The two year old

Shirt unbuttoned – unsteady steps – red eyes – and the smell of wine walked into the room.

The two year old pair of eyes had known this sight by now, and also knows what comes next.

Utensils pushed to the floor, spilled food, filthy words to mother, banging on the table and shouts.

The two year old pair of hands has stopped pressing her ears. It no more made her heart beat faster. It no more made her body shiver. No more made her hide behind her mother. So what that daddy pushed her food off the table, too? It no more mattered to her. It no more made her hungry in the middle of the night. And most importantly, it no more made her cry.

She has seen daddy push mommy, bang her head on the wall. She has seen mommy’s blood diluting with her tears. She has seen blood, violence in her own home. Between her own parents.

She has known it to be Life. FAMILY. HOME.

But, after nineteen more years from then, when for the first time, mommy hid behind her, scared, and she saw daddy walking towards them with a broken wine bottle to injure them.

She held her mommy tight, and whispered, ‘I’ll protect you.’

When mommy clutched to her more tightly, she felt twenty-one years of unrest cloud her mind, her judgments, her rights and wrongs, her morals.

Through the teary eyes, she saw the knife on the kitchen table and the broken wine bottle. She saw daddy coming, his unsteady steps, red eyes. She felt mommy’s grip around her waist.

And she clutched the knife, and ran.

Towards daddy.

Towards his stomach.

The knife went through. The twenty one years of rage did the rest. Pulled it sideways, diagonally, tearing the skin, and with it, the soft muscles. She felt the lump in the throat, the hands sticky from blood, and the growing indifference in her.

For the rest of the night, a mother and a daughter sat beside a dead body. No words. No tears. Just plain staring.

 And the smell of blood throughout the room.

মহালয়া : যেভাবে আমরা দেখি

টেবিলের উপর চারটে চায়ের কাপ | এখনো ধোয়া উঠছে | আজ আর আমি কানে হেডফোন গুঁজে নেই, বাবার হাতে টিভির রিমোট নেই, মা রান্নাঘরে যাওয়ার জন্য ব্যস্ত না | ঠাম্মাও ঝিমোচ্ছে না | অদ্ভূত ব্যাপার !

সময়টাও অদ্ভত. ঘড়ি বলছে ৪:২৫, ভোর বেলা |
হালকা আলো, ঠান্ডা হাওয়া, শরতের ছোট ছোট পায়ে আসা যাওয়া, আর একটা আলাদা গন্ধ | পুজো আসছে |

ওহ! বলতে ভুলে গেছি, টেবিলের উপর আরেকটা জিনিস আছে | চায়ের কাপের সাথে গুঁতগুতি করে সেও বিরাজমান | দাদুর সেই পুরনো রেডিওটা | আজ তার বড় ডিমান্ড | একটু পরেই বিরেন্দ্রকৃষ্ণ ভদ্রর গলাতে 'মহিষাসুর মর্দিনী' শুরু হবে যে | কলকাতা ক'র দিকে এনটেনা উঁচিয়ে টেবিলের রেডিওটা অপেক্ষাতে | ঘড়ির কাঁটায় ৪:৩০ বাজতেই যেন ম্যাজিক ঘটে গেল | একটু আগের নিশ্চুপ পাড়াটা হঠাত একই ব্যাকগ্রাউন্ড মিউসিকে  বাজতে লাগলো |

শুধু তাই নয় | কাশফুল ছাড়া শহরে, যেখানে বিজয়ার কোলাকুলিটাও ওয়েবক্যাম'এর মাধ্যমে হয়, যেখানের অপু দূর্গারা ফেইসবুকই ব্যস্ত, যেখানে পুজো আসার খবর আমরা খবরের কাগজ ভর্তি জুতো আর জামাকাপড়ের বিজ্ঞাপনের মাধ্যমে পাই, সেই ফ্লাট ভর্তি শহরে হঠাত একটা ঠান্ডা শান্তি |

