Dream Comes True

Nidhu Bhusan Das: Madhu sees his dream comes true – Jharna is at last united with him. Whatever be the social attitude and sanction, they are going to find their desire fulfilled. It’s not a tinsel story, but a real life struggle of the two to come to terms with reality which is not consistent with the social mores and code. It is very difficult to follow the social norms when emotion runs high and seeks to become reality above the framed- reality of the society split from within by communal divide symbolized by temple and mosque. The guardians of such a society foreground religion and use it as a sharp-edged razor to spill social blood. Madhu and Jharna have bled for a couple of years and are going to be resurrected in a foreign country away from native land and parents. They failed to challenge the autocracy of unfeeling social guardians but have remained true to their emotions and good sense which emanates from these emotions. Madhu and Jharna were students of the same school in their home town Narsingdi, a ninety-minute drive from Dhaka. Madhu, a boy from an orthodox Brahmin family, and Jharna, a daughter of a conservative Muslim family of clerics, came to be interested about and attracted to each other. They would smile from a distance and eventually began correspondence. Understandably they exchanged love, had emotional union, and remained socially apart. Even they would not share with friends what went between them. During their school days they had a direct oral interaction only once on the day they were given the usual farewell before the Secondary School Examination, which marks the end of studentship in the school. ‘Then we shall no more be able to smile to each other,’ Jharna opened the conversation coming to Madhu who stood outside the hall room after the farewell ceremony was over. Madhu smiled, sadly, sharing the concern of Jharna. They had the desire to say good-bye with a parting kiss. They could not, suspecting spying eyes around. Madhu recited the famous three-word sentence ‘We shall overcome’. This sentence reflects confidence, conviction and hope, and reverberated in Jharna. It stirred her. They left the campus which remained the dumb witness to the bond signed between two adolescents in their first and brief face-to-face interaction which was rich with reticence and long eloquent silence. Clad in white salwar-kameez, Jharna walked away, head down, alone like a swan separated from her mate, caught in a web. Madhu looked on silent and went to the nearby market to take delivery of clothes from the laundry. He remembered Jharna looked back several times. She wore a sad smile which he reciprocated. Madhu hogged the newspaper headline the day after the results of the examination were out. He stood first in Dhaka Board with seven letters and 85 per cent marks. Jharna scored 79 per cent and secured the fourteenth position in the merit list of 20.. The school was proud of them and their achievements became the talk of the town. In the felicitation arranged at the school the teachers and students showered praises and flowers on them. They felicitated each other on the occasion and exchanged garlands they had been offered by students. Garlands around necks, they were photographed – Jharna to the left of Madhu.How they liked it! Was their any symbolic meaning in their pose for the photo session? None read anything other than the literal meaning. Only the two adolescents found emotional meaning in it. They understood they achieved symbolically what they desired to be. Yet they were not sure if they were destined to be in union one day for ever. The results brought for them an opportunity to be near. Both got admission in colleges in Dhaka – Madhu at Dhaka Govt. College and Jharna at Eden College. The two campuses are at a stone’s throw. They started living at college hostels. Away from home town and from the glare of parents they began to spend time after classes at the Public Library and British Council. The evenings they spent in Suharawardy Udyan under the shady krishnachuda. 8 April, 1972, 4 P.M. Madhu was at the gate of Eden College Hostel, opposite Azimpur Govt. Quarters. Message had been sent to room no.24 for Jharna. She took time to get ready. She put on a Jamdani with matching blouse, sprayed perfume, rubbed cream on the face, and rushed to the gate. Thus began their new journey into the idylls of life. They walked half-a-mile to the Suharawardy Udyan past the Dhaka university campus and across the busy Mymensingh Road. They walked the talk for some time and then sat under a Krishnachuda. ‘What a nice spot!’ exclaimed Jharna, beaming. Madhu agreed, and added ‘Shall we overcome?’ ‘Of course, if we love each other,’ Jharna asserted. By now they were hand in hand to be followed by contact of lips, with the mellowed sun setting, leaving this part of the world for lovers to share emotions. After dusk, they left the arbor, walked to Eden Hostel wherefrom Madhu came back to his hostel. That night none of them could sleep as the warmth of their shared emotion continued to haunt them. It was not a sleepless night of uneasiness, it was comfort infinite. The next day Jharna was in wait for Madhu to come at the gate at 4 P.M. They had the same destination, more intensity, and more knowledge about each other, more intimacy, determination and commitment. This was the routine for two years, punctuated by breaks during vacations they spent at home. The next four years they were in the Department of Law, Dhaka University. Their brilliance and love was envied. Both secured first class in honors and LLM. Now lecturers in the Department, they had planned marriage by registration. It did not materialize because threats began to emanate from the fundamentalists. A Commonwealth Scholarship helped Madhu to be in the UK with a PhD programme on Mughal Jurisprudence. Separated by space, the two remained in contact with everyday interaction over telephone. To-day, six months after the separation, the telephone from Dhaka brought the coveted information- Jharna too has been awarded the Commonwealth Scholarship for PhD research at Lincoln’s Inn where Madhu is in research under Prof. Nick Johnson. She leaves Dhaka next Sunday by a Thai Airways flight. The days and nights were longer for them in the intervening week. At midnight Sunday they find themselves hugging each other at the reception of Heathrow Airport. The chill of the night is replaced by the warmth of their tenderness. They are in the flat of Madhu, together.After late night dinner, they are in bed , away from communal inhibitions which they have, at last, been able to overcome.

