Borshakalin Marjar Bilap

Ei golpo'tar kono shesh ba shuru nei, thakte parena. Eta kebol obirol chhute jawar modhhe bichhino bhabe khnara hoye thaka ekta dnaari. Ba ekta futki. Fullstop noy, karon fullstop'er kono jayga nei 20 bochhorer jibone. Ei golpo'ta adope ekta Golpona jaate ami aro kuri bochhor baade hnochot khete chai, nijer buro angul'er nokh'er daan dik'ta jaate konakuni bhabe uure jay, shei procheshta te pete rakha.

Ekta odbhut shomoye dnariye ami ei futki'tar jonmo dewar cheshta chalachhi. Kichhudin agge Nabarun Bhatchhaj naam'er ekta 66 bochhorer buro more gechhe. She to koto lok'ei more jachhe protidin, akash theke bomaru  bimane pathano bish-lojens kheye ba pocha shuworer khublono ondokosh chibiye, kintu ei ekta lok'er more jawata amay jalachhe khub beshi. Nabarun shei lok'ta jar modhhe diye ami purbojonme (asha rakhi sheta 70er doshok chhilo) phire jai. Nostalgia bina eta ar kichhui na sheta bondhu Shounak na bolleo ami bujhi, tobuo ajker ei muhurto'tay itihashe, 2014 shaal'e, jekhane ami je rashtrer bashinda tar matha'gulo shob uui pokar dhibi'te porinoto hochhe, ar amra aro beshi kore nijeder chokh, kaan, buk khuble hashi mukhe shofolota khunji tramline'er baire, jekhane amar shohopathi bishthha tyag korte shopping mall'e douroy 10 takar rikshabhara niye ar ami prochondo chap niye tolpet ankre kora nari "Abar Ashibo Phire" namok mutraloy'e, jokhon amar boyosh'ta 20 periye 21'er diike jawar cheshta chalay, shei 2014 shaal'e amay bnachte barbar phire jete hoy Nabarun'er kachhe.

Foloto nishchoi ei mrittu'o dukhho dey. JEne feli palabar ar poth nai. Etodin dhore matha'r upor baap achhe, brohmma achhe, achhe Nabarun bhebe nijer bhalolagar arale dnariye amar jaa bakkobaan chalanor chaliyechhe, kintu ar noy. Amar bondhu'ra onekei hoyto amay subidhebadi ebong bhondo bhabe. Bhul bhabe na. Karon bhondo bhanr'er tolay je hangor maachh ghure beray, tar beriye ashata ami chai na. Nijer pet'er modhhe timebomb bajte thake shunte pari. Hoyto ei onubhuti'ta shobari hoy, tobuo amar timebomb'er knata'ta ektu beshi boro, din koyek ontor'i khoncha mere janan dey je"'seasonal depression' aa gaya!"

Amra shei bachcha'gulo, jader onek kichhu korar achhe, more jawa chharao. Tobuo, amra hoyto kebol morei tushto thakbo, tar beshi duur egonor rasta nei jene. Ami bohubar amar bondhu'der bolechhi je ekta Tritiyo bishwojudhho chhara amader attik mokhholabh oshombhob. Amra shei generation jara ektao judhho dekheni, emon ekta judhho ja proti bari'r ekta kore bachcha'ke dabre dhore frontline'e pathiye debe ebong poroborti'te shei bachcha'rai bikolango, kushthagrosto ba bhoutik akare phire phire ashbe tader maa-baba'r priyo vote candidate'ke bhoy dekhate.

Amra judhho noy, shanti chai. Ar shekhanei joto kelor kitti. Judhho, mohagrash'er 36 round chibono'te dola pakiye haath paa matha mundu ishwor shoytan shob jokhon ek hoye jabe, kebol tokhoni amra bujhbo, ejibon loiyya amra ki koribo.

Aj Palestine'e je boma porchhe, shegulor koyekta ei shohorer buuk'eo pora uchit. Ei shohor shudhu megh'er dhekur ar olpo-acid brishti'te heje gechhe, ei shohore tai neme asha uchit megaton'er carpet bombing. Amar ei chhoto futki, etar size khub boro noy, kintu ami chai eta bomaru biman'er runway'te pore thaka ekta dhil hok. Ontoto ekta dhil. Dhil ke chhoto bhabbenna, Mukto Palestine'er shobcheye bishakto ostro ajo 14 bochhorer mutho'e thaka dhil'tai.

Long Time, No Sea

Hello. It has been a long time since we've met. How are you? Fine? No? Me neither. But then again, I chose to be so, so you might as well not question about it.

