Love: on fire!

She rushed through the stagnant traffic, crossed the street, almost ran through the thin lane, onto the shortcut, and found her man staring at the river, checking his watch occasionally and fiddling with his phone.

Just as her phone rang, she tapped on his shoulder with that bright smile.

He knows this touch.

He looked back with a forced-straight face hiding the excitement. ‘You’re late.’

‘Damn! Like always?’ her words came out in a mixture of sigh and smile.

‘Like always’, he spoke through the dusk light making way through the leaves, creating patterns on his face.

She smiled back, and stopped midway, at the view that unveiled.

The sky had numerous hues making love with one another, with the sun playing magic. Sunlight through the leaves created geometry on their faces as she held his hand firm and stared at the dusk-bathed sky.

And he stared at her. How the wind dipped through the river came and caressed her face; how her strands of hair kept coming on her face; and how her beautifully done kohl-smudged eyes fed itself on the river-side view.

Slowly the streetlights came out, and it was surprisingly quiet that day.

She broke the silence.

‘You never told me till date.’

He took some time to register. ‘What?’

‘Why do we meet here? Always?’

‘Why? Don’t you like it here?’ He played with her fingers.

‘I do. But the burning ghat beside; it send chills, sometimes.’

He had an unusual confidence suddenly, ‘I swear this is the last time.’

She smirked mysteriously, ’You never know, love. You never know.’

As the night started absorbing the lovers into its veil, suddenly there was chaos all over.

Hymns, chants, cries, conversations, scream.

They broke the closeness, and walked towards the source of the noise.

By the side of the river, two bodies were being put up on the consecutive pyres. Each of the pyres was surrounded by a crowd.

He smiled at her, ‘So the poison worked.’

She held his hand and kept staring at their dead bodies.

As the fire from both the pyres disturbed the darkness of the night, somewhere above, their smoke intertwined into an eternal embrace.

Only the pyres have known, some love stories do not die with death.

Tu nahin samjhega..

I have waited years for this Shah Rukh Khan. THIS one.

And when I say that, I don’t mean the one who wears gold-plated dresses, dances with scantily-dressed girls, jumps through air and lands perfectly, or walks on water.

I mean the one who cries in the jail in a way he hadn’t cried for long.

I mean the one who screams his name out in front of Mannat.

I mean the one who grins in a way that you can’t help but fall in love with the one creating all the menace.

And through the film you end up taking the fan’s side and never want the star to catch him; simply because you don’t want the movie to end.

And mostly because the fan does everything that you want to do, and everything that you wouldn’t.

And you see your deepest cravings, unfold.

I won’t say what happens in the end of the movie; because that doesn’t matter. Because like everything, this movie will do its part, score, and then get under other movie posters.

But what would forever remain is perhaps this feeling. This feeling of this certain actor called Shah Rukh Khan groping your heart and scooping out your deepest emotions, all from across the screen.

And through the first half, the glass barrier between you and him, breaks. You are no longer the one on the audience seat. You are the one cutting the pictures out of the newspaper. You are the one frantically screaming in front of Mannat. You are the one getting into a fight with whoever says negative about your hero. You are the one who have loved his star for too long; so long that he has become a part of you, you can’t part with.

As I write this, I know people will call me superficial because, with so many grave topics to talk about, how can I chose to write about someone who doesn’t pay my bills, who has nothing to do with the coming elections, or the Parliament, who doesn’t know I exist, and who is ‘Just a movie star’.

But well, people, that’s where is the misunderstanding. I, like most of the sensible fans, might be an admirer of the person who wears make-up and entertains people, but I am a FAN of the person he is beyond the glitters and the stardom. I am a FAN of his journey more, and little less of his destination.

As I write this, I know thousands of people are screaming in the first scene, thousands crying in the climax, hundreds of people coming out of the ticket stall with heavy breaths because they couldn’t manage a ticket, lakhs of people falling in love with the actor Khan, a few hundred sitting at home trying to find faults in the movie, and thousands who can’t wait to see the movie again. Also, thousands of people are comparing him with other actors, criticizing him, and staying happy for doing so. And the other lakh whose day is made . And all I know, I have waited for this Shah Rukh Khan.

Also, I am writing this totally with the knowledge that Shah Rukh Khan might never know that this blog exists. But years from now, I want to open this one and tell my kids, how we have waited for this person to create magic, and he didn’t let us down.

And how in love, you wait; you trust. You keep the faith.

P.S.: I am so emotional right now; I am letting my raw emotions get its way. And I can’t, right now, care about grammar, spellings, typos and every rule needed in the language. But all I know is, people who are FAN would understand anyway. And people who are not, ‘Rehne de.. Tu nahin samjhega’.

Wow-men!

I am hugely against naming a day for women.

I am hugely against celebrating womanhood for a day.

I am hugely against women’s day being more hyped than men’s day.

Just like I am hugely against ladies special trains and how men are not allowed to sit in ladies seats in buses, but women are allowed vice versa.

I am hugely against women claiming advantages just for the sake of being women.

I am hugely against feminists seeking justice through ways that only make us look like asking for sympathy, and mostly attention.

Just like I am hugely against sex without consent, I am against women throwing looks at every man as if they are all molesters.

I am hugely against violence against women, just like I am hugely against men being laughed at when they cry.

I am hugely against marital rape, just like I am against little boys being molested by their female tutors.

I am amazed how a women saying ‘all men are dogs’ is not an issue, but god forbid a guy says ‘all women are bitches.’; might land him in jail, with a few feminists turning up naked, few candle marches and what not.

I am amazed how fathers are always the less-talked upon, less-thanked to people, and it is always the mothers. Yes, well mothers carry you for nine long months, almost push their damn life out while pushing you out of their womb, and always has the most to contribute in your growing up, and obviously loves you unconditionally. But that does not mean fathers are not important. And just because there are cases where fathers are torturous and leave the family, does not mean ‘all fathers are dogs’, right? Does not mean mothers don’t do the same.

I understand how girls go through the painful menstrual cycle, and how they are being victimized by rape, and how since the beginning of civilization, women have been looked to as an object of sex, does not mean men haven’t changed. Does not mean we still look at them as if they are stuck in the same Adam mindset, while we Eve’s have moved on to modernization.

Because someday, we all are going to be with another men, maybe husband, maybe son, or maybe our father, and we will see them going through it. Imagine our loved ones getting inflicted by things that we consciously or unconsciously do to other men?

To get my stand right, this is not about disrespecting mothers, this is not about portraying women in a light that may not be accepted, this is all about how men are not supposed to be subdued. If women claim equality, let’s please start with giving up the ladies seats.

If we call ourselves 'Men', let's just start being equal to 'Men'.

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!