Friday, March 30, 2012
I can't say
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
‘Do you believe I run after you?’ This question during the online chat last night stirred me into thinking. Why she should run after me, I thought. I know her from university days. She did M.A. in Bengali and has a first class. She joined Narsingdi College as a lecturer, and now, a couple of years from retirement, is a professor and Head of the Department of Bengali. Her daughter is at Harvard, the USA, doing PhD on endangered languages of Indian sub-continent. She has been single since her husband Dr. Nazmul Hoq left her to settle at Oxford with Rokeya. Estranged Ruby was Rokeya’s roommate at Samsunnahar Hall, Dhaka University. Nazmul is my friend. In fact, I tried to salvage their marriage and keep them together. Nazmul would not return to Bangladesh and Ruby was determined to stay back in the country for which she fought in the liberation war in 1971. I couldn’t bridge the gulf. Yet, both of them are my friends.
I remember Ruby was very happy with Nazmul. She was warm to Nazmul’s friends and would play a nice host to them in their cozy home at Dhanmondi. What actually was the cause of their difference and separation is still beyond my comprehension. What I know is that they remain updated about each other through me. Nazmul once suggested he would be happy if Ruby shunned her cloistered life and be with me. I didn’t respond. I thought I was fine being alone, particularly after I had seen their happy marriage collapse. I never looked upon Ruby as anyone other than my friend’s wife. I cannot understand why she posed the question. We have regular chat but never do we make any suggestion which could appear to be romantic advance. Then why should she run after me? There is no question of my believing so. How can I tend to believe what I have never thought of? Ruby has turned silly, indeed.
Tonight we shall be online as usual at 10 p.m. I didn’t answer the question last night and I understand she would not repeat the question. Still I am scared. She may ask’ Do you think I’m inclined to you?’ or be mockingly categorical,’ Don’t think I’m impulsive.’ To speak the truth, I am at a loss as to what should be my response in the delicate situation. Should I try to understand her mind and explore what has been the development which causes her to think anew about me? Is it that Nazmul hinted to her in a direct interaction that he wouldn’t mind Ruby being with me when both of us are inching towards sixty? Nazmul, though separated, is quite concerned about Ruby. Maybe, Ruby is hurt at the suggestion possibly Nazmul has made to her since she still loves him. Or, she may mean that she really loves me and wants me to believe it. Well, if she repeats the question I may perhaps take it for granted that she loves me. If this is the thing what should be my response is a big question for me to find answer.
Okay, let me not ponder over ifs. Rather, I should decide on my response in case of such an eventuality. Should I change my mind and be prepared to welcome a romantic advance? I know I’m scared of woman. I dare not look a woman in the eyes. The question Ruby has posed stirs in me a desire to answer, a new feeling. Maybe, Ruby is disturbed; the experiences of marriage, love and estrangement have made her bitter and impulsive. I have no such experience, I am not distraught. Only her question stirs me. This is the first time I have been asked such a question. I don’t know what could be my reaction had I been asked the question by anyone like Ruby during my university days. I saw many in the campus preoccupied with affairs and many of the affairs turned into marriages. I, then, wondered why no girl would come near me. That much, and I would go back to my room and the lonely world of thought.
What I could do in my youth I cannot do near the age of retirement. I have come to feel I am quite alone in my house with no emotional bonding and no roommate. A kind of helplessness creeps in. Is it the reason why I am stirred by the question of Ruby? Is it that Ruby feels drawn to me? Well, if Ruby raises the issue tonight, even obliquely, I feel I should say, ‘Yes, I believe. What does it matter?’ If she asks how I have come to understand I will reply, ‘I can’t say.’ Will Ruby smile and continue to finger the keyboards to write the scrisp message:’ I understand’?
Saturday, March 24, 2012
A Transcendental Journey
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
On 13th, the second Tuesday of March 2012 in the early morning drizzle I along with my consort Bharati and younger daughter Kasturi started for Siliguri Junction to catch Kanchankanya Express train. At the station our family friend Radheshyamji received us. Kanchankanya bound for Alipurduar from Kolkata arrived on time at 8 a.m. We boarded the train. We were awaiting the moment when the train would be on its forest track. Within minutes, the train was on the track through shal and teak forests. This is the time when the trees shed leaves and the forests wear a bleak look. Yet we could smell the aroma and feel the pleasant breath of the giant trees as they stood erect heads held high in the forests stretching miles upon miles.Kasturi was so happy that she did not turn her face from the window, and even refused to have her breakfast lest she should miss the beauty for a moment. For anyone, I bet, this is a phantastic experience. The drizzle continued and, thus, added to the beauty of the forests, the gift of God.
Kasturi might have the reminiscence of her prenatal days and feeling of being in Eden. Bharati and our friend Radheshyamji were all praise for the beauty of the endless jungle. I began to think of the innocence of the savage place disturbed by the mechanical sound of the running train. The touch of our civilization split the natural forest. Once the habitat of wild animals, no such animal was in sight. Animals are scared of humans because we are equipped with technology which is the mark of our civilization. Civilization means encroachment on Nature, the cradle of flora and fauna. This thought saddened me, and in remorse I closed my eyes and went into reverie.