No, i have not been torn up and chewed about. No, i have not faced stormy weathernotes, for a long time now. My words have grown fewer, you see? I cannot write anymore, instead, I draw. I draw letters on my termpaper like some cursive hieroglyphics. I draw dewdrops on flowertops. I draw jetstreaks underwater. Well, I try too.

The fountainhead, is basically a phallic symbol, i have always believed, right from the days of olden lovers. I just never managed to say it aloud to them, with Rand being their goddess of a mean capitalist idealogue. But my phallus is drying up, the stream or all that went inside roaring, rushing into sinews of hatred, all that is dying. I see on newspapers Shundorbon is dying too. Wildlife and wildlings shall perish, they are meant to perhaps.

I feel old, weak. My days in the sun are but gone and lies ahead some terrible temporary existence which may or may not push me to die. But then again dying is easy and easy is not what i wanted. I did? Ki bolchhish? I refuse to accept this allegation.

Fuck you, no i do not want to be like Bukowski. I can't drink that much, neither can I fuck. Bollam na, I feel old and weak by some twenty odd summers. Summers weren't such a pain before, i remember, travelling to school traversing half the city, and then wishing another half to come down to me at night. Maa had jaundice when i was in class 7. Tobe theke ekla travel kori.

I used to imagine bloody fistfights and ketchup blood and me participating in all that back when i did not travel alone. Funnily, i never had courage enough to partake in one when my friends decided they wanted a teenage share of local pride. Easy is what i wanted, eh?

She has been pushing me to write for some time now. but i can only paint. and my brushes are drying me up. Gift me a new colourbox somewhen, won't you?

Bhikhhe

Bhangte bhangte ekta oboyobhin chhaya'e dhuke porlam. Amar ja kichhu chhilo, phire dekhe, nijer berajal baniye je shobdo, bhabna, akankha, adorsho gulo'ke ekta entropy baniye othat cheshta korchhilam kono ekta unchu akasher dik'e, hothat kore ki jaani ki durmoti'te ami sheshob dingiye agge bhage akash dhorte lafalam kichhu adhporikhhito megh'er upor. Elomelo hawa khanikhhon akashe tule dhorlo, tarpor brishti hoye pore jetei ami abar back to dhoroni. Amar thanda lagchhe, bhetore o baire theke, ami shurjohin prani hote parini, karon vitamin D na pele nimnochap'ei mrittu'r shombhabona, psychology teacher amay bhobishshotbani bolee diyechhilen. Tai ajker brishti jokhon amay dhuiye dichhe, kada'y makhiye onuporomanu'te firiye niye jachhe, amar dhore thakar nei kono kuto, koyek koti bochhor lagbe abar jure uthe ami hote, she shomoye tor chole jawa amake abaro beral'er kotha mone poralo :)

Ei Shiit'e Attotyag: Ekta oshompurno chhoto golpo

Proti bochhor ami ekbar kore amar jonmanor agger raat'e ekta lekha likhi, nijeke niye. Shara bochhore oitukui kyebol nijer pechhone khorcha, ontoto sheibhabei to mone korte bhalobashi. Kintu ebochhor lyadh kheye korini shei raatre. Tokhon bhebechhilam modh ar lyadh'er joutho onachaar, khanikta prosroymakha dhikkar janiyei katiye diyechhilam. Ekhon mone hochhe ota lyadh noy, ota bhoy. Nije paltate paltate track na korte parar bhoy, ekta shopner modhhe rasta hariye felar bhoy, chorbito shei purono line'gulo lekhar bhoy. Debu, amar khub bhalo bondhu, ekhono obdhi, Debu, bolechhilo ei shiit'ei attotyag ghotbe. Kar attotyag, kyano attotyag, kisher attotyag, tokhon bujhini, borong porom anonde rasta'r rikshawala'r sathe boshe chhilim tanar proletariyo anonder budbud'e bijbij kore uthechhe matha'r bhitor. Ekhon mone hoy, shiitkaal'e bodhoy shobai kholosh chharay.

Attotyag'er shuruta hoye jay ek raat'er Bukowski shongom'e. Ja kichhu maya momota sukhho porda'r arale lukono chhayay bneche theke ekta morjada shomponno bishwash jugiyechhilo, shei gotata hurmur kore bhenge pore chokh'er shamne jantob ekta naribhuri beriye asha kodorjo chehara niye. Lok'ta sharajibon bosti'te katiye gelo, jokhon ichhe tokhon meyemanush dhore chudlo, ar kobita likhe gelo bishwer shob bishshoy ke bhalobasha'e, kharap bhasha'e namiye ene. Pordin shokalei tamak'er khonje ek riksha dada'r sathe adventure Gorfa'r gohin jongole, ebong tarpor bypass'er dhare chupchap under construction site'e boshe chhilim tante tante mone hoyechhilo, hyan, Bukowski'r joggo bachcha howar dom rakhi, pari nijeke huhu hawa'e uriye niye jete. Attotyag'er shuru.

