onek.

Baire theke awaj elo, “Dorja khol, ami phire esechhi.” Shune chomke uthi. Shei awaj, hajar bochhor agger ek shiitkalin boyoshshondhi'r odhibeshon'e hoyto je amake chhere chole gechhilo. Shomoy'ta oboshyo grishsho'w hote paare, bochhor'er hisheb amar motei subidher noy. Etodin Robigeeti shune shune kebol pothocheye boshe royechhi ar haahutash'er diary bhorechhi jhorapata'r kuchi'te. Shei tor awaj’er opekhha’e. Prothombar’er jhor, jeta bariye diyechhilo gola’r doirgho amar inchi charek. Hoyto aro kichhu censored ongsho’w berechhilo, sheto tor'i shongodosh'e. Ghashbon’er pith beye Africa bhromon’er nesha’e ashature awaj, tao prothom tui’i. Park’er kona’e giye kaan kamorer daag ke pipnre bole bhule thakar obhiman, ba ghat-birete, raat-birete chand ar lamp post'ke mishiye je kolpona, shob kotai tui.

Amader ei elaka’e bhut’er boro utpaat, ar ami bhut’e boddo bhoy pai. Tai hneke boshi

“Ami Nishi’r daak’e bishwash kori, apni bari jaan ekhon.”

Khanikhon chupchap, tarpor mobile’ta vibrate kore uthlo. Message eschhe.

“Dorja’ta khol, eta shotti’I ami, ami shotti'i phire esechhi.” Akuti porishkar eibar.

Number’ta, Nishi naam’ei ami save kore rekhechhi, jodi bhanga dorja'r taka'a kokhono udhhar korte pari, ei asha'e.

Khuchro Khobor

Ajker special bulletin:

Goto 3 din dhore shohor'er nanan prante nanan bhabe, nanan toiltet'er nyangto deho wala disproportionate mohila'der chhobi'r pashe, classroom'er bench'e, shoheed minar'er chhate, emonki Haora Bridge'er tham'e ektai lekha dekha gechhe barbar. "Biplob Agoto". Banan'e khanik bhul dhora porleo [Bi-te dirghi, Ta-te khondotto twa] basic boktobbo etai. Facebook'eo hothat kore ei ek'i odbhut duto shobdo wala ekti chhobi widely circulated hochhe. Gotokal raat'er agun lege jawa dokhhinpranter ek bosti'teo shari shari porakagoj udhhar hoyechhe jate ei lekhati'i abar pawa gechhe. Leaflet jatiyo kichhu bolei eke mone kora hochhe.

Amra aro khobor peyechhi je desh'er nanan pran'tei ei lekhati pawa jachhe dekhte bigoto besh koyekdin dhore. Bibhinno minar, shoudho, mondir'er gaa'e, prottonto gram'e, Steel City'r dewal'e dewal'e nanan bhashae ei duto shobdo fute uthechhe. Lekha'r khetre tuli-kali theke shuru kore int'er rong ba coin'er daag obdhi pawa gechhe.

Kortripokhho khanik duschinta grosto, tara protnotottwobid, bhashabid, o aro nanan bid'er bhir lagiyechhe, ei odbhut byapar'ta arektu better bojhar jonne. Expert'ra bolchhen ete hoyto Bideshi guptochor shongostha ba alien jatiyo karur haath achhe.

 Bishishto joneder nanan mot'er majhe ekti ke besh guruttopurno bole mone kora hochhe, je slate'er obolupti'r o paper'er akal'er folei lok'e ekhon jekhane shekhane lekha shuru korechhe, jodio lekhatar mane bishoye enara keui khub ekta alokpaat ghota'te parenni.

Aj raat 10'tae bishesh alochona shobha dekhun, 'Ke ei Biplob', jekhane amra nagorik shomaj'er lokeder mukh theke shunbo tader ki mone ei biplob bishoye.

Ekhon biroti'r shomoy, biroti'r opor prante dekhun 'Dhormoghot'er mushkil ashan'e pulish thengani', 'Daini bisorjoner Bijoya Dashami'te', 'College'e college'e notun fashion styles', ebong 'Peyanj'er daam bridhhi, restaurant malik'ra ki bolchhen'.

Ei segment'ti present korechhen Sunil Sugondho, "Gaa'e gaa'e sugondho, bha'e bha'e anondo". *tingtingtiting*

Atha (Ekti bideshi golp'er chota bishesh)

Dorja khule berote giye thomke dnarai, tor haath'e kouto'ta dekhe. "Ishpeshal Atha : E shob jure dey". Obaak hoye jai, tobe tui pagol, eto ami janii. Fridge'e atkano chhobi'tar dike takai, ekti chheler ceiling'er sathe atkano ek chair'e boshe thakar chhobi.