I was born in a village which was adorned with trees, plants, and grass and corn fields. Wild flowers would greet us when we were on roads or fields. I remember, on the day our school would go into a long summer vacation, we would garland our teachers, and the garlands were of fragrant wild flowers. We would play on the village common and had enough space to roam about. But things began to change when a jute mill was set up. People from different parts of the country poured in, a demographic and economic change brought about a disturbing change at the societal level. The traditional relations among the villagers began to crumble. Soon we turned urbanites at the cost of the simplicity of rural life, and its rusticity and innocence. I am 56. I have spent most of my time in urban centres. Yet I cannot forget the idyllic days of my childhood in my native village. I still remember my childhood friends and playmates. Some of them are no more in the world. But I cannot forget them. I fondly go back to our village where even poverty of some could not hinder the joy of living together in an atmosphere of empathy and tenderness.
Is it that savage places like the village of my childhood days and the forests through which our train runs are the abode of God? What does God stand for? Surely, God is innocence, beauty, grace and love incarnate. Kasturi is born in town. She in her own little way is tuned to the urban way of life. Yet she is happy in the world of Nature she is passing through. It is obvious this savage world is the source of joy for her. I feel I am like Kasturi, a child enjoying the presence of God in Nature. Are we animists? Call it as you like. I have no pain, no care, no fret or dizziness as I am in the midst of Nature. Here I hear the sound of wind, the rustle of dry leaves the chirping of birds and trumpet of elephants from far away. The harmony creates the primordial sound. They called me. The train stopped at Hasimara station, our destination for now. Kasturi’s smile was gone.
On 13th, the second Tuesday of March 2012 in the early morning drizzle I along with my consort Bharati and younger daughter Kasturi started for Siliguri Junction to catch Kanchankanya Express train. At the station our family friend Radheshyamji received us. Kanchankanya bound for Alipurduar from Kolkata arrived on time at 8 a.m. We boarded the train. We were awaiting the moment when the train would be on its forest track. Within minutes, the train was on the track through shal and teak forests. This is the time when the trees shed leaves and the forests wear a bleak look. Yet we could smell the aroma and feel the pleasant breath of the giant trees as they stood erect heads held high in the forests stretching miles upon miles.Kasturi was so happy that she did not turn her face from the window, and even refused to have her breakfast lest she should miss the beauty for a moment. For anyone, I bet, this is a phantastic experience. The drizzle continued and, thus, added to the beauty of the forests, the gift of God.
Kasturi might have the reminiscence of her prenatal days and feeling of being in Eden. Bharati and our friend Radheshyamji were all praise for the beauty of the endless jungle. I began to think of the innocence of the savage place disturbed by the mechanical sound of the running train. The touch of our civilization split the natural forest. Once the habitat of wild animals, no such animal was in sight. Animals are scared of humans because we are equipped with technology which is the mark of our civilization. Civilization means encroachment on Nature, the cradle of flora and fauna. This thought saddened me, and in remorse I closed my eyes and went into reverie.
I was born in a village which was adorned with trees, plants, and grass and corn fields. Wild flowers would greet us when we were on roads or fields. I remember, on the day our school would go into a long summer vacation, we would garland our teachers, and the garlands were of fragrant wild flowers. We would play on the village common and had enough space to roam about. But things began to change when a jute mill was set up. People from different parts of the country poured in, a demographic and economic change brought about a disturbing change at the societal level. The traditional relations among the villagers began to crumble. Soon we turned urbanites at the cost of the simplicity of rural life, and its rusticity and innocence. I am 56. I have spent most of my time in urban centres. Yet I cannot forget the idyllic days of my childhood in my native village. I still remember my childhood friends and playmates. Some of them are no more in the world. But I cannot forget them. I fondly go back to our village where even poverty of some could not hinder the joy of living together in an atmosphere of empathy and tenderness.
Is it that savage places like the village of my childhood days and the forests through which our train runs are the abode of God? What does God stand for? Surely, God is innocence, beauty, grace and love incarnate. Kasturi is born in town. She in her own little way is tuned to the urban way of life. Yet she is happy in the world of Nature she is passing through. It is obvious this savage world is the source of joy for her. I feel I am like Kasturi, a child enjoying the presence of God in Nature. Are we animists? Call it as you like. I have no pain, no care, no fret or dizziness as I am in the midst of Nature. Here I hear the sound of wind, the rustle of dry leaves the chirping of birds and trumpet of elephants from far away. The harmony creates the primordial sound. They called me. The train stopped at Hasimara station, our destination for now. Kasturi’s smile was gone.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
When Still I Lie
When Still I Lie
Nidhu Bhusan Das
Don’t ask me who I am
This is embarrassing, indeed
Afloat I’m on Time, the mast of broken Titanic
Where shall I find Prospero’s island
Or after expiation, will the albatross fall off my neck
And back home will I be?
Like it or not, moot this point is.