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’?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Romantic Story

Crossing the Prohibited Degree

Nidhu Bhusan Das :


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.

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 Decided

Nidhu Bhusan Das : We are now in Saharawardy Udyan, opposite the Arts Faculty of Dhaka University. It is our arbor, the Twicknam Garden of many other young lovers of the university. The shade of the Krishnachuda in the sultry mid-June afternoon is an excuse for us to be here away from the library which is our avowed destination. We smell each other, and it is intoxicating, no perfume or body spray, but the natural aroma after the perspiration dries in the shade and breeze beneath the tree. No mechanical sound and din of the downtown, the chirp of the birds, buzz of bees greets the tender hearts who flock here to know each other and decide on a lifelong relationship. The intimacy of two nightingales on a horizontal branch in our view provokes Nilu to ask,’Do we know each other much, as they do?’ Punctuated by a silence she said, diffidently, ‘Perhaps not.’ I said, ‘Then we have much to explore, and if we find we are not compatible, then?’ She bit the tip of her tongue, shut my mouth with the palm of her left hand and said,’ Don’t say so. We are childhood pals. We played, bathed, ate and slept together. What more space is required to explore!’ ‘But much time has flown between the childhood and the teens. We are now youths and remained apart during the adolescence, the most important period of psychic development,’ said I, philosophically. She asked, ‘Have I changed much, do you find me behaving differently with you? Don’t I breathe warm on you even now?’ She leaned on me as she would do under the mango tree in the south-east corner of the meadow in front of their sprawling residential complex in our village, as it were, to breathe her tender feeling into my heart. I smiled and asked mockingly, ‘Haven’t I changed much? I now shave every morning, think of love and physical union, and also of a career. I am urbane in gait and talk. Is it not significant? I understand you need explore the change and its meaning for you if you are interested about me.’ She took my right palm and boxed it within her two warm ones. The feelings of the childhood union in the meadow revisit me, and now awareness of the physical touch thrills. The taste of the fruit of forbidden tree brought in Adam and Eve, it is said, the awareness about their nudity. The fruit was, perhaps, aphrodisiac. The touch of Nilu now is likewise aphrodisiac. ‘How do you feel?’ I asked her, eagerly. I see her eye lids drop down like dew drops on the blades of grass in late autumn in Bengal. The trees are beautiful, the grass is lush green, and the birds are busy chirping their joy. We are older by three hours now. Is it wise to be carried away by emotion? I know Nilu is by heart good, but mercurial.ShouldI tell her about this my thought. Perhaps not. She would be hurt. I should not discourage her exuberance. ‘Well Nilu,’ I told fingering her black hair, ‘we may take time to decide if we are made for each other….. Need not be in a hurry.’ ‘Swapan, it is rude. You lack courage and would like to escape. Can’t dream like me and feel I am for you. How many extra miles should we travel to decide?’ she asked, evidently, disturbed. Nilu is soft spoken. She sighs but cannot retort, sobs but cannot cry. But she has inner beauty and strength, and would not unhand what she grips. I tried to test her strength: ‘Nilu, dear, it’s a fact we belong to two different religions, often taken to be antagonistic. How would we come to terms with it?’ She replied, instantly, ‘Have you seen any inhibition in me and in any of our family? Does not everyone in the family take you as one of us? Don’t my parents love you as one of their children?’ ‘That’s true,’ I said, ‘but what will be the religion of our children?’ She said,’ Why, they will have our religion.’ ‘What is that?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘Don’t we believe Ishwar and Allah are one and the same? Love is divine, and we are in love, are not we?’ I cannot contradict. We have decided. The naughty sun has disappeared. We are in union.

We Are Together

Nidhu Bhusan Das : Look into my eyes. What do you read? ‘No – thing ‘, said I, doubtful. She smiled, her pomegranate lips trembling. She said,’ Yes, you are right. An emotion cannot