"Chhobi'ta besh mojadaar to." Oshwoshti wala ekta hashi diye boli. Onek din por tor sathe kotha bollam, emon kono kotha jar sathe ei doinondin othbosh'er kono shomporko nei.

"Tai! Amar bbhishon bhalo legechhe chhobita. Bhabchhi orom korbo aj." Anmona ekta uttejona mekhe bolli.

"Ki je bolish tui! Otato ekta trick chhobi, dekh pechhon'e janla'ta shoja. Ar chhele'tar to chul'ta sref gel diye orom khnocha khnocha kore diyechhe, jaate mone hoy ulto kore jhulchhe." Ami berote berote boli.

Office'e pnouchhe oke phone kori. "Ei, shono, o bodhoy bujhe gechhe."

Opaar theke prothom'e awaj ashena, tarpor o knepe uthe bole "Aj bollo?"

"Naa, just.. hothaat.. janinaa."

Alto bhabe fnopaani'r awaj ashe. Amar oshojhho laage, phone'ta rakhbo, decide kori.

"Achha, shono, ekhon amar na khub chap office'e, ami tomake pore phone korbo, raatre."

Fnopaani'ta kete di. Gorom laage.

Bari phire ashi. Dorja khule dhuki, juto khule fridge'er dik'e jai, thanda jol'er uddeshshe. Fridge'er dorja'ta jammed laage, khola jayna. Jeno superstrong atha mere diyechhe keu. Ekta chair tene boshte jai, chair'ta norena. Aste aste lokhho korlam, ghor'er ekta jinish'o narano jachhe na. Ispeshal Atha, ar tui, ami bujhi. Bhetor'er ghor'e dhuke dekhi tui nei, kothao'i nei. Ar ektao funiture narano jachhe na. Jyano ekta chhobi'te dhuke gechhi mone hoy. Khoshkhosh awaj hoy. Upor'er dike takai,

Ekmatha kalo chul jharlonthon'er moton jhuliye tui dnariye achhis, ceiling theke nicher dike. Tui pore jachhish na, tui jhuleo nei. Tui shoja dariye achhis. Amar kirom bhoy laage.

"Tui bhoy pash na, ami ekhhuni toke namachhi."

"Ami bhoy pachhina." Tui heshe heshe bolish.

Ar kichhu na peye bookcase theke mota mota boigulo namai, oguloke tui ar atke dishni. Dictionary je kaaj'e laagar bostu, eto amra shobai jaani. Porpor shajiye dnariye uthi stup'er upor, tor pet'ta joriye dhore toke nicher dike taani, toke norate paarina.

"Tui chinta korish na, ami ekhhuni help jogar korchhi." Ami boi beye namte namte boli.

"Dekhe, tarahuro kore jash na. Pore jabi." Tui mishti kore hashte hashte amake bolish.

Ami thomke dnarai. Upor dike takai.

Tor chulgulo kirom jhaugachh'er patar moton dekhte laage, ar tor buk duto khuchro chokh'er jwol'er fnotar moton, norom badami sweater'er tolay chapa pore thake. Tui heshei jash amar dik'e takiye. Toke dekhe amar kirom laage ekta.

Abar boi'er stup'ta beye uthi. Tor thnot duto khunje niye chumu khete jai ekta. Hothat kore paa'er tola theke stup'ta shore jay.

Ami majhakashe bheshe thaki, tor thnot'e laga Ishpeshal athar sathe atke giye. 

Rant 1

Rainy mornings in a post-monsoon season, the best days when you can sit on the bed and stare outside, watching the raindrops jumping from one grill to another, on their way down to the earth. One experiences throatburns from long lit cigarettes, at times shaking up and lilting about in dismayed horror of loud thunders. And one broods, one broods for happiness in days when the sky looks dark and sad.

I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.

Happy page has let us know how and where to find happiness, be it on tree tops or smells of kittens and babies, but then again, right follows it a Sad page.

I do not have a problem with happiness and sadness, as long as they relate me to my nostalgia, but then, that is a rare occurence. For happiness is to be found in dead streets, like when I saw that old man sharing his daily plate of meal in equal amounts with his pet Roadesian, near Jadavpur Thana. Happiness is that simple. And then, near 8B busstand, there's the woman with her child, who makes every bypasser a family when asking for food. Food, not money. And I try to shut my ears while licking my snowcone, aware of the fact that I do not believe her. Sadness, is that simple.