I cannot ride on Time
Every moment passes by
Injustice meted out to me
Loss of love and friend
All I remember.
You may ask,’Will you be an avenger?’
I’m not a coward, but
Could Hamlet be one?
Cordelia dies fighting
Justice is elusive.
This I know in my heart
I shall wear a smile
When still I lie.
Nidhu Bhusan Das
Don’t ask me who I am
This is embarrassing, indeed
Afloat I’m on Time, the mast of broken Titanic
Where shall I find Prospero’s island
Or after expiation, will the albatross fall off my neck
And back home will I be?
Like it or not, moot this point is.
I cannot ride on Time
Every moment passes by
Injustice meted out to me
Loss of love and friend
All I remember.
You may ask,’Will you be an avenger?’
I’m not a coward, but
Could Hamlet be one?
Cordelia dies fighting
Justice is elusive.
This I know in my heart
I shall wear a smile
When still I lie.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Meaningful Absurdity
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
‘Do you believe you are in my mind?’ she writes on my wall. In fact, I could not understand the rhyme and reason of such a query. True, Rubina is my friend in the Facebook. I found logic in accepting her offer of friendship. She is an alumnus of English Department of Dhaka University and junior to me by five years. I cannot ignore anything that belongs to or is related to English Department of my alma mater. Naturally, I thought Rubina should be my friend. I read her profile minutely and noticed her profile picture. A good girl, arguably. She writes short stories and anecdotes, sends me links, and I comment on them with pleasure. She is also a keen reader of my articles and stories.
Rubina, as the profile says, is a professor of English in Eden College, Dhaka. Eden College inspires nostalgia as I would often visit my sister there and eventually developed friendship with Rokeya who was the roommate of my sister in the college hostel. We three would often go out and spend time at Ramna Park in the afternoon. My sister was quite naughty and had a plan to build a bridge between her roommate and me. Rokeya found logic in her suggestion that a nuptial knot with me could keep the two roommates emotionally bound for life. Such ideas occur in adolescence and early youth. In course of time, every one of the friends of my sister and Rokeya came to understand that we have settled for a marriage, and she was betrothed to me.
Yes, the marriage would take place had Rokeya survived the crackdown of Pakistani occupation Army on Bangladesh. I remember we took her to Sadar Ghat, Dhaka where she boarded the Barisal bound steamer five days before 25 March 1971, the day the Pakistan Army began brutal attack on the civilian people of Bangladesh to save Pakistan. After the nine-month liberation war Rokeya did not return to her college. We went to their house in Jhalakathi only to be informed that she had been taken away by the army men and never returned. I decided I would never be tied in wedlock. Rokeya is still alive in my mind. I do not have any other girl to think of. I do not encourage any romantic overtures.
Rubina’s wall post may have different meanings. For me, yes, she is in my mind because she is a friend. It is not a belief, it is a fact. So, the question is absurd. It smacks of stupidity. But why a professor in her mid-fifties should display her imbecility to a friend? Rubina is a widow and childless. Her husband, Dr. Shakeel Ahmed, a reputed neuro-surgeon of Dhaka Medical College Hospital died in a car crash in the city in six months of their wedding. This was shocking and Rubina broke down. It took years for her to come to terms with the reality. Her autobiographical story ‘Adieu Shakeel’ reveals her mind – in - shock following the death. Does Rubina want to extract a ‘Yes’ from me to feel good knowing that someone is there to love her? Is it that she feels lonely and the need for a shared life as she is inching towards the twilight of life? This is really a critical juncture in the life of a loner. A sense of helplessness creeps in. Such other questions stirred my mind. I thought I should let her feel good.
I did not know if a lone ‘Yes’ could make her happy, or I should send her an elaborate mail demonstrating my tenderness. I said to myself ‘if I am uninfluenced by her post why should I go for elaboration; if I am unaffected by what appears to be her overture towards me, I should not respond. In case I do not, the friendship could terminate. Do I want it? Facebook friends fill my lonely moments with interactions. Can I afford to do away with it? No, I cannot.’ I decided I would send a ‘Yes’ only and wait for the next move of Rubina. Will it be absurd? Rubina may find meaning in the single word.
‘Do you believe you are in my mind?’ she writes on my wall. In fact, I could not understand the rhyme and reason of such a query. True, Rubina is my friend in the Facebook. I found logic in accepting her offer of friendship. She is an alumnus of English Department of Dhaka University and junior to me by five years. I cannot ignore anything that belongs to or is related to English Department of my alma mater. Naturally, I thought Rubina should be my friend. I read her profile minutely and noticed her profile picture. A good girl, arguably. She writes short stories and anecdotes, sends me links, and I comment on them with pleasure. She is also a keen reader of my articles and stories.
Rubina, as the profile says, is a professor of English in Eden College, Dhaka. Eden College inspires nostalgia as I would often visit my sister there and eventually developed friendship with Rokeya who was the roommate of my sister in the college hostel. We three would often go out and spend time at Ramna Park in the afternoon. My sister was quite naughty and had a plan to build a bridge between her roommate and me. Rokeya found logic in her suggestion that a nuptial knot with me could keep the two roommates emotionally bound for life. Such ideas occur in adolescence and early youth. In course of time, every one of the friends of my sister and Rokeya came to understand that we have settled for a marriage, and she was betrothed to me.
