Amar Chokher Jale

amar chokher jaley gaal sab samay adro..........
gaal beye jal jamey esey chibuke,
cheye dekho kato gobhir daag sekhane,
jyamon roj roj nodir par bhange,kakhono ekule kakhono okule
,chokher nodi bhange amar gaaler paar,
chibuker sudoulo mohona,
tir tir kore sab samay kanpey ostho dway,
jyano jharer jhaptay dana bhanga dui pakhi,
sarata jiban swachchho sangramer paretukui paowar thake bibekchetamoyje kono manusher,
aykhon jiban jirno asbaber mato

Tumi Kallolini

Tomar soreere nei paharTomar payer talay nei fenil sagor...........................
Sudhu buk chirey boye gyachhe mahanodi,
Nagar Bandor setu samanyay niye sakhkhi hoye achho,Kato bhaga bhabhagi,
maramari,abichar ar aghater,
Tobu ajo tumi kallolini,ajo banalata sen ra janmay tomari bukey,
Ajo keranira brishtite bheje tomar rajpathe,
Ajo nabobodhura alta paye flat barir ayk chilte rodey chul shukiye nyay,
Ajo pujoy mete othe ei michhil shahar,
Sato ayeeneo foot path hoyni khali,
Alokito sondhyay lokalaye ajo daray esey barbonitara ,
College street er sei maja niye aykhono chhatro chhatriraPran bhorey lekhe kobita arProtikhkha karey boimelar Hog sahib er bazaar holona puratan,
Kolkata tilottama na holeo atmay joriye achho,
Tai kothay khuje pabo tomar upoma,Tomar baire tomay jayna paowa…..

When wishes are horses, then beggars might ride…

Paraphrasing Mark Twain, the difference between fiction and non-fiction is that fiction must be absolutely believable. Nowhere, it is so much true than in the times that we live in.

I would not be a bit amazed to be woken up one morning by the Little Green Men from Mars. The Little Green Men had in the previous night dispatched the Red Gnomes and Trolls garrisoned at Blighters Building and GolliWoggin Street. Now they are searching for the magical book, Rule of Law, which had disappeared from the public domain nearly thirty years back. The Little Green Men are desperate to have this particular Book of Magic, for its contents are rumored to provide the practitioner with wholesome respect and love from the ruled….

Bajar-paray phish-phish,
Pukur-parey phush-phush,
Gupto-parar Supto katha,
Pawa giyeche katha matha;

Onek kaler golpo katha,
British jokhon chilo hetha,
Debota naki eshechilo raatey - Noy je eta rupkatha;

Tarpor ek jhorer raatey,
Porlo daakat Gupto-paray,
Chhinno-mostar Mundu kaata,
Haralo je rupkathay;

Aajkey hothath abar korey,
Millo khobor onek porey,
Dighir joley jelera – Jaal diye kaata matha dhorey;

Eshechey pulish, aaschey sorkar,
Jonotar naamey Maa’key dorkar,
Gorbey Mondir, korbey Naam,
Vondami-tey – Kei ba Daan, Kei ba Baam....

A litany of our times

Somehow, I have always felt a gross disconnect between the values that we profess and the practices, which we adopt. It's a shame when the tax-payers' money and I am one of the fortunate few to fall in that bracket, is utilised to breed a licentious bunch of Hooligans in uniform.

Ranbir Singh, an MBA and probably the only hope of a family, who expected his earnings to liberate them from the daily drudgery of balancing meagre incomes with rising prices was killed by the police. The jury is still out on whether it was a fake encounter. However, the repetition of such incidents by an institution still steeped in the mores of the imperialist British, lends credence to the theory of trigger-happy and above-the-law police in the country.