And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme

To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind

I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're

Seein' that he's chasing.

I'm sorry that I continously refer to the streets of Calcutta, but maybe that is where my life lies. I cannot delcare myself a kid of the street, for I carry nobler bloods. But street is where I end up lying, everytime I have consequential dreams.

Maybe, just maybe, a petrichored morning with happiness and sadness ground into the streets will make me better. Or not.

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Brishti O Hammock'er Prem

Brishti. Baire brishti pore cholechhe, ar poronto headlight'er aloy she mati'r kachhakachhi ispat fola hoye ekbar, sref ar shesh ekbar jhilik mere more jachhe. Baranda'ta jenoba onno grohe'r bashinda, brishti'r sathe bichhinota taake aro beshi kore norom, obhimani kore tulechhe. Chhotto hammock'ta oshim shunyota'y ekfali shobuj ghash'er moton majhakashe duule-khule-ure berachhe.

"Counter'ta de."

Ami hotobaak hoye tor pith'er dike takiye thaki jokhon tui nibhonto biri'te arekbar mukhagni korash. Bhije bhije jwol'er fnota gulo ei ondhokaar'eo jwoljwol korte thake, jeno sharata gaa'ye aj tor keu lukiye achhe, ar tar chokh futechhe shoddo shoddo ei brishti'r majhraat'e.

Amader ei bhije deho'duto eke oporer theke duur'e, nijoshsho nogno gorima'e jenoba double purnima'r omlette, kimba duti jwoljwol'e cigarette'er agune jonaki sheje ghure beray ei chhoto space'tar modhhei, othocho nishwash'e proshwash'e amra ekta ononto unchu, ko-hajar tola bari'r dike chhut lagiye cholechhe mohakash majhe, ke jaane? Jenoba jwolokrira ba naagpash, konotai shombhob hawa batash alo ondhokar ar ei hammock'ta chhara? Heshe uthte giye byatha kore oporer thnot, dudin agge'r pourushotto prodorshoner prottuttor.

"Achha, Easter Island'er murti'ra kokhono prem-tem korto bole mone hoy tor?"

"Prem korar poreo orom expression thobor'e? Just newa gyalo na."

"Kintu dhor jokhon ora dnariye dnariye bhijte thake ei prithibi'r ek kone, tokhon hoyto tui ar ami kamre berai du-ek poshla modhhobittota ke? Amra korte pari prem brishti'r jwol'e thay dnariye, sref nijeder buk duto ke jwol'er haath theke bnachiye, ar ora parena?"

"Buk'e thanda na lagate hole chepe dhorte hoy eke oporer sathe. Amrao tai kori, tui ar ami. Ora to pathor, ora prem korte pare ki na janina, but sideways ghurte bodhoy paare na. Tai to thanda lege lege buk'gulow kirom mosrin pathure hoye gechhe."

Baire brishti pore chole. Amra ondhokaar'e brishti mapa'r byartho cheshta korte korte ghumiye pori.

Thanda laage, buk'e.

CL Leaflet

JU. Comparative Literature. The tattered 'half-brother' of single language departments. But this campus, it will become your family in a matter of few days, and in every corner of it, you'll find something to take back to life.

"What is Comparative Literature?", "What do you study in this subject?", "Ki je porish chhaipash oi 'college'tay' giye?",  such and more questions shall stay around to bug you, but honestly, would you care? The coming days will be well-spent on studying the Tarantin-ian 'Theban Plays', or maybe embracing the aesthetic power of Kalidasa, from reading propaganda of Mayakovsky, to manifesto of the 'Fyatarus', or maybe just switching between the caress of Satyajit and the craziness of Fellini. And there shall always be a guitar to be found here, which will sing out loud what you've always wanted to say in whispers.

Classrooms, the walls, the chairs and desks, and the lack of chairs and desks, all this awaits you, along with the Addas, The tea-and-cigarette breaks, the poetry books, and the jhil''er hawa. And waits for you, somewhere in the longlost alleys of this beloved campus, love and revolution.

We love to have a revolution at the drop of a hat, and we believe our love is revolutionary. 'Dialectics' you may hear one of us utter in reference to this writing. But really, remember what Neruda said when he Explained a Few Things?

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!

Seriously, do you not see the blood on the streets? And everywhere around in this violent world of ours? Jadavpur provides an escape, but Jadavpur shows you the way to wipe away that blood too, for the answer has always been blowing in the winds, and you know it too, don't you?