Yes, the marriage would take place had Rokeya survived the crackdown of Pakistani occupation Army on Bangladesh. I remember we took her to Sadar Ghat, Dhaka where she boarded the Barisal bound steamer five days before 25 March 1971, the day the Pakistan Army began brutal attack on the civilian people of Bangladesh to save Pakistan. After the nine-month liberation war Rokeya did not return to her college. We went to their house in Jhalakathi only to be informed that she had been taken away by the army men and never returned. I decided I would never be tied in wedlock. Rokeya is still alive in my mind. I do not have any other girl to think of. I do not encourage any romantic overtures.
Rubina’s wall post may have different meanings. For me, yes, she is in my mind because she is a friend. It is not a belief, it is a fact. So, the question is absurd. It smacks of stupidity. But why a professor in her mid-fifties should display her imbecility to a friend? Rubina is a widow and childless. Her husband, Dr. Shakeel Ahmed, a reputed neuro-surgeon of Dhaka Medical College Hospital died in a car crash in the city in six months of their wedding. This was shocking and Rubina broke down. It took years for her to come to terms with the reality. Her autobiographical story ‘Adieu Shakeel’ reveals her mind – in - shock following the death. Does Rubina want to extract a ‘Yes’ from me to feel good knowing that someone is there to love her? Is it that she feels lonely and the need for a shared life as she is inching towards the twilight of life? This is really a critical juncture in the life of a loner. A sense of helplessness creeps in. Such other questions stirred my mind. I thought I should let her feel good.
I did not know if a lone ‘Yes’ could make her happy, or I should send her an elaborate mail demonstrating my tenderness. I said to myself ‘if I am uninfluenced by her post why should I go for elaboration; if I am unaffected by what appears to be her overture towards me, I should not respond. In case I do not, the friendship could terminate. Do I want it? Facebook friends fill my lonely moments with interactions. Can I afford to do away with it? No, I cannot.’ I decided I would send a ‘Yes’ only and wait for the next move of Rubina. Will it be absurd? Rubina may find meaning in the single word.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Fire Me , Boss
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
Fire me, boss, if you like, but I cannot be silenced. I understand, you are in a tie with two ministers for procuring land to build a tourist resort, your pet project. This happens. Capital and politics are in relationship, always and everywhere. Think, how, overnight, the communist party functionaries could turn red capitalists following the dismantling of the Soviet Union under the impact of Glasnost and Perestroika introduced by Mikhail Gorvachev.So,it’s not wrong that you have built a beneficial relationship with the ruling party politicians. In the interest of your politician-cronies you can sacrifice your worker you are scared of, thinking he knows about your clandestine deals, or your new cronies feel he is dangerous for the simple fact they suppose he is aware of the skeleton in their cupboard .Be it what may, you are determined, I know, to crash me, even to annihilate me, if need be, according to your judgment.
I understand, now, the theme of the relation between criminality and respectability in the novel ‘The Great Expectations’ by Victorian author Charles Dickens. I am sure you are not aware of the world of literature because you have been a busy operator in the stock market since your student life. I think, boss, that’s the problem with you. You don’t know that a soul can’t be silenced. Those who have read Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ know this. You don’t know how the Ghost of the murdered king reveals the truth of the murder and the identity of the murderer. It is said, fools rush where angels fear to tread. No, I don’t mean to say you’re a fool. How can it be? You’re supposed to be an intellectual, being the editor of the famous morninger ‘The Gatekeeper’. I rate you so; I must, because you’re my boss.
But you’re not an angel. You’re a privileged person, being the inheritor-editor of a daily newspaper. Have you read ‘Macflecknoe’? Perhaps not, for reading is not to your liking.. You only listen to cronies. Shadwell also inherited position though he was a dullard. I know you would not accept what you actually are. But even your cronies delight in your susceptibility. You are a nice guy – beautiful in appearance, grave in posture. But Socrates was not beautiful! Yet he is enthroned in our mind. Your throne is in your office. Do you understand the difference? Maybe, it is not expected of you. We remain far removed from reality when we live in a fool’s paradise.
Fire me, boss, if you like, but I cannot be silenced. I understand, you are in a tie with two ministers for procuring land to build a tourist resort, your pet project. This happens. Capital and politics are in relationship, always and everywhere. Think, how, overnight, the communist party functionaries could turn red capitalists following the dismantling of the Soviet Union under the impact of Glasnost and Perestroika introduced by Mikhail Gorvachev.So,it’s not wrong that you have built a beneficial relationship with the ruling party politicians. In the interest of your politician-cronies you can sacrifice your worker you are scared of, thinking he knows about your clandestine deals, or your new cronies feel he is dangerous for the simple fact they suppose he is aware of the skeleton in their cupboard .Be it what may, you are determined, I know, to crash me, even to annihilate me, if need be, according to your judgment.