Outposter Borobabu, maanta tar mosto,
Dosher modhye ektai je taar, choritro osposhto;

Bishal bopu manushta ontyoshar faapa,
Urdir khyati sarthak korey swarta akash kaapa;

Baaghey kamraley ganagar jai shudhui atharo gha,
Kulokey boley - Borobabur nek-nojor, matro eskho-atharo gha;

Gramer chashi Kasem Ali, kaaj korey din-onto,
Allah’r kopey kopal faata, foshol je tar baronto;

Diyechilo taka mohajon taakey, suder nei je onto,
Kemon korey shudbey taaka, ovaab je taar ananta;

Mohajoner posha Urdi achey, maash kabarir khataye,
Kasem ke tara tuley niye jai, maajh raatrer hanaye;

Borobabu boro ador korey, garod-ghorey jholaye,
Raatbhor choley khatir-daari, cigarette-r mulaem chankaye;

Bigha due taar likhe niye nai, Mohojaner posha pyaada,
Borobabu kora nojor raakhey, taar bokhra je aadha;

Kaaj hoeche, ekhon r ki Kasem’er thaka dorkar?
Ruji ta gechey – ki korey bachey, Jai Goriber sorkar;

Vor-rattirey Kasem jholey, choumathar bot gachey,
Por din Khaki Urdi boley, pagaal ta morey benchechey;

Borobabur doyar shorir, Somaj-sonkar e pran,
Mohajon sathey, dhulo uriye Kasemer vitey jaan;

Eshe Mohajon Kasemer bari, dei eksho taakar note,
Shonge Mohanuvob Borobabu, saamney je ponchayeter vote..

Silence is golden... well uh, mostly..

Most of us have seen or rather heard, ABV in speech. His gaze fixed on the unseen and often closed, his rambling monologues were unevenly spaced out with sudden silences - that would keep all of us wondering that whether this was all part of his "Great Statesman Shining In India" act. In the latter part of his premiership, it turned out to be highly irritating - the affectations, the mannerisms, the poetry and mostly, keeping pace with his questionably undeep silences.

All of us have seen the Bengali Di-Di, the Protector of the Farmers, the Nemesis of our Bee-Bee in Writer's Building, in play. Her public personna of a street warrior complete with high pitched street dramas, the raucousness, the shrill haranguing lectures - if BeeBee could, he would Jim-Carreylike have a fun-time turning her ON and OFF in mid-flow.

And the least said about Bee-Bee's speeches - be it his native Bengali or be it English - the better. Neither gels with his outward shell, a white-haired quintessential gentleman in white, personna - and poor diction, poor grammar and not so poor choice of words, rarely makes a lecture hear-worthy. Buddhism is okay with us, but Lord, spare us from Buddha-isms'.

I have been often struck by the singular lack of silence in our everyday life - rarely does a moment exist which can claim to be absolutely silent- even the most silent night has a distant chirp of a cricket or the wayward sound of a grand-father's clock.

Raater belai elo jor,
Shara Shorirey kaapa kaapi,
Kokhoni sheet kokhono gham,
Ajantey vul boka boki;

Raater prohor bartey thakey,
Aamar chotfotani palla raakhey,
Kothakar kon boro ghorita – proti ghontai baajey,
Durer paarar sharomeyo daak – amaar kaaney na saajey;

Vor ratrey jor jai,
Klanto shorir aaram chai,
Nishfol proyash khojey baalisher o-baboharito kon,
Time-call a eshechey jol – protijogi purobashir prato-krira samapan;

Adho ghum – adho jaaga,
Chadortaakey aro ektu jaaptey thaka,
Baarey bela – ek chiltey jaanala diye mejhetey chok-chokey rod,
Proti beshir ekgheye oshofol reyaz – amaar nishfol krodh;

Raasta diye ghurey jai kaagazwala,
Odbhut awaz korey fere kono ojana feriwala,
Taro porey ashey banshi bajiye puro shovar gari,
Binidro ami chai nistobdhota – chari dikey shobder boroi bara-bari;

Bolechilo kobi “Dao phiriye oronyani, low e nogore,
Shobdojobdo ami – bujhi setai thik,
Anidro raat – shranto vor – ketechey amaar gune prohor;

Beshwad mukhey – aramora di kundolikrito chadorey,
Shobdokolpodrun theke mukti nei – amaader byasto shohorey;

Have you ever craved silence, like it was the last thing in the world, the last straw which could give you a new lease of Life?

The Great North-South divide??

I take the tube to office every day. The tube rail in Kolkata parlance is the metro rail, a notch above or shall I say, a class apart from the suburban train lines, which is used by the Oh so uncool (this is usually accompanied by a slight flutter of eyes and twitching nostrils) people living in the North and beyond.

Kolkata to its residents is divided in two very sharp parts - the new South - shining malls, wide boulevards, costly acreage - apartments and condominiums, urban chic and the old North - crumbling mansions, narrow lanes, close-knit families and old-world views.

