Mr. Rajat Sen, the eminent author and critic was in his room. He held a burning cigarette in his right hand and the mild smoke in his mouth gave him a pleasing effect in his mind. The odour of burnt tobacco reached the core of his sensation, stimulating his feelings, nerves and sinews. He was tired after writing a book review of a new writer. The new writer was the cousin of his dear friend Ashish Chakrabarty. Let us see what happened before.
‘“Rajat, Riju, my cousin, you know, nowadays became very much interested in short-story. A very good writer, hmm… Didn’t you see his last story which was published in ‘The Story-teller’?”’
“I missed it, I think”, Mr. Sen said casually.
“Oh, you missed a great story Rajat. It was superb in style, in language, in construction, in theme, in…”
“In fine, in everything, I guess?”, Mr. Sen said it, smiling contemptuously.
Mr. Chakrabarty smiled, satisfied. “Now you got it”, he said and continued, “I’ll be glad if you write a book review of his new novel, ‘Ferocious Love’, he shouted at last, leaving the sofa.”
“Nonsense!”, he said in a low voice.
“Sorry?”
“No, nothing. I’m sorry Ashish. Take your seat, be quiet.”
“You are not saying that you are going to refuse me, I think?”, Mr. Sen asked anxiously.
“Extremely sorry. I didn’t like the name.”
“Oh, come on. It’s love, the never-ending love in the air. Oh, the soothing one, oh the coolness of ice-cream, the passion of joy, the ardent, tormenting, irresistible sense of…”
“Ashish, I’m serious. Stop it!”
“Please, Rajat. He is my only cousin. I promised him that….”
Mr. Sen thought a bit. Ashish helped him a lot when he was in hospital and was suffering from a serious a disease of lungs. He started to think what to do, biting the nail of his forefinger.
“Please, please Rajat. He will be very much disappointed if you refuse. You please read it once. I know you’re a busy man but…”
“Ok, all right. I will write. But I must be fair.”
“But he is a new writer, Rajat. He needs some…”
“It’s enough, Ashish. You may go now. A good novel and a good writer must have sense of humour, sympathy and true love. I don’t know whether your cousin has it or not. But you must have a limit of request and a certain level of courtesy. Now, I’ll be pleased if you leave me alone.”, Mr. Sen said disgustedly.
“Ok, ok, Bye, good day”, Mr. Chakrabarty left his house disappointedly.
“Strange behaviour. What happened with him?”, Mr. Chakrabarty thought.
So, he now heaved a sigh of relief.
“Oh, finish! I finished it”, he continued, ‘…just nonsense. When will these young-folks understand that love doesn’t mean attraction toward anyone’s body? Love is to love the inner one, the impalpable sensation that prevails in everyone. When will they know that…”
The telephone started to ring. His thought-wave smashed against this sound. He frowned at the telephone, saying “Nonsense”, the only familiar word he knew to express his disgust. Then he rushed towards the telephone, held it and said in a serious gruff voice, “Who is it?”
“Hello, I’m Subarna, friend of Suparna. Will you please…”
“She is not in home.”
“But she told me to call at 11 am. And I think I’m hearing her voice, now. She should be in your home, Mr. Sen. Please check it”
“What? Am I a liar?’
“I didn’t mean that but I just want to…”
“Shut up!” He hung up.
His wife Suparna was rebuking her little son Piklu. He was of nine years. She came hurriedly, hearing the shout.
“What happened? I heard my name. Anyone called me?”, she said giving a strange look.
“Oh, here you are. Where is my lunch? My train will depart at 1 pm. I must leave as soon as possible”, he said disgustedly.
Sriparna smiled awkwardly and then replied, “I’m making it ready. Just a minute.”
“I’m living in a hell. None thinks of others, very few people read good books. My God! Yesterday, even Piklu told me that his aim is to be an engineer. Oh, God! Save me.”
When the launch was finished Mr. Sen came outdoors hurriedly. He held a handkerchief in his right hand.
“Oh, it’s terrible hot here”, he said, wiping out the sweat of his face and the shouted, “Ricksha---w”
A rickshaw-puller, aged probably 35 years, came and taking Mr. Sen he started to pull the rickshaw.
Now he lit another cigarette and started to smoke. Having a pleasant puff at it, he muttered, “Hmm, these new writers never think of the poor”. Having another puff he continued, “… hmm! Of the poor. See this rickshaw-puller. Oh, this poor fellow! What a tormenting life he leads! Be it bitter cold or the sizzling summer-day they work hurriedly. For what? For a little money.” He wiped out the sweat of his face and again continued, “..Yea! For a little money. Why people don’t be a bit generous? Why the government is not paying heed?”