And once all of that is done, there will still wait for you the canteens, the jhils, the bridge, the post as well as the pre-modernists, the lover's glance, and the music of life blaring loud across this beloved home of ours.

Welcome home. Welcome to Jadavpur University.

Forum for Arts Students (F.A.S)

Ghor'e Phera'r Gaan

College'er gate diye tolte tolte matal dompoti beroy. Ami kichhuta dhnowa, onekta brishti matha'y niye barimukho hoi, oder pichhu pichhui. Jwoljwole shob jomoj alo pash diye chhute chole jay, ami arektu daan dik'e ghenshe haanti, kintu footpath'e uthek keno janina lojja laage.

Bus'e comrade pakrao kore, biplob koddur, jante chay. Ami er ki uttor debo? Biplob tnyak'e gunje rakha achhe, just ber korte parchhi na, ber korlei sathe nongra laga rumal'tao beriye ashbe. Ar ami rumal na keche thakte pari na. Boro beshi hyapa, ei biplob.

Comrade tobu  khnochate chhare na, biplob'e nesha permitted noy, janiye dey torighori. Amar hai othe, sathe hoyto kichhuta pitto'w. Thutu dola pakiye ashe, jot pakay gola'r modhhe. Comrade ke tata janiye duto bus stop aggei neme pori, shorbo onge kaada mekhe. Jot'ta khule jay.

Tarpor kalo gari'r bhetor aro kalo gari? Footpath bodol holo ki modhhoraat'e? Naah, Shokti nei sheishob korar. Spordha'o nei. Tai emni'i hnaati ekta ghoshte jawa ayna'r upor diye. Kolkata'r rasta, dorpon hoye othe proti borshasnato raatre, amar moton kono nesharu'r opekhhay.

Mukh dekhar cheshta kori, ekta kalo dim jyano. Shara deho jeno ekta kaalo statue, jar outline diye achaar'er tel'er moton streetlights goriye pore bhijiye dey ayna'r buk. Ami rasta dekhte shuru kori, kara jyano bole gechhe rasta'i debe rasta'r khonj, karon tok gondho naki akash theke aj rasta'teo nemechhe.

Hothat kore kheyal kori, rasta'r shob kukur gulo kirom udgrib hoye amar dik'e takiye achhe. Naa, amar dik'e na, amar pechhone kichhu ekta ghotchhe, sheta ke dekhchhe ora. Shunshan rasta'e gongani ar gojrani'r majhamajhi ekta awaj ek kukur theke arek kukur'er gaa'e dhakka lege ghure beray, akash'e uthe jawar shahosh'ta ar pay na.

Ghaar ghora'te bhoy laage, keno janina mone hoy ekta prochondo kharap kichhu ghote cholechhe pith'er pechhone. Jenoba mukh ghoralei dekhbo kono Tibetian rakhhosh'er mukh pichhu niyechhe, ba hoyto duure ekta paromanobik bijoyollash bot gachh'er moton matha chara diye uthchhe, ar dheye aschhe radioactive alingon jor'e, aro jor'e, amar dike.

Chhutbo ki na bhabi, kintu chhute palanor case to eta noy, tai emni'i hnat'te thaki. Shotti kotha bolbo? Motashota manush to, chhute giye moron'er haath erano kirom jeno ghenna jagay ei porot'er porot jorano matha'r modhhe.

Rail line, shei priyo, chena, ebrokhebro nuri bhorti rail line chole ashe. Ajo sala foot bridge'ta banayni ora, tar maane ajo abar shei bheja bheja, porishkar loha'r alokrekha dingiyei pherot jete hobe kaada makha rasta'y. Bhalo lage na. Aj abar kuasha'ta beshi mone hoy, jenoba engine'er dhnowa gulow aj lyadh kheye gechhe, line chhere ar shorte chaichhe na. Duur'e train'er alo, ami paa chalai. Barbar train chapa pora'ta lojja'r bishoy bolei mone kori ami.

Kukur gulo epareo cheye achhe, amar pechhon dik'e. Ar ami hnete jachhi. Bari phirte hobe amay, orai nahoy apatoto guard'ta dik. Ejatra na morle, kaal theke rasta'e neri hobo, abar.

Mirror: A 7 years badluck story

Outside, the rain roared. Inside, the street, the king of the back alleys in a local setting, glistened gloriously in some diluted bloody mess. Orange, the closest colour to a city bred insomniac's midnight walks down this back alley of mine, in which shattered glasses and the regular dilute blood rests. Battle, this city, this street, it sees a battle, over and over again, between my mirrors and he.