I understand, now, the theme of the relation between criminality and respectability in the novel ‘The Great Expectations’ by Victorian author Charles Dickens. I am sure you are not aware of the world of literature because you have been a busy operator in the stock market since your student life. I think, boss, that’s the problem with you. You don’t know that a soul can’t be silenced. Those who have read Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ know this. You don’t know how the Ghost of the murdered king reveals the truth of the murder and the identity of the murderer. It is said, fools rush where angels fear to tread. No, I don’t mean to say you’re a fool. How can it be? You’re supposed to be an intellectual, being the editor of the famous morninger ‘The Gatekeeper’. I rate you so; I must, because you’re my boss.
But you’re not an angel. You’re a privileged person, being the inheritor-editor of a daily newspaper. Have you read ‘Macflecknoe’? Perhaps not, for reading is not to your liking.. You only listen to cronies. Shadwell also inherited position though he was a dullard. I know you would not accept what you actually are. But even your cronies delight in your susceptibility. You are a nice guy – beautiful in appearance, grave in posture. But Socrates was not beautiful! Yet he is enthroned in our mind. Your throne is in your office. Do you understand the difference? Maybe, it is not expected of you. We remain far removed from reality when we live in a fool’s paradise.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Dear Monali
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
Dear Monali,
Festival of color is on here to-day. We are shrouded in colors – roseate, green and azure. Sweetmeats are aplenty. I don’t know how you spend the day in New York. Perhaps, you tend to reminisce how we enjoyed the day in Shantiniketan where Vasantutsav (Vernal Festival) attracts people from home and abroad. Can you remember how the inspiration of the spring would color our thought and we would renew our vow to remain together? I understand you can, since you are nostalgic. I expected a Facebook Wall Post from you ahead of the day. Maybe, you are otherwise preoccupied. Since I live in a country where even to-day one can choose not to remain busy, I have the luxury to address this letter to you. I don’t know how much time of your busy schedule will be spoilt when this letter will come to your notice.
I did not have the mind to write this letter. In fact, the routine of sending mails to friends on occasions reminded me of your being in New York. I collected your e-mail address from Mallika. She is all praise of you. We are now good friends. She often visits me at my office and residence. I come to know about your progress in study from her. She says she likes to stay back in India, would do PhD in Microbiology at Symbiosis, Pune. What is interesting is that she tries to explore possibilities of my transfer to Pune where our company has its headquarters for Indian operation. Last Sunday night during our candle light dinner at Oberoi Grand she asked,’ I have heard, the head office of your company for India is in Pune. Why don’t you try to get transferred to Pune?’ I could not at once understand the significance of the query. Rather, I thought she would like to send me away to end the intimacy that has grown between us in your absence. I have felt so far that her overtures towards me have an element of jealousy, possibly, against you. I am not sure I am correct; you may have the proper assessment, after all Mallika is your sibling.
I confess I have developed as much tenderness to her as she has for me. She is handsome, if not a paragon of beauty like you, and has profundity of feeling and an animal spirit, which, you know, I like most. I understand Mallika does not quite feel the pull towards you. I don’t know why. She often asks me how I could develop friendship with you. According to her, you are impudent and the arrogance engendered from your academic excellence. I argue that it is not bad. It helps one to maintain distance necessary for pursuing research. Mallika sneers at such suggestion and says one cannot have an emotional relation with such a girl. She is self-centered and can sacrifice even relation for academic and other achievements. I don’t have such a summary judgment.
I tend to believe Mallika loves me. She is not willing to leave me. She often says we are made for each other. Do you think so and believe we would be the right couple? If not, please advise her. She is now with me. We are two-in-one in the living room of my flat in Salt Lake, Kolkata. She would not talk to you right now by telephone, and is against my making a call to you. So, I write this letter of confession of my love. I may keep you in memory having Mallika with me. You may forget me but I would not like to bury the memory of many exclusive moments with you.
I wish that you reach the pinnacle of academic achievement.
Your now- forgotten- friend
Swapan
Dear Monali,
Festival of color is on here to-day. We are shrouded in colors – roseate, green and azure. Sweetmeats are aplenty. I don’t know how you spend the day in New York. Perhaps, you tend to reminisce how we enjoyed the day in Shantiniketan where Vasantutsav (Vernal Festival) attracts people from home and abroad. Can you remember how the inspiration of the spring would color our thought and we would renew our vow to remain together? I understand you can, since you are nostalgic. I expected a Facebook Wall Post from you ahead of the day. Maybe, you are otherwise preoccupied. Since I live in a country where even to-day one can choose not to remain busy, I have the luxury to address this letter to you. I don’t know how much time of your busy schedule will be spoilt when this letter will come to your notice.