Tarpor onek kanagoli'r cliched dour periye shei pherot amar bari, tamar bari Jadavpur'er prokhor narri'te. Jonmodin elo gelo, ami jonmalam na. Majhemodhhe mone holo, jodi likhe feli ekta kichhu, tarpor ki ar amar kichhu bolar thakbe? Ei bhoye beformayeshi lekhata hariye gelo.

December'er shesh, koyekjon mile train'e chepe Krishnonogor namlam bhor shaare chhotay. Train'er modhhe kuashakombol niye lofalofi, "amra nuton joubon'eri duut". Dupur belay jante parlam je ami mon khule knaad'te ajo bhoy paina. Ashole manush'er sathe manush je koto rokom ongobhongi'te baatichiit chalate paare, kotorokom bhabe, sheta Arjun Khyapar naam'er ekjon manush'ke dekhe bujhlam, bujhe knaadlam, hashlam, nesha korlam. Hawa'r awaj aro jwore shunte shuru korlam.

Phire asha Kolkata'y, jadubidya'r bhabnachinta niye koshorot kora, Pucu ke ekjon notun bondhu hishebe khunje pawa, kete gelo aro koyekdin. Pucu ajob manush, nijer bhanga prem'er golpo ar bhanga banshi shuniye amar prem'ta aro khanikta mojbuut kore dey protidin. Hoyto o na thakle ami nijer prem'ta ke bansher kella'tei rekhe ditam. Ekjon manush jaja bhulbhal korechhe, shegulo sref aure gelo, ar ami notes'er khatay tar prem'er chhobi ankte ankte kobe nijer prem'ta keo jeno bhalobeshe fellam. Amar chhnokchhnok batik shorbojonbidito, o syphillis jatiyo STD ekta, khanikta bamon hoye shurje haath mara'r moton byapar. Tobu amar bhalomanush meye'ta shob shojhho kore amake bus'e pashe boshar jayga'tuku dilo, fuule ota ston'er bnota'r moton ekta puru achhadon'e dheke dilo amar shob paap, shob pipasha. PC na thakle hoyto ami, hoyto noy, ami definitely bheshe jetam, kintu anchor boro mojbuut buniyadi brand. Ami amar prem'ta ke anchor naam dilam.

Aabra'ca'Dabra elo, nijer joto raag dukhho hotasha ayna bhanga'r obhiggota, shob ekjaygay joro kore banate thaklam bondhu'der sathe ekta notun rajjo, jekhane gaachh'e gaachh'e kobita gojay ar prottek bnaak'e sax haath'e ekta kore Pucu opekhha kore thake amar. Odbhut utopian ekta commune'er hyal'e hariye jachhi ami, bujhte pari.

Bhalopahar'e khonj pelam ekta jyanto kobi'r. Er agge shobshomoy mrito kobider sathe chador'ertolay othbosh kore esechhi, kintu ei prothom kachh theke ekta jolojyanoto gota kobi, ekta shottor bochhor late timeboma'r dekha peye kirom chokh gulo jyano kopal'e uthe gelo, kopal theke matha beye uthe aste aste dhnowa dhulo, jongolmohol'er jatra'r poster, jouthobahini ar tari-mohuwa ke pash katiye bheshe bheshe upor dik'e uthe jete laglo. Oi chokh jorar shondhan ar pabo na bujhei hoyto notun choshmata agge theke koriye rekhechhilam. Notun bhabe dekhte laglam shob kichhu.

Bondhu Apurba bolechhilo je ami boddo stereotypical line likhi, kintu mairi bolchhi, ja kichhu achhe ta thak, ar ja kichuu gechhe ta jak, ami er baire ekhono, ei muhurte lekhata lekhakalino berote parchhi na. School'er bondhura shobai kirom ekta bemanan bekhappa smriti'r jayga'y dhuke porlo, ar notun bondhugulo aro notun notun kore peg'er por peg hishebe pile up korchhe ekhon chul dhaka bakshota'r bhetor.

Attotyag'er onektai baki, hoyto tai lekha'tao jutshoi holo na, aro kichhu din jak, aro kichhu khoye jai, aro kichhuta ghilu beriye poruk, pore thakuk pikmakha rasta'e, ami hoyto aro beshi shotti kore kothagulo bolte shikhbo. Shei ashate, ei shiit'e attotyag cholte thakuk.

BTW, hawa'r jwor'ta ekhono ter pachhi, kintu awaj'ta kyano janina apatoto shunte pacchi na.

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.