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.