'ইয়া দেবী সর্বাভুতেশু, শক্তি রুপেনা সংহস্থিতা .. '

আর তার সাথে গোটা শহরের একটা দীর্ঘস্বাস | যাক, পুজোটা এলো তালে | এবার তো আর কয়েকটা দিন মাত্র, তারপরই দুগ্গা ঠাকুরের দিকে চেয়ে পুরো কলকাতা হিপনোটাইসড | আবার সেই অষ্টমীর অঞ্জলি, নবমীর ম্যাডক্স | কলকাতাও তখন ব্যানার, থিম মন্ডপ, আর LED আলোর শারী পরে সুন্দরী তিলোত্তমা |

লাউডস্পিকারে মুন্নি বদনাম, আর আর আমরা তখন নতুন জামার গন্ধ মেখে মন্ডপে মন্ডপে | তারপরই তো দশমী | দুগ্গা ঠাকুর সিঁদুর সন্দেশ মেখে,ছেলে মেয়ে নিয়ে জলে ডাইভ মারবেন, আর সাথে এত্তগুলো লোকের একসাথে মনখারাপ |

যাই হোক, মহালয়াতে ফেরা যাক?

কুমারটুলিতে মায়ের চোখ আঁকা শুরু হয়ে গেছে | বাবুঘাটে ডুব দিয়ে, গঙ্গার জল ছিটিয়ে শুরু হয়ে গেছে তর্পণও | মানুষের সমুদ্রের মাঝখান দিয়ে রাস্তা বানিয়ে দুগ্গা ঠাকুর আসবেন | দোলাতে আসছেন না নৌকো করে, সে খবর আমরা রাখিনা | তবে আমরা আছি | কুমারটুলিতেও আছি, বাবুঘাটেও আছি | ক্যামেরা হাতে বা কাগজ পেন নিয়ে, বা কখনো পেইন্টিং ক্যানভাস, রঙের তুলি হাতে |
আমাদের মহালয়াটা এরকমই |

বাকগ্রউন্ডে কিন্তু একই আওয়াজ |
'মহিষাসুর মর্দিনী .. '

I am the wrong person to fall in love with

You. You look outstanding today. But, I won't tell you that. I would, instead, keep staring at you, follow you with my eyes, because your appearance gives my eyes a much-needed warmth. But, I would not even smile at you. I would just sit there, cold and indifferent, with thousand adjectives running in my mind.

When we are done with basking in each other's lust warmth, and I am sniffing for your musky sweaty smell, I would keep telling you, how much I hate you, how much detest you. But, you would never know, deep down, I am ecstatic, simply because I have someone to hate.

We would fight, mostly for mistakes that I did. And I would know before five minutes through the fight, that I should apologize. But, I won't. Because, darling, you still don't know the little egoistic devil I pet inside my head.
Instead, I would just sit there, trying to dilute the pain that guilt inflicted me with. I would go to bed late, and would sit on the bathroom floor, and try to conjure up a daydream, where our fight has ended without me having to apologize.
I would also keep memorizing dialogues in my sleepy head, about how I should make you understand. But, then I would sleep and forget all shit about it.

I am the wrong person to fall in love with.

We are not forever, and we know that. Of all my dreams that I have told you, none of them has you in it.
I want to sit on a cliff and scream and recite Sylvia Plath to myself. I want to bungee jump from a hell lot of altitude. I want to shiver in an igloo somewhere in the corners of the Arctic Circle.
Obviously you know about these dreams.
What you don't know is, I have you beside me, when I am reading out poems, listening. When I bungee jump, you are somewhere close, reaching out to me, swimming in the air, trying to grab my hand. You are there in the igloo, too, searching for more blankets, because you have your balls shit frozen, already.

And you would never know, that I have thought of a future with you, already.

I am not the right person to fall in love with.

