Daekhcho tumi shomoy takae

Bhabcho bujhi ketey jaabey

Korcho kaaj aponmonae

Bhacho shob korae jaabey

Takiyae acho bahir paaney

Bhabcho raat ketey jaabey

Bhulcho tumi ashol kotha

Shesh banshi ta shunyo hobae

Chesta'

Aaj thekey abar notun path chola

notun ashay buk bendhey thaka

tanaporon  aar hanahanir majhey

jebon juddhae shudhu benche thaka.

Aaj thekey hridoy jurae shudhu

abar notun korae kono gaaner  koli

hartey hartey jeeta jaoar chesta

jotodin na shomoy bolae ‘choli’.

Shift of Home

Yesterday, I took the road to Durgapur once again.

As I hit the NH-2 and travelled outside the periphery of Kolkata, a whole mass of swaying ‘kash’ flowers carried me over to the past. For a period of 8 long years, every year around this time I used to take this road early morning to go home – home, where my parents stayed, where my friends waited for me and where I could be myself.

The rush of fond memories flooded me as I stepped off the bus and looked around to see the familiar signs.

But, thereon the things changed. I did not go to ‘my home’. I went to my office, instead. My parents had shifted to Kolkata. A majority of my friends have moved to other locations in quest of livelihood. I borrowed a bike and moved around all the places I used to hang out at, once upon a time. The pandals looked lovely, there was more pomp than I had ever seen but I felt like a tourist.

I took back the evening bus after I had finished my work. The same roads brought me back – to a place where my family is, where my friends waited for me, where the roads seemed so familiar, where the para pandal seemed to beckon.

I realised that ‘my home’ has shifted – or maybe I had multiple homes, now.

MAHALAYA

‘Ashwiner Sharodo Probhatey--------.’ Intoned a nasal voice from the transistor at the crack of Dawn ( or probably before it, as the sky was still dark) and half awakened me  from my sleep, I knew that Pujo had started. For me, Pujo meant one thing – Durga Pujo.

From childhood, this unforgettable voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra was part of my waking up process on the day of Mahalaya. Back in Durgapur, I remember listening to the chants and the unforgettable songs half asleep, getting in and out of sleep, while I snuggled close to my Mom or Dad to keep away the early morning chill. The smell of Shiuli would drift in from the garden outside and add to the surreal feeling of the moment. I would fall into deep slumber towards the end of the recital and would wake up much later with the childhood joy in my heart for an ensuing vacation.

Two decades later, I found that not much has changed. I woke up with the same chant throbbing in my ears, drifted in and out of sleep and finally fell asleep at the end. True, that the chill was absent (effect of Global warming?) and there was no Shiuli tree near my 3^rd Floor apartment and it was raining. It was also true that my parents were in the next room sitting by the radio and listening to it. But the surreal feeling remained the same. The same dream like feel, the same warmth in the heart, the same unknown, unreasonable feeling of comfort.  I still woke up with an unknown joy in my heart as I looked forward to a particularly hard earned vacation.

Two Decades and the feeling had not changed. 

Bhorer bristi

Aaj shokaley aakash bhorae megh

Aaj shoklaey ojhorae brishti jhora

Aaj shokaley bheja moner  mela

Aaj shokaley chokhae tey baridhara

Aaj shokhaley mon kharap er khushi

Aaj shokaley aeka aeka gaan

Aaj shokaley obhuj chhobi aanka

Aaj shokaley ontoretey snan

Aaj shokaley jeebansmriti pora

Aaj shokaley jeebon niyae khela

Aaj shokaley okaron cholafera

Aaj shokaley shudhui helafela

Aaj shokaley bhijey shaliker khela

Aaj shokaley ghas foringer nach

Aaj shokaley notun bheja math

Aaj shokaley abar banchar aanch.

My Monsoon

I am feeling jumpy these days.

The clouds are there. There are sudden gusts of water laden breeze. And even an occasional, short shower or two. But where are the rains? Where is the Monsoon?

I am missing the downpour, the nagging 'piter- pater' ,the horizon looking hazy behind the shower screen, the sky looking like a huge canvass drenched by the 'kajal' soaked tears of a child,  the feeling of exhilaration at watching everything looking washed and new, the strange croaking of frogs, the first touch of the wet grass on the bare feet, the careless soaking in the rain on the way home from office, the 'telebhaja muri' on a windy wet evening while cuddling up with a thriller on the sofa and of course, the 'illish mach bhaja' with steaming 'khichuri' on an afternoon when the clouds would decide to pour endlessly.

I know in a couple of months time the perennially grey sky, the waterlogged streets, the muddy puddles, the wet clothes , the stomach upsets would get my goat.

But till then, I want my fair share of the romantic monsoon, newspaper reports and predictions be damned.

Pre-Marital Discussions

My wife had gone off to the parlour. I was sitting alone at a café located in the next door shopping arcade nursing a long cool drink (of the non-alcoholic kind), thinking of the great tragedy of my life , namely why my wife (and girlfriend of years) should choose the beauty parlour over my company on a Friday evening. Add to it the potential attack on my already stretched finances and you get the general drift of my thoughts at that moment.

After about an hour of applying salves of self-pity on the unseen wounds to my ego and I had relaxed enough to look around at the general beauty offered by a modern shopping arcade, the lights went out. This being Kolkata, the back-up power system refused to start instantaneously. There was a lull and all activity ceased abruptly. In the shadows created by pale emergency lights, the entire shopping area looked strange as everyone stopped mid-step in whatever they were doing. It looked like a giant toy shop where all toys had stopped working together as the plug was pulled off the main switch.

AND there was silence—well, almost.

In that silence my ears picked up a snatch of murmurings—low and continuous. Having nothing else to do in the dark I strained to listen, uninvited.

The conversation was intense. A couple was talking. But ‘talking’ was hardly the word. The couple was measuring each other. Words were flowing from one to the other as each was sizing up the other. Words were being used like a rapier – thrust, probe, parry, feint --- all aspects of a skilful sword fight were in action; except that the sword had been replaced by words. It was a treat to listen to them. It was evident that they were educated, confident and fairly successful individual with varied interests and depths of thought. On and forth, the discussion continued till each one exposed a little bit him/her and each knew a bit more about the other.

Suddenly, the gensets were coaxed into life and the lights came on stunning all of us for a second time.

As I got my eyes used to this light, I turned my head to have a glance at the couple. I saw a young boy and a girl sitting facing each other. I guessed that they were probably out on a first/second date or maybe they were under the modern process of pre-marital arranged marriage interactions where the prospective bride and groom would meet in a neutral territory alone to get introduced to each other.

My glass was empty and the lights had broken the spell. I left my chair and thought that if my wife had subjected me to such brilliant scrutiny pre-marriage, I would have chickened out.

These people were more intelligent and pragmatic but I would always prefer my rather unconditional trusting wife, the unending , finance draining trips to the beauty parlour notwithstanding.