We are face to face, I, a he, and she, a me.

Rain and glass are what keep the distance alive, so  face offs of laser torches may smile in their devout Cheshirish way.We both love how the rain wrenches eros out of our epidermal existence, and touch, the fingers of ours. Glass, again, and again, and again. The steely glass keeps the barrier alive, while all we ever wanted to was make love when rain made our bed on this street of my inbred city.

We are face to face. She, a he, and I, a me.

Can oceans ever sweep across and away the dirt, the redness of beetle juice, and the cancer of manholes, and burnt cigarette stubs and Pepsi caps, away, away into some far Waste Land-ish oblivion, away from the artery of my city? Or maybe, can the ocean just show pity and wash my feet for maybe an eternity, all the while when rain shall soothe us, you and I?

We are face to face. I, a she, and he, an I.

Bridging gaps between a sorrow sea of lacuna, or am I just too melodramatic, for you? You, the mirror one, the mirrored one. Pistols have been made so we may embrace for the first and the last time. Pistols, have been made so boundaries may see an end, for what is the difference between a hunter and a hunted, really? We're both really dead, aren't we? Mirrors break, and orangeness make rainpuddles seem a bit closer to blood, to flesh, of you and I.

We are face to face. He, a she, and you, an I.

Shoshan Boiraggo

Well, here I am. Standing beside the pyre, it's a cold, cold night. Someone to show me love, in a cold, cold night. And I'm here, waiting.

"Bollo Hori! Hori bol! E bollo Hori! Hori bol!"

Ashe ki amar priye? Seems unlikely. That's more like the one who died holding on to her bedpost for sheer life. Bedpost'ta bhenge gelo.

The pyre burns a bit brighter. Yet it's a cold, cold night. They hand me the Gita.

"Raam naam, satt hay. Raam naam, satt hay."

Is it she? No, no, no, they'd never bring her to me like this. This one, she died because the husband was a hunter. And what did he hunt? The warmth.

The pyre burns a bit more brighter. It still ain't warm enough. Another Gita. Kal giye bajaar'e bikri kore ashte hobe egulo.

" Dot dot dot dot Amaar Rahe, Amaar Rahe!"

Definitely not this one. This is the crazy, green monster. They have shot her. Finally.

I laught out silently. I have three Gitas with me now.

"Arre bol re saathi! Hori Bol! Aro Jor'e! Hori Bol!
Arre Daar gaya kya! Hori Bol! Arre Mar gaya kya! Hori Bol!
Arre Jo NAA bole, uspe bol! Hori Bol Hori Bol!"

Here she comes. The one who made me a Harishchandra. My beloved, for whom I build a pyre every night, and she breaks it down every morning.
In this cold, cold night, my heart prances for the expected warmth.

"Boss, Gita achhe ektao tomar kachhe?"

"Kine anoni?"

"Taka chhilo na."

"Bujhlam. Ta ekhoni ba keno chaichho? Body to chulli'te jabe ebar."

"Sheijonnei. Sharajibon onek boi puriyechhilo. Shesh ichhe chhilo, Gita'tao jaate porate paare."

The pyre, it becomes a flaming pyramid. And it travels high, high up, above the cloud. A stairway? To heaven? If you insist.

Warmth, I take it in. I wouldn't be building a pyre anymore in the morning. I wouldn't need to.

---------------------------------------------------

According to the Hindu rights of cremation, a dead body must be accompanied by a copy of the holy Bhagvad Gita. But this book is not burnt. Everyday, in the crematoriums, hundreds of Gitas are collected, and they are sold back into the market. This way, a single copy of a text helps many crossover to the next innings.

TriRadha

I

I see you Rai, waiting there, on your bed by the window. The morning rain caresses your cheek, subliming the saltiness. The wind, caresses your hair. I lie, and I watch. The early morning is your lover, it may seem so. The real one, the one who made you wait the night? He's gone.

Rai Jago

Rai, he's gone, on his metal stallion. Rai, the lover has gone, never to return ever to calm your unrestful breast. Rai, you miss his touch, on the inside as well as the... You are scarred, the pool in your eyes speak out loud. Yet Rai, when this wind shall stop, and the mewing of the kittens will commence to soothe you, you will start loving me. In the morning, when moons disturb not the bridge between you and I, maybe, you will love me.

Rai Jago

Rai, the wind. Rai, the flowers, Rai, the sleepy stars. Rai, sleep now. Gopal comes not, tonight. Tonight, I protect you.