This divide extends to food habits (illish and khichuri vs prawn and aluposto), football clubs (East Bengal vs Mohun Bagan), cultural choices (malls/multiplexes vs theatres), shop names (New Groceries vs Bipiner Mudikhana - both being local grocery stores), restaurants (KFC vs Golbari), Bangal (migrants from earstwhile East Pakistan and now Bangladesh) vs Ghoti (original inhabitants of the land) etc. etc. Some more on this Great Debate on the latter at a later date.

You will find a Lake Gardens or Moore Avenue in the south, while there will be a Dorjipara or Chaltabaagan in the north. Every third dude in the south will be a gym-toned and potential member of M/s. Brashness Incorporated - a Rahoul, Rajiev or Rakesh, while his northern counterpart will be tongue-tied and shy Nepo, Goja or Bhoja. For every short-skirted Neha or Priyanka from the south studying in Loreto or La'Martiniere there will be a doe-eyed, sari-clad Swapnosundari or Sreeparna studying in Aryakanya Vidyalaya or Mahakali Pathshala.

The Kolkata Metro is the bridge joining the metaphysical gap, between the happening (to some) New Age south and so-yesterday (hearsay) North.

While returning from office every evening, I used to see a couple at the metro station- so obviously in love, giggling, laughing, whispering to each other - the boy distinguished by his attire and mannerisms to be a Southerner, laptop chugging, smooth shaven, gelled hair - styled at some salon by a beautician, by the looks of it. The girl, quite sweet in countenance sported saris normally and the occassional salwar suits, with timid downcast eyes of a doe in flight, typical Northie....

For months, I saw them - became a sort of daily habit, checking them out standing in their usual place, deeply engrossed in each other. All of a sudden, I missed the couple for several weeks. Then one evening, found them again, the lady now sporting sindur on her forehead, her hair coming down in enchanting waves to her petite waist and her man, proprietorily holding her arm, striding to catch the very train, I would take to my southern destination..

It set me thinking, that for all that we speak of the unbridgeable divide of the North and the South - the twain does meet and for all that we read of a loveless world - love really does exist..

Office timey a metror byastota,
Jatri manusher onyomonoskota,
Varakranto vir-varey - Sojoteny bojaye rakha durottota;

Eri majhey ghotey akosmikota,
Jokhon sochetonota vangey durottota,
Ghottey parey kono ovobyota - Kinba ghotey prem;

Byasto manush byasto thekey jai,
Duranto prem aro duranto hoi,
Jibon choley taar joibik niyomey,
Premer porinoti khojey porinoy,
Othoba, hotath pawa shunyota......

A Bengalis perspective of Durga Puja

Took a French today, last nights partying being so totally over-board that I’m now feeling the effects of all the Patiala pegs of Blender’s Pride or was it Imperial Blue whiskey, labeled as “a blend of single malt and superior Indian grain spirits blah blah blah” – whatever that means…

By the standards of the monsoon weather in Kolkata, today’s a sunny day with few clouds at play, lazily I watch them changing shape – sometimes bunching and blotting the sun, sometimes breaking apart to let the blue sky through. This time next month the rains will come to an end, and then it will be Puja time.

Aamar jaanala diye ek chiltey aakash,

Boroshar meghey chorpulish roddur - pukur parey nabin kaash;

Paarar morey potuar ghor,

Ekhon raat din kormo mukhor,

Notun maatitey purano kathamo saajey,

Bochorer ei shomoy tai shomadrito potua - benchey othey taar kaajey;

Pujor r ek maash,

Bodley jaabey amaar jaanalar chiltey aakash,

Hobey shokaler shiulir saathey roder bondhuta,

Mon paagal uru-uru - nil aakasher chotto megh, chaichi tar sokhyota.....

Durga Puja to a Kolkata Bong is always the Big Thing; more of a festival - carnival than an annual religious ritual, its the punch of sentiments sublime and displays garish, a Mardi Gras night mixed with the New York Fashion week, the puja is all about pre-puja shopping and pandal hopping and weary feet and rollicking drum-beats and mile-long queues and stupendous views and attitudes cool and crowded roads uncool and colorful dresses and eager faces and casual flings and mid-night blings and city lights and men in tights and women in red and the mornings spent in bed....