I love my space, and I admit, I don't always like you around. I feel like killing you at times.
Let's put it this way, I want to shoot you right in the stomach, rush you to a hospital, sit by your bed, and read out a new story to you everyday, till you get better.

I belong to that gang of people whom evening streetlights make sad. So, if we are out for an evening walk, and the sun is diluted by the growing darkness, and the city starts putting on its streetlamps, and I am suddenly not laughing to your jokes anymore, you would never know why.

And I wll always talk of running away. Because, some mess cannot be undone.
Because, deep down. we all are escapists, not out of habit, but out of the tiredness of not being able to make things right. And, trust me, I am not the type of girl, you miss everyday, until I am gone.

Every night, when we run out of topics, and end up talking about our past love, you would never know, I will wait for you to keep the phone, and cry myself to sleep.

I don't want to spend my life with you, and most of the times, I am in two minds. One mind wants to grab you fiercely, make love, cry between kisses, for all the past fights whose reasons we don't even remember. The other mind wants to grab you fiercely, outline your waistline, and kiss you between stabs of the frozen knife, right in your kidney, and then everywhere else.

You don't want to love someone who loves you and hates you, at the same time, with the same magnitude.

I am the wrong person to fall in love with.

Savouring Independence?

Parade- the red fort- flowers- Jana gana mana- and obviously 'The National Flag';
It soars high.

Right hands perpendicular to your forehead, and eyes squinting under the sunlight to see waves formed by the passing air on the tricolour fabric.

And then what?

You get home, do a few posts on your Facebook to let your 'friend list' know that you are aware of what the heck this Independence Day is all about.

And get back to whatever you were doing.

Oh and right, you do a few intellect-clad debates on Gandhiji and Netaji.

What about the other freedom fighters?

Masterda Surya Sen is not just a metro station, nor is 'Shahid Khudiram'.

Ever cared to know who are these Binoy Badal Dinesh, BBD Bagh is named after?
Or who is Matangini Hazra?

You know Matangini Hazra marched with the flag held tight, even after being shot thrice. Even after falling down, she refused to let go of the national flag; clutched on it tightly with her last breath.

You know Khudiram Bose was hanged when he was only 18 years old; younger than most of us.

Benoy, Badal and Dinesh (Yes, The two Bs and D of B.B.D. Bag) preferred to take a cyanide pill and shoot themselves than surrendering  to the British officials.

With Bhagat Singh, Sj. Shivaram Rajguru and Sj. Sukhdeva were hanged, who had equal contribution in the Indian independence movement.

Abadi Bano Begum was the first Muslim female to address an audience, speaking from behind a purdah.

Velu Nachiyar, the former princess of Ramanathapuram, was the first queen to wage a war against the British, even before the sepoy mutiny.

Tirupur Kumaran, was found dead holding the national flag, in his last protest march against the colonial government in 1932.
A decade later, Kanaklata Barua was shot down for proudly holding up the national flag.

Gour Hari Das, fought against the British rule, and then had to fight for 30 more years to get his freedom fighter certificate.
A perfect way to repay someone who gave us our independence, isn't it?

How ironic, that we often admire revolutionists of other countries, as style icons, but forget about our own country people.

And the list continues.

I don't know how we can ever repay them, expect remembering them with pride and tears.

So, how about doing something unconventional this Independence Day?
How about finding out who this 'Independence' actually belongs to, that we claim to be our own?

And well, don’t forget to savour the INDEPENDENCE that you got for free.

Happy Independence.
JAY HIND!

Love, in slices.

Planning for a walk today? Saved money for a gift, for your boyfriend?

Going with your fiancé for the latest movie that released? Can’t decide how to make this day very special for your spouse?

Well, when the whole world is celebrating love, let us, for a moment, bend our thoughts on some lesser talked upon ways of love, which are not much celebrated, and yet are much strongly tied with bandages of attachment.

·        The little girl, who is crying at the funeral of his grand mom, perhaps realizes now, what bond she had with the silver-haired woman. She can still feel the moist imprints of her lips on her forehead.