II

I see how you check out the guy on the next table. No, he's not the one, not the one you wait to seek. Rai, it is me, you fool of a woman. Your bespectacled eyes seek so much, in every man, yet why not in me? I am no less, am I?

Rai Jago

The ice thaws, in your cold coffee, but you, you roam in the abyss of windowless dungeons, seeking a whiff, of maybe a fallen flower. I hate you, I hate you for what you have made me be. I hate you, for making me hate myself. All I wished was the thawing of ice, but your icy palace, Rai, I still am banished from entering their gates. The gates which have opened only once, forever to close after that, it seems.

Rai Jago

You speak to me. your eyes sparkle, your pen flitters, yet I am nowhere nearer to your Mohan, as you are to his heart.

III


We were meant to be together, but we can't anymore. Rai, you belong to someone else's chamber. Your feet, their dirt blesses my hut everytime you beseech me for an attempt to love. But how can I, you are never mine, never ever. I can only be your friend, your guide, never the one to hold those petals between my fingers.

Rai Jago

See how the river flows, we have passed our prime with this flow. And now, I, the husband of Reality, no matter how much I may desire your love, I cannot, for you, you Rai, you are meant for Vasudev. You are an offering, not for me, but to eternal wait for lovely redemption. And sin, I shall not.

Rai Jago

I, the man, can only worship, never compete, never protect. Friend, my Rai, you and I shall only be inches apart, when in need. For the rest of the time, you and I, and the river by our side.

Slogans.Crazy2

Slogans, the essential part of political demonstrations today, and something I'm not very well accustomed to performing. You require stern lungs, and sterner shamelessness to shout out your demands in broad daylight. It requires guts to shout out an "Inquilaab Zindabaad", whether you understand the meaning of revolution, or not, because you can never be sure if anyone at all will truly follow up with a "Shamrajjobaad Murdabaad". It is the action, which counts, the honesty, in your voice, is what is reflected in slogans.

To think, what the first slogan of mankind may be. It may have been the palki bearers' unified chant in a midnight alley down the broadway of medieval dreamlands, or maybe the Egyptian workers who pulled the pyramid slabs, all the while offering their drudgery in the feet of an eternal societal god, or maybe something more ancient. Slogans, are songs, songs which I still hear when labourers try to install a mere hand pump in my neighbourhood. Even the weirdest cries, groaning in disdain "fyan dao go, fyan dao" in the streets of '40s Calcutta, are slogans. Slogans, the solitary ones, range to being "O dada, ek baksho dhup nao na".

They are essentially disturbing, something which jerk the peaceful, self-satisfied, pleased 'us' back into reality. "Cholchhe na, cholbe na" may be the most honest, yet pseudological slogan around, because essentially, dada, shob'i chole jachhe, ebong chole jabe, for us.

Slogans, the true ones, by all probabilities I think, have no words to them, they are but battlecries, battlecries which have been heard while Bastille was stormed, battlecries which have been heard when the one with the land became the butcher during Tebhaga Andolon, battlecries which are still heard today, if you have the right ears, and the right years.

Meanwhile, for us, the best slogan around, is the one reserved for our end. The end of laughter, and soft lies.

"Bollo Hori, Horibol!"

Bollam na, It is the action, which counts, the honesty, in our voice, is what is reflected in slogans.

Scars.Crazy1

Scars. It feels too bitter to say out the word aloud. Yet they are so dear, the scars that make us ugly, force us to be stark naked at times, and hold back the scars. Everywhere, from the holistic heart, to that cavern of parochial numbness between our legs. Scars, they itch, and they bitch, and make us writhe in unsilent bars. Scars, the breaking up of monotonous pettiness, all etched out in a Jocular essence of abysmal lostness. Scars leave us humane, and ready for more. Is scar, then sex? Or is there a second degree burning of the left lobe which leaves us in love, which leaves us to be devoured up by scars. Scars, is it a monster, or just a neighbour-friendly pet ghost which makes you forget the dead puppy you once trampled away to the glory of the one-eyed green monster? We never know.

But do you want to know why scars visit us? A saint once had something to say regarding this, he never has found a bedmate since, and it has been ten thousand nights and ten thousand sins.


Love is a fire. It burns everyone. It disfigures everyone. It is the world's excuse for being ugly.

Shohid Bedi

Kishorilal is dead. Kishorilal, you know? Arre, the bus driver you meet often while going to office? Yes, yes, the one wearing the thick grandpa glasses, the one with the white hair. Yes, the skinny Kishorilal. Your common, average, everday transport worker.

