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.

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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.

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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.