I did not have the mind to write this letter. In fact, the routine of sending mails to friends on occasions reminded me of your being in New York. I collected your e-mail address from Mallika. She is all praise of you. We are now good friends. She often visits me at my office and residence. I come to know about your progress in study from her. She says she likes to stay back in India, would do PhD in Microbiology at Symbiosis, Pune. What is interesting is that she tries to explore possibilities of my transfer to Pune where our company has its headquarters for Indian operation. Last Sunday night during our candle light dinner at Oberoi Grand she asked,’ I have heard, the head office of your company for India is in Pune. Why don’t you try to get transferred to Pune?’ I could not at once understand the significance of the query. Rather, I thought she would like to send me away to end the intimacy that has grown between us in your absence. I have felt so far that her overtures towards me have an element of jealousy, possibly, against you. I am not sure I am correct; you may have the proper assessment, after all Mallika is your sibling.
I confess I have developed as much tenderness to her as she has for me. She is handsome, if not a paragon of beauty like you, and has profundity of feeling and an animal spirit, which, you know, I like most. I understand Mallika does not quite feel the pull towards you. I don’t know why. She often asks me how I could develop friendship with you. According to her, you are impudent and the arrogance engendered from your academic excellence. I argue that it is not bad. It helps one to maintain distance necessary for pursuing research. Mallika sneers at such suggestion and says one cannot have an emotional relation with such a girl. She is self-centered and can sacrifice even relation for academic and other achievements. I don’t have such a summary judgment.
I tend to believe Mallika loves me. She is not willing to leave me. She often says we are made for each other. Do you think so and believe we would be the right couple? If not, please advise her. She is now with me. We are two-in-one in the living room of my flat in Salt Lake, Kolkata. She would not talk to you right now by telephone, and is against my making a call to you. So, I write this letter of confession of my love. I may keep you in memory having Mallika with me. You may forget me but I would not like to bury the memory of many exclusive moments with you.
I wish that you reach the pinnacle of academic achievement.
Your now- forgotten- friend
Swapan
Sunday, March 4, 2012
They are on Chat
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
They are on chat – Rumi and Swarup. Rumi is in Siliguri, West Bengal, India. Swarup is in New York, the USA. Far apart they are. Yet they are very near, intimate, with webcams connected. Rumi goes online after supper regularly at 11 p.m. This is the mutually agreed time. I would give you the copy of one such conversation they had last night. You will find it interesting. Rumi began thus: How are you? Swarup wrote back: Fine. What was the menu for supper? Rice, roti, fish curry and chili chicken. The chat continued for an hour. Think how many words they used, how many emotions they shared. Their interaction was like that of a couple in bed or lovers in an arbor. I was with Rumi that time, and was, therefore privy to the exchange. I will not be able to publish for you the whole conversation. I shall reproduce only those portions which I am permitted to make public. And I shall be honest lest I might be sued for defamation.
Well, you may think why I was allowed to be with Rumi at night in her exclusive time. I will tell you in time. For now, I can tell you Rumi is a nice girl. She is excellent and adorable. Every peer around appreciates her beauty in physique, gait, talk and the smile she wears. I am not an exception. Many are there eager to have her hand. It is really difficult for her to negotiate her way through the crowd of adorers. What I can say is that she is agile enough to wade through. Onlookers notice her while her eyes scan the air. Everybody thinks he has won her tender heart, nobody knows her heart travels across the Atlantic every night. You may be jealous that I know so much about her. Be it so. I volunteer to place before you the conversation for your perusal and understanding.
Swarup (hereinafter S): My God! A glutton indeed. Take such heavy food at night!
Rumi (hereinafter R): Not in the least. I follow what the nutritionist advises.
S: Hang your nutritionist. Its common knowledge we should avoid heavy food for healthy
life. Forget that. What’s the message for me now?
R: For Godsake hold your tongue, and let me love,
S: Donne, metaphysical. Good. When shall we shed ‘meta’?
R: Naughty boy! Have you had lunch?
S: It’s Thursday, baby. Didn’t I tell you I fast on the day?
R: O! Yes. I forgot.
S: You look nice. Had you been to the parlor?
R: It’s bad. You don’t recognize I have natural beauty. ‘Phoney’ is the word Americans cling
to. I would say you look nice and exuberant. Has there been anything special to make you
exceptionally happy?
S: I saw you in dream last dawn. I dreamt we were together in bed looking eye to eye. I see
you are excited (the picture on the webcam shows her face reddened).
R: I have such dreams every night. Ridiculous! Fiction! Fools live in fiction. I am not a fool,
am I?
S: No, dear. You are quite sensible. I hope I shall not live long in a fool’s paradise.
R: When will you have your real paradise, tentatively at least?
S: Soon, very soon – maybe, in a couple of months.
R: You left after the honeymoon. Seems ages have glided by.
S: The waiting will end soon. How is the weather out there?
R: I am wrapped in fur.
S: Okay then, go to bed, and under the blanket, clutching bolster.
R: Good night!