The railway station was very near to his house. He handed 3 rupees to the rickshaw-puller. The man complained, “5 rupees, sir. The fair is 5 rupees.”
“What? I come here regularly and pay only 3 rupees”, he said the word ‘regularly’ as a habit.
“You come regularly at the railway-station, sir?”, the man said, smiling.
Mr. Sen said, stammering a bit, “ N-no! Actually, I… I mean… I come very often”
“No, no. It’s unfair. The fair is…”
“Damn it!”, Mr. Sen proceeded, his shirt wet with perspiration. It was a scorching noon.
In the platform, he met some of his fans. These ardent fans mobbed him to take autographs. A blind beggar asked him for alms. He gave 1 rupee and again busied himself in giving autographs with great satisfaction and happiness. He muttered, “We, the authors, live only for this joy. Oh, ‘what a joyance rains upon me’ when I see these people. Ah!”
It was 12.50 pm when he was aware of the fact that his train would depart after 10 minutes. He rushed to the A.C first class coach hurriedly. The drooping figure of that beggar who was sitting in the platform prevented him to enter into the coach. Only 2 minutes were left in his hand as he had taken enough time to find his compartment. However this busy man, this sensible man became a bit disgusted when he saw this man. So he said-
“Oh, you nonsense! Let me in”, he shouted.
The blind man understood with his sixth sensory organ that someone is standing nearby. He held his hand up to take alms.
Now Mr. Sen, a very sensitive and generous man, kicked the man in his back and shouted in a louder voice, “You scoundrel! I gave you and you are asking again!! And also not paying heed to my words, not letting me in!”. He entered into the compartment angrily.
This poor fellow of the platform was not only blind but also deaf.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Luxurious Idleness
Yes, luxurious idleness.
It is hard for me to tell about the origin of the name. It may seem to you a bit eccentric. Probably, I named my feeling with my own ideas.
Our ideas are colourful. In our loneliness we paint our ideas, our thoughts with various colours. And our ego, mentality-- everything is a result of this painting as I think.
May be, I could tell it ‘Luxurious Loneliness’. The marvel of all marvelous ideas, generally takes its origin in loneliness and idleness. This gives us time to weave a web of our thoughts. Now, let me come to the point.
As a student, I was very lazy. Generally, I spend my time in reading storybooks when I should be at my study. This writing too, is written during my test examination! And when I get bored reading my lessons, I spend my time in luxurious idleness.
What is it? Nothing special. Just spending my time in idleness. It seems to me very luxurious. I spend my time staring at the tube-light or at the lizards. Or sometimes I just lie on my bed stretching arms and stare at the white roof. On that I see many spots, sometimes that becomes my world, my world of imagination. And, sometimes I spend my time gazing at the perseverance of the lizards. What a colossal perseverance they have!!
My luxurious idleness sometimes reminds me of Ruskin Bond’s story, ‘Upon an Old Wall Dreaming’. The thought that one of my favourite writers spent his time in doing such a lazy and childish work, gives me comfort. His Aunt Muriel used to tell about him, “He’ll come no good”. And in the next paragraph Mr. Bond wrote with his great sense of humour and sarcasm- “ And how right she proved to be!” None tells me such disheartening words. Now I realize the story a bit better when I spend my time in luxurious idleness. It helps me to discover what I am.
But I wonder, if such a notable event would occupy a little space in my diary!
It is hard for me to tell about the origin of the name. It may seem to you a bit eccentric. Probably, I named my feeling with my own ideas.
Our ideas are colourful. In our loneliness we paint our ideas, our thoughts with various colours. And our ego, mentality-- everything is a result of this painting as I think.
May be, I could tell it ‘Luxurious Loneliness’. The marvel of all marvelous ideas, generally takes its origin in loneliness and idleness. This gives us time to weave a web of our thoughts. Now, let me come to the point.
As a student, I was very lazy. Generally, I spend my time in reading storybooks when I should be at my study. This writing too, is written during my test examination! And when I get bored reading my lessons, I spend my time in luxurious idleness.
What is it? Nothing special. Just spending my time in idleness. It seems to me very luxurious. I spend my time staring at the tube-light or at the lizards. Or sometimes I just lie on my bed stretching arms and stare at the white roof. On that I see many spots, sometimes that becomes my world, my world of imagination. And, sometimes I spend my time gazing at the perseverance of the lizards. What a colossal perseverance they have!!