Why'd he die? Well, it's all in the news, don'tcha know? Basically, he wasn't getting paid. He hadn't received his pay for the last 5 months. So, because he wasn't being able to feed his wife and 3 kids, hence he committed suicide.

Chhya, is that even a reason to die voluntarily, apni'i bolun?

"Arre bhai, life is but a gift of God, ta ki erom baaje bhabe noshto korte hoy, tai na? Khawate pareni, tar jonne suiside korlo? Gandu naki? Arre, edeshe to koto hajaro lok'e khete payna re bhai, nahoy aro 6ta mukh tate add hoto. Tai bole more gelo?"

Who gives a fuck if they aren't paid? Who gives a fuck if there is no breakfast for them, unlike you? WHO gives a FUCK if the state stops providing subsidies in the transport sector? The only time, when we DO give a fuck, is when there's a transport strike. Ki je hochhe ei rajjotar, khali bondh ar bondh.

"Amra to bhai modhhobitto, amader bus dorkar, amader auto dorkar, amader riksha dorkar, amader taxi dorkar. Ar tai amader driver, conductor, eigulo dorkar. Ki elogelo maal gulo manush ki na ta jene? Eder kaaj to amader bohon kora, ek jayga theke arek jaygay joldi, jam katiye, kannik mere, race kore, pouchhe dewa. Tarpor byas, na tumi amar, na ami tomar. Poysa diye bus'e chorchhi maane pentul khule hawa khabo, ar ekebaare stoppage'e nambo. And then, vanish into thin air, these 'people' will. Bujhle bhaya, nehat desh'ta India, oi Japan-tapan hole dekhte, kobe purota kei robot baniye dito. Ta unnoyon  hobe ki kore, shob to rajniti'te chheye gechhe. Kissu hobe na, edesh'er."

"Ta, morechhe je, thik kibhabe morechhe jano?"

He hanged himself. Gola'e dori.

"Chhyachhya! Eta abar mora holo? Chhotolok manush, moreo era chhotolok'er motoi. Morteo shekheni era."

Don't worry Biswasda, Biggyan has proved that ghosts do not exist. So he won't be bothering you. None of them will.

"Jak, bnachale bhaya. Ashole, din'er sheshe manush to, arekta lok morle kirom jeno kore othe gaa'ta. Amra boddo beshi bhoot byapartay bhoi pai. Modhhobitto sentiments, bojhoi to. Egulo amader vices, bujhle to? Untill and unless we are rid of these, Bangali jibon'e boro hote parbe na."

"Ta bhai, ekta kotha shuni, kara shob jeno bole, that the blood of all these deaths, are in our hands? We are the guilty folks? Amader ki dosh boloto? Amra lok'tar mrittu'r jonne dayi, naki lok'ta nije? Amra ki oke bolechhilam na kheye thakte, naki amrai oke jhule porte shahosh diyechhi? He is the one who decided that the rope is the way out, why blame US here? We are not the one who are guilty here. Tai na? Phole amra keno or rokto gaa'e makhbo?"

Oshob kothay kaan deben na, ogulo opoprochar. Keu jokhon gola'e dori diye jhule pore, ami joddur jani, rokto khub ekta beroy na. Jeta beroy, sheta hochhe gu, ar muut. So, if you do have any form of liquid on your hands, on your face, on your body, on your conscience, it is but the shit and piss of all these Kishorilals. Egulo makhun gaa'e matha'e, dekhben, chamra bhalo hobe, aro mota hobe, chul'er ghonotto aro barbe, matha'tao besh dheke jaabe shundor chul'e, bairer kichhui ar shekhane thnai nite parbe na. Makhun, makhun, bhalo kore makhun. Bhebe nin eta shei hajaro pretatta'r ashirbaad, jader mrittu'r jonne apnader keui kokkhono dayi korbe na. Apnara bhalo thakun, bneche borte thakun, bou bachcha niye doodh'e bhaat'e thakun, taholei era khushi. Bhalo thakun, Biswasda, bhalo thakun.

"Chhyah, ki je bolo tomra, ajkalkar chhelechhokra'der motigoti kichhui bujhi na. Hobe na, hobe na, kissu hobe na. Tomader kissu hobe."

Haan, amader kichhui hobe na.