·        The man in his late 40s, miserably stuck in the gears of life, is right now, frantically searching that shirt, whose pocket retained the last tram ride’s ticket that he took with his college’s best mate.

·        The old man wakes up every day, to the first rays of the morning sun, to touch his dead wife’s spectacles, carefully placed beside his pillow.

·        Those little puppy eyes, that the working woman looks up to, every time she gets back home. What she does not know, is that, all day the little puppy sits beside the main door with a scarf of hers, waiting for her to return.

·        Inside the confines of the old age home, the old mother still treasures the tiny wool socks that she made for her son, when he could barely walk.

·        The soldier, risking his life in front of gun barrels every other day, for the sake of his country, finds security in the dull, tattered ‘rakhi’ that his sister sent him last year.

·        The husband went missing in an aeroplane crash ten years back. The wrinkled hands of the old lady, still puts vermillion on her forehead, in belief of his return.

·        The little boy, still living with the illusion, that dead people become stars, talk to the sky every night, wishing someday his father would reply back.

                                     We see uncountable instances of such unsaid love around the planet. The planet that experiences blasts in Gaza, and terrorist attacks on Charlie hebdo, also experiences a beggar sharing his worn out blanket with a street dog. Love does exist.

                                       Perhaps, the beauty of this unconditional love lies in the fact that, they don’t need a day to be celebrated, for they are felt every day, in every moment of our lives.

So, today, run to your parents and give them a surprise hug, take a walk down the road with your pet, help your grand mom with her braid, and spend the afternoon with your grand dad.

For, these ways of love sees no fall. They are always there, caressing you with good vibes and hope, throughout your life.

You know it all

The trembling of leaves that soothe you in summer, the way the wind rustles through the perforated leaves into your hair and makes you feel alive, the smell of wet soil after the first rainfall of monsoon, that cold ceiling that a huge canopy provides you in summer, Tell me, don't you love them?

Obviously you do.

And then, like brilliant hypocrites, you go around and buy a carved wood-made bed, to decorate your home.

Had you been the tree, in what language would you have sworn to them, who you provide shelter, calmness, and most importantly oxygen, and then they stab your skin with big sharp objects, cut you slowly, tearing your skin apart, ignoring the fact that you have a life inside you, and carves on your skin with pathetic sharp objects, and sell you?

And, not just that, they let you breathe. Trust me on this, you would be dead, had they not exhaled oxygen for you. Your lungs are thankful to them, but you are not.

Wow!

And, do you know how their roots soak in the rainwater, so that the water table is full enough to provide you with enough water for bathing, cooking, and flushing your toilet?

Obviously you do. You know it all.

and, then like brilliant hypocrites, you go around and cut a tree.

Perfect!

Do you know the earth is warming up every second?

Do you know, soon the icebergs will melt to rise the sea level enough, and drown you?

Obviously you do.

And then you go around and see a tree being cut, and like a sincere observer, you enjoy the view, or even worse, you ignore and walk away.

Awesome!

Don't you realise it is the high time that we stop being hypocrites.

If not for the sincere friends that care enough for your conversion of oxygen to carbondioxide,  but at least for our own sake.

We would soon be dead.

Do you know how fast the forests are disappearing?

And with forest, the birds and animals are losing their home?

How would you have reacted, if you woke up one fine morning, and find the ceiling of your room gone, just because someone else needed the bricks?

And. do you know, with the loss of habitat, our earth is losing out most of its endangered animals?

And, that is affecting our food chain?

Obviously you know. You know it all.

But, tell me, what is the point of knowing so much, if we don't know how to stand against it, especially when we have the clock ticking, towards our doom day?

Dear hypocrite folks, its HIGH time. Let us stand against it. Let us stop killing our oxygen-providers with such pathetic sharp objects. Not just because, they have a life, but because, we won't have a life, without them.

So, for once, let's be selfish, and save ourselves.