My luxurious idleness sometimes reminds me of Ruskin Bond’s story, ‘Upon an Old Wall Dreaming’. The thought that one of my favourite writers spent his time in doing such a lazy and childish work, gives me comfort. His Aunt Muriel used to tell about him, “He’ll come no good”. And in the next paragraph Mr. Bond wrote with his great sense of humour and sarcasm- “ And how right she proved to be!” None tells me such disheartening words. Now I realize the story a bit better when I spend my time in luxurious idleness. It helps me to discover what I am.
But I wonder, if such a notable event would occupy a little space in my diary!
Monday, June 18, 2007
Journey from Joy to Sorrow
A moment comes when the world seems
Not a place of human-heart
When at night the sweet dreams
Become painted with weary art.
I bear nostalgia in my heart
For the long past dreamy days
Such sorrow always makes me inert
For ‘Road Not Taken’, untouched lays.
Smoke and scorching heat is all
In such claustrophobic place
But oh! What joy drizzles on me
When the sun shines in Her face.
Sun shines on the leaves and lea
Godliness prevails in me
Closing eyelids to meditate,
Drizzle of joy casts off all hates.
Not a place of human-heart
When at night the sweet dreams
Become painted with weary art.
I bear nostalgia in my heart
For the long past dreamy days
Such sorrow always makes me inert
For ‘Road Not Taken’, untouched lays.
Smoke and scorching heat is all
In such claustrophobic place
But oh! What joy drizzles on me
When the sun shines in Her face.
Sun shines on the leaves and lea
Godliness prevails in me
Closing eyelids to meditate,
Drizzle of joy casts off all hates.
Magical Spree
What a feeling creeps to my heart
When your name cools my face!
What a palpable joyance now springs
If I perceive you ultimate trace!
I go the darkness, closing my eyes
The dark of all darkness I see
We, the two heart, are now one
I see in such a magical spree.
The sound of silence deafens me then,
I forget the earth, I forgive the queue
Your shining eyes dazzles my sense,
What harms if I die for you?
When your name cools my face!
What a palpable joyance now springs
If I perceive you ultimate trace!
I go the darkness, closing my eyes
The dark of all darkness I see
We, the two heart, are now one
I see in such a magical spree.
The sound of silence deafens me then,
I forget the earth, I forgive the queue
Your shining eyes dazzles my sense,
What harms if I die for you?
Dreamy Tales
Ah! Charming joy, you make me crazy
My tender heart now beats no more.
You touch me at my feelings core
When the outer world becomes so hazy.
The soft, heart-warming aroma of rose
I can feel in such a night
My untold passion becomes bright
When I smell it with my inner nose.
Then I close my eyes and see
Expanding my heart so far
As if comes the touch of Her
An eternal trance works in me.
My all sweet dreams flicker and say,
“If they come, we’ll pass away
My tender heart now beats no more.
You touch me at my feelings core
When the outer world becomes so hazy.
The soft, heart-warming aroma of rose
I can feel in such a night
My untold passion becomes bright
When I smell it with my inner nose.
Then I close my eyes and see
Expanding my heart so far
As if comes the touch of Her
An eternal trance works in me.
My all sweet dreams flicker and say,
“If they come, we’ll pass away
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The Girl from London
He heard the whistle of the rail engine. The atmosphere was terribly hot and tormenting. But nothing could disturb Pobitra. The shouting of the people, the announcements, nothing was an obstacle to him. He was reading Pope’s “Elegy”. The two lines of the poem impressed him- “Is there no bright reversion in the sky/For those who greatly think or bravely die?” It seemed to him that the lines were wet; the tears of the poet made it so.
Suddenly his father appeared and shouted, “What the hell are you doing here? Hurry up, the train is coming at platform no.3.” Pobitra felt helpless. He had a strong desire to finish the poem but he could not. He knew that his father was bit rude when he read any story or poem. Pobitra thought he was lucky. He got the book from his dad.
He took up the luggage and followed his dad. He was led to an A.C 3 Tier Coach and they occupied their seats. Knowing that the time of the departure of the train was already gone, he asked, “Dad, what’s wrong? And why the front seats are empty? May I seat down there?
“It is not our seat. Be quiet”
As soon as he finished his words one couple arrived with their nine years old daughter, the same age of Pobitra. Their exotic appearance said that they must be foreigners; most probably they are from an occidental country.
The gentleman said, “What is your destination?” Pobitra’s father replied- “We are going to Howrah, and yours?”
“We are going to New Jalpaiguri. I am Peter W. Crowther and she is my wife. And we have our dear daughter Jassica with us. May I know who I am taking to?”
“I am Ratan Sarkar. She is my wife Ratna and here is our son Pobitra. From which country are you?”
“We are from London, U.K. Glad to meet you”
The conversation continued. Night came. They had their own dinner and pumped the air-pillow. Everyone was extremely tired and as soon as they lied they felt asleep, except one. He is Pobitra. The train was running with it top speed and only its never-ending sound and the snoring of the people could be heard. Darkness had spread its web in the coach but in the mind of Pobitra there was light. Always he could see it but there was a special reason that day. He was thinking for someone greatly. The “Unfortunate Lady”? No, that day was dedicated to someone who was very special to him.
In the midnight Pobitra felt that someone was pushing him. He woke up and saw that a very beautiful girl, whom he had never seen before, was calling him. “Wake up, dear”, she said.
“But your name?” Pobitra asked.
“Is it necessary?” she continued, “Come on. Please.”
He left his seat and went with her. She took him in front of the door of the coach.
“How lucky I am!” she murmured. “I got you. How nice you are! You like literature a lot, don’t you?”
“Yea, but how do you know?” he asked with a great surprise. He liked the girl but could not understand what was going on. The girl replied with a very sweet smile. Pobitra felt that the eyes and the lips of the girl were trying to say something. She came closer to him and touched his lips with her soft fingers. “Ah!” she said, her voice was steeped in satisfaction. “How sweet you are! May I taste your heart?”
Pobitra lost his self-control and pronounced feebly, “Oh, sure. Why not?”
No sooner had he told this he saw the darkness around him and it seemed him that he was licking the sweetest sweet of the world, which was filled with the aroma of the best rose. A feeling of drowsiness worked within him. The closest moment with a girl, he had. But suddenly the train stopped with a jerk. Opening his eyes, he saw the darkness of the coach.
“Oh! What a dream!’ he murmured. And then he prepared to sleep again.
Morning came silently. The rays of the creamy sun peeped through the curtain of the coach and fell on Pobitra’s eyes. He opened his eyes and saw Jassica was lying awake. Now Jassica said, “Good morning. Slept well, I hope?”
“Yea. And you?”
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t”, she continued, “because I am not accustomed to such an atmosphere”
Pobitra did not know what to say next. Fortunately Jassica asked him, “from which state are you?”
“West Bengal. You came India for a tour?”
“Yea, dear”
Dear? The word sounded something different to him.
“We came here a month ago”, Jassica continued, ‘…after visiting some popular and populous places we are going to NJP. I hope I said the correct word, didn’t I?’, Jassica said, smiling.
Suddenly Pobitra saw a book in her berth. On the cover page there was printed, “Collected Poems of Wordsworth”
“You like Wordsworth’s poetry?”, Pobitra asked.
“He is the man of my dream. And yours? Do you like our literature?”
“A lot! Wordsworth is my favourite, too. Have a look at this”
He handed a book to her, a collection of various masters of English literature. Jassica looked at him. She wanted to say something. The depth and warmth of her look dazzled Pobitra.
They chatted for a long time. Mr. Crowther and Mr. Sarkar, meanwhile, woke up. Mr. Crowther said, “Hurry! Our stations is coming”
The words sounded to Pobitra like a thunder. He could not believe that this girl would leave the coach. The seat would be empty as his hearts were.
“Hurry up! Quick, dear!”, her mother said.
Pobitra saw the train was motionless. It is New Jalpaiguri railway-station. At first he blamed the railway-authority. Why did the train reach NJP at the right time? Then, Mr. & Mrs. Crowther. Why should they stay at NJP? And ultimately, he blamed his luck, his rotten luck!
“Good bye, uncle and aunt. Good bye, Pobitra”, Jassica pronounced his name with her English accent.
Pobitra smiled and pronounced his last feeble words to Jassica, “Bye”
As soon as she left the compartment, Pobitra saw darkness around him. He stared out of the window and saw the bright sun. He saw everyone is smiling, busy in his or her work, looking cheerful and normal but only he was morose. He heaved a sigh helplessly and when he inhaled his breath, a sweet smell calmed him. The aroma of the perfume of Jassica lingered in the coach.
Suddenly his father appeared and shouted, “What the hell are you doing here? Hurry up, the train is coming at platform no.3.” Pobitra felt helpless. He had a strong desire to finish the poem but he could not. He knew that his father was bit rude when he read any story or poem. Pobitra thought he was lucky. He got the book from his dad.
He took up the luggage and followed his dad. He was led to an A.C 3 Tier Coach and they occupied their seats. Knowing that the time of the departure of the train was already gone, he asked, “Dad, what’s wrong? And why the front seats are empty? May I seat down there?
“It is not our seat. Be quiet”
As soon as he finished his words one couple arrived with their nine years old daughter, the same age of Pobitra. Their exotic appearance said that they must be foreigners; most probably they are from an occidental country.
The gentleman said, “What is your destination?” Pobitra’s father replied- “We are going to Howrah, and yours?”
“We are going to New Jalpaiguri. I am Peter W. Crowther and she is my wife. And we have our dear daughter Jassica with us. May I know who I am taking to?”
“I am Ratan Sarkar. She is my wife Ratna and here is our son Pobitra. From which country are you?”
“We are from London, U.K. Glad to meet you”
The conversation continued. Night came. They had their own dinner and pumped the air-pillow. Everyone was extremely tired and as soon as they lied they felt asleep, except one. He is Pobitra. The train was running with it top speed and only its never-ending sound and the snoring of the people could be heard. Darkness had spread its web in the coach but in the mind of Pobitra there was light. Always he could see it but there was a special reason that day. He was thinking for someone greatly. The “Unfortunate Lady”? No, that day was dedicated to someone who was very special to him.
In the midnight Pobitra felt that someone was pushing him. He woke up and saw that a very beautiful girl, whom he had never seen before, was calling him. “Wake up, dear”, she said.
“But your name?” Pobitra asked.
“Is it necessary?” she continued, “Come on. Please.”
He left his seat and went with her. She took him in front of the door of the coach.
“How lucky I am!” she murmured. “I got you. How nice you are! You like literature a lot, don’t you?”
“Yea, but how do you know?” he asked with a great surprise. He liked the girl but could not understand what was going on. The girl replied with a very sweet smile. Pobitra felt that the eyes and the lips of the girl were trying to say something. She came closer to him and touched his lips with her soft fingers. “Ah!” she said, her voice was steeped in satisfaction. “How sweet you are! May I taste your heart?”
Pobitra lost his self-control and pronounced feebly, “Oh, sure. Why not?”
No sooner had he told this he saw the darkness around him and it seemed him that he was licking the sweetest sweet of the world, which was filled with the aroma of the best rose. A feeling of drowsiness worked within him. The closest moment with a girl, he had. But suddenly the train stopped with a jerk. Opening his eyes, he saw the darkness of the coach.
“Oh! What a dream!’ he murmured. And then he prepared to sleep again.
Morning came silently. The rays of the creamy sun peeped through the curtain of the coach and fell on Pobitra’s eyes. He opened his eyes and saw Jassica was lying awake. Now Jassica said, “Good morning. Slept well, I hope?”
“Yea. And you?”
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t”, she continued, “because I am not accustomed to such an atmosphere”
Pobitra did not know what to say next. Fortunately Jassica asked him, “from which state are you?”
“West Bengal. You came India for a tour?”
“Yea, dear”
Dear? The word sounded something different to him.
“We came here a month ago”, Jassica continued, ‘…after visiting some popular and populous places we are going to NJP. I hope I said the correct word, didn’t I?’, Jassica said, smiling.
Suddenly Pobitra saw a book in her berth. On the cover page there was printed, “Collected Poems of Wordsworth”
“You like Wordsworth’s poetry?”, Pobitra asked.
“He is the man of my dream. And yours? Do you like our literature?”
“A lot! Wordsworth is my favourite, too. Have a look at this”
He handed a book to her, a collection of various masters of English literature. Jassica looked at him. She wanted to say something. The depth and warmth of her look dazzled Pobitra.
They chatted for a long time. Mr. Crowther and Mr. Sarkar, meanwhile, woke up. Mr. Crowther said, “Hurry! Our stations is coming”
The words sounded to Pobitra like a thunder. He could not believe that this girl would leave the coach. The seat would be empty as his hearts were.
“Hurry up! Quick, dear!”, her mother said.
Pobitra saw the train was motionless. It is New Jalpaiguri railway-station. At first he blamed the railway-authority. Why did the train reach NJP at the right time? Then, Mr. & Mrs. Crowther. Why should they stay at NJP? And ultimately, he blamed his luck, his rotten luck!
“Good bye, uncle and aunt. Good bye, Pobitra”, Jassica pronounced his name with her English accent.
Pobitra smiled and pronounced his last feeble words to Jassica, “Bye”
As soon as she left the compartment, Pobitra saw darkness around him. He stared out of the window and saw the bright sun. He saw everyone is smiling, busy in his or her work, looking cheerful and normal but only he was morose. He heaved a sigh helplessly and when he inhaled his breath, a sweet smell calmed him. The aroma of the perfume of Jassica lingered in the coach.
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