Shotto Ghotona Obolombon'e

I was late, again. It was 10:15, and not a single auto in the stand. Asked a riksha if he'd go, was replied with a curt "Rasta bondho". I could have sworn I heard "Rashtro" the first time he said it. There was some accident on the way ahead. While deciding to walk back, caught an 8 year old declare with utmost seriousness, "Ekdom spotdead". Shit.

It was 10:20 now, and winter nights were not meant to have so many people around at this time. As I walked, the crowd increased. Hazy halogen could not hide the excitement in the faces. I also saw some police.

The bus started to enter the scenery, like a red sun, towed to a police truck. And I was stopped by a rough "Pichhu hoto, pichhu hoto".

Ar koto pichhu hotbo, dada? Ar kotota pichhole dewal'er sporsho pith'e ter pabo, bolte paren?

There was the crowd. The dark skinned, oily haired, young guys, the bashindas of the nearby half-slums. Maybe they were militants. But before their militancy could be expressed, the police, 4-5 guys with helmets and latthis charged towards us.

The whole crowd moved back. I moved back with the rest of them. The police had sealed off the road.

The ones who charged moved back to their posts. The crowd moved forward. Curiosity, plain curiosity, I thought.

"Sala banchod'er dol, era bhebechhe'ta ki? Bara, amader chheleder'kei marbe, amader maa-bon'der kei thele shorabe, ar amra khali pichhu hotbo? Sala pulish."

The speaker of these words must have been 2-3 years older than me. And his education must have been 4-5 years younger than mine.

"Ei, ei, ki bolchis tui? Cho amar ssathe, sala bollam mukh bondo rakte, kichutei ssunbe na."

A man, must have been his older brother, familial or maybe paratuto, came and pushed him out of the crowds, took him away.

I was wrong. Curiosity was not the case. Not the only one, definitely.

I stood there, and tried to listen to what people were saying. I couldn't decipher anything. They were way too angry, it seemed.

Finally, they towed away the bus. Shattered windows, an absent windshield, bent frames, a scratched body.

"An innocent bus was brutalised by an angry mob", I heard the headline in my head. Innocent, is what I'd highlight, I decided.

The crowd started to close in now, only to be driven back again to their old positions. "Pichhu hoto!" As if that's easy.

10:40, now I HAD to go back home.

"Dada, bari phirte hobe ashole, ta shamne ki jawa jabe?" I asked a policeman. A man who must've been in his late 20s. Can a policeman be recognised as 'pulish' without that uniform? That helmet, and that cane. I guess not. Your offense and your defense are not meant to be displayed in the open, unless, you are the 'pulish'.

"Jabe? Ta jao, tobe shamle." Shamle, dekhe, pash katiye, aral khunjei to din katachhi, dada, ar koto shamlabo?

I started walking, and noticed how I'm the only one who was around now, without a helmet. Even plain dressed men were wearing helmets, and had that sick yellow coloured cane in their hands. Must've been hundreds of them.

"Didi, dekhun, ekhane ekta tension'er situation apatoto, apni please ektu bhetor'e jan" I saw one of the constables urging a wailing woman to go back into her home. I recognised her, she owned the nearby cigarette shop, my daily stop during the conveyance-less nights.

"Tension tomader? Amader chheleta more gelo, ar tension tomader? Tomra, tomrai dayi, eshob tomader jonnei!"

"Ei, onake bhetor'e niye jao." A man, an officer, slowly, and surely, commanded the constable.

That tone, it sounded familiar. I remembered Sumanta Mukhopadhyay from Atanka. "Mastermoshai, apni kichhu dekhenni." Sumanta was a goon and had committed a murder in the film, right before he threw this dialogue at the accidental bystander, Soumitra Chatterjee.

"Move forward". I saw a wet spot on the road, and some darker fluid inside the pool of water and shattered glass. And behind all this, there was bunch of them, the 'pulish'. I suddenly started feeling a fear. What if they wouldn't let me pass? What if they decided I was a lawbreaker? What if they just wanted to taste the power of their cane?

They let me pass. And I remembered I still had a long way to walk back. I tried to light a cigarette. On the third try, I could. My hands were shaking. It took me 20 minutes to cover a distance of 50 metres. I needed to cover the rest faster. Hopefully, I would, I expected no one else to stop me. Atleast, no one with his offense and defense pasted to him.

--------------------------------------------------------

I later found out that while moving his bus in reverse gear, a drunk driver had mashed down an 11 year boy in that wet spot on the road. About a 100 people came out of nowhere and after being unable to capture the driver, beat up the bus, and tried to set it on fire. The number of policemen I saw was approximately 100. The ratio was 1:1. 

Someone, somewhere, should be really scared.