Do you feel Rumi will be with anyone of you? I am sure we shall soon find her away. My mother is so sad she will have her only daughter sent away to a continent across a huge landmass and an ocean.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Romantic Story
Crossing the Prohibited Degree
They are in relationship. The Facebook profiles of Swapan and Shila tell us about the infatuation they have for each other. This is a surreptious heart-to-heart relation that goes beyond the social mores and code. They are cousins. Shila is the daughter of Swapan’s maternal uncle. Hindu family law does not allow marriage between such kins. A student of Bengali Honors at Dhaka University Shila has a special liking for the epistolary poems of Michael Madhusudan Dutta in his ‘Veerangana Kavya’ wherein prohibited love is dealt with. That love does not conform to the prescription of the society is shown in the poems. The psychology of Shila can be understood from a reading of the poems about the unrequited passion of the heroines. Obviously, Swapan is not unresponsive and has the same intense passion for Shila. Both know they have to cross the barrier of prohibited degree. It is difficult.
They have been friends since childhood. They would play together, quarrel and stop talking again to be eloquent. They got separated when Swapan was admitted in the Collegiate School, Dhaka in class V. Then on, they would meet when Swapan visited his uncle’s house during the summer vacation for a week or so to taste the mangoes of the orchard attached to the residential complex in the village Bhirinda, three hours from Dhaka by train and three miles from the station. The uncle and aunt have great affection for him, and they were particularly happy at the way Swapan and Shila enjoyed the get-together. Of course, the farewell at the end of the visit would be quite sad.
Till their association away from homes in the university campus none of them thought there existed something between them beyond being brother and sister. Swapan is a resident of Jagannath Hall and Shila lives in Shasunnahar Hall across the road that lies between TSC and the British Council. Every afternoon they go out for a stroll and often dash into the Suharawardy Udyan like many other students. One evening whilst eating nuts sitting face to face under a Krishnachuda, they felt something different. They could not talk easy. Silence was eloquent, and the inability to meet the eyes of each other added meaning to the silence. They could not sit there long.Shila offered to leave saying she felt dizzy. Anxious, Swapan suggested he would take her to the University Medical Centre yonder but Shila said she would go back to the hall and have rest. Thus the day ended for them to ponder, and for brain storming over their new passion and the consequences thereof if they decided in favor of honoring what they felt.
Back to the halls they were not as usual. A new passion gripped them. They knew what was in their mind but dared not tell it. The social control through mores and code, they knew, overrides emotions and passions. That night a melancholy visited them as they were aware they had a passion which did not have the social sanction. Their parents would not accept it. If they were to remain true to their passion they would run the risk of being ostracized. Society, riddled with inhibitions would look upon them as anarchists and immoral. Would they be able to stand the social ostracism and possible separation from parents? The thought continued to haunt them throughout the night and into the next day till they met in the cozy corner of the green lawn of the British Council on Fuller Road. Early morning Shila sent him an SMS which read:’ meet me at the british council at 11 a.m. ‘Swapan understood she had taken a decision. It must be a question, as was wont of her. What could be the question? Would she ask ‘Shall we live together for life?’ This could be the question, decided Swapan, as Shila was straight forward. Even when a child, remembers Swapan, she was fond of being candid and desperate. If that was the question what he would say. Will he say, ‘I don’t know?’ Will that be in keeping with his thought and feeling? Does he not the identical passion? Should he deceive himself?
They were on the lawn on time, face to face, melancholic. Silence prevailed for minutes. , ‘What do you think? asked Shila. Swapan looked up, as if, he were knocked out of a reverie, and said, hesitant, ‘What do you mean?’ She said, ‘I mean what you mean. Don’t try to smart under supposed social pressure. Be true to yourself.’ Swapan gave in and answered the question he thought was in the mind of Shila: ‘We shall live together for ever if you are also willing.’ Smile revisited them. None knows they tied knot the next day at Dhakeswari Kali Bari. It will remain a secret till they are on their careers.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Yield of Unaided Reading
Nidhu Bhusan Das :
We usually go by canon and keep in mind what critics have said about a text when we set out to read it.Or,we do not feel at ease unless and until we come to know the opinions of the critics after reading it unaided. There are two types of readers of a literary text- those who read for sheer enjoyment and those who go for critical reading. True, a critical reader is well equipped with the canon and opinions of other critics, if any, on the text. In case the text is new and a critic reads it to assess its worth and significance, he has the unenviable liberty to form his own opinion uninhibited by other opinions which do not exist. Yet the critical reader cannot but go by the canon. The first category of readers is free from any such inhibitions. Whenever a banker, a bureaucrat or an industrialist without literary training, for example, reads a novel, a play or a poem, he enjoys it in his own way, and may have his own opinion about the text. This opinion is also important because, ultimately, the success of the author depends on how the common readers accept the text.
However, canon and critical opinion develop as critical readers are active. One may ask what the utility of canon and critical study is. Well, it is like architecture. As building architecture evolves so does the architecture of texts. It corresponds with the evolution in the realm of thought as well as in the society. The motif and theme of a text depends on the location of the author in point of time. The reference to time is not necessarily to mean conteporanety but the time in the psyche. Though a Victorian in point of conteporanety, Robert Browning looked back to classical Greece .The time in this case is the one in the psyche of the poet. A creative mind may travel back to the past and revive it using his sensibility and insight developed in the present. A critic, on the other hand, looks through the text with contemporary theories in mind. Shakespeare wrote centuries before Karl Marx came up with his landmark theories of Surplus Value, Basic Structure and Super Structure. Yet a Marxian criticism of Shakespeare has been possible. Not only this, Structuralism, Deconstruction, Feminism etc.could be applied to shed new light on the works of Shakespeare.
Even if an ordinary reader reads a text unaided by any critical theory, his appreciation of the same depends on his contemporary sense, sensibility and insight. As the reader is also an author in the sense he finds his own meaning in the text, so a text is always open to new interpretation yielding meaning appropriate to the time of the reader. Is it then reasonable to think that every text is a mystery having in it the potential for umpteen meanings as does have our universe? If this is true, an author is like the creator of the universe which baffles us, and takes us to a realm which we try to grasp but cannot extract a meaning which is absolute. Whenever an author creates a text, (s)he has his/her own frame and architecture of thought, way of looking at and into the thing (s)he deals with. True, creation is a matter and embodiment of joy but, obviously, knowledge; experience and the objective condition in which the author is located form his/her outlook which gives shape to his/her joy of creation. The unaided reader with his/her thought outlook and frame of reference rooted in his/her environment explores in the text meaning compatible with his/her experience and insight.
Now, what could be the nature of the joy of creation and how the critical mind will respond to the existing and new texts in the 21st century, given the dominance of digital technology, biotechnology, genetic engineering and consumerism side by side with the problem of Global Warming and the facts of Globalization and Cultural Imperialism? Surely, this reality will inspire a new frame of thought and the creative and the critical minds will be influenced. The new experience will lead to new insight to produce new types of texts. Walt Whitman was inspired to compose the poem ‘A Passage to India’ after the opening up of the Suez Canal. Maybe, we will have an epic and other works on the explorations in the outer space by NASA, ISRO and such other bodies.
We usually go by canon and keep in mind what critics have said about a text when we set out to read it.Or,we do not feel at ease unless and until we come to know the opinions of the critics after reading it unaided. There are two types of readers of a literary text- those who read for sheer enjoyment and those who go for critical reading. True, a critical reader is well equipped with the canon and opinions of other critics, if any, on the text. In case the text is new and a critic reads it to assess its worth and significance, he has the unenviable liberty to form his own opinion uninhibited by other opinions which do not exist. Yet the critical reader cannot but go by the canon. The first category of readers is free from any such inhibitions. Whenever a banker, a bureaucrat or an industrialist without literary training, for example, reads a novel, a play or a poem, he enjoys it in his own way, and may have his own opinion about the text. This opinion is also important because, ultimately, the success of the author depends on how the common readers accept the text.
However, canon and critical opinion develop as critical readers are active. One may ask what the utility of canon and critical study is. Well, it is like architecture. As building architecture evolves so does the architecture of texts. It corresponds with the evolution in the realm of thought as well as in the society. The motif and theme of a text depends on the location of the author in point of time. The reference to time is not necessarily to mean conteporanety but the time in the psyche. Though a Victorian in point of conteporanety, Robert Browning looked back to classical Greece .The time in this case is the one in the psyche of the poet. A creative mind may travel back to the past and revive it using his sensibility and insight developed in the present. A critic, on the other hand, looks through the text with contemporary theories in mind. Shakespeare wrote centuries before Karl Marx came up with his landmark theories of Surplus Value, Basic Structure and Super Structure. Yet a Marxian criticism of Shakespeare has been possible. Not only this, Structuralism, Deconstruction, Feminism etc.could be applied to shed new light on the works of Shakespeare.
Even if an ordinary reader reads a text unaided by any critical theory, his appreciation of the same depends on his contemporary sense, sensibility and insight. As the reader is also an author in the sense he finds his own meaning in the text, so a text is always open to new interpretation yielding meaning appropriate to the time of the reader. Is it then reasonable to think that every text is a mystery having in it the potential for umpteen meanings as does have our universe? If this is true, an author is like the creator of the universe which baffles us, and takes us to a realm which we try to grasp but cannot extract a meaning which is absolute. Whenever an author creates a text, (s)he has his/her own frame and architecture of thought, way of looking at and into the thing (s)he deals with. True, creation is a matter and embodiment of joy but, obviously, knowledge; experience and the objective condition in which the author is located form his/her outlook which gives shape to his/her joy of creation. The unaided reader with his/her thought outlook and frame of reference rooted in his/her environment explores in the text meaning compatible with his/her experience and insight.
Now, what could be the nature of the joy of creation and how the critical mind will respond to the existing and new texts in the 21st century, given the dominance of digital technology, biotechnology, genetic engineering and consumerism side by side with the problem of Global Warming and the facts of Globalization and Cultural Imperialism? Surely, this reality will inspire a new frame of thought and the creative and the critical minds will be influenced. The new experience will lead to new insight to produce new types of texts. Walt Whitman was inspired to compose the poem ‘A Passage to India’ after the opening up of the Suez Canal. Maybe, we will have an epic and other works on the explorations in the outer space by NASA, ISRO and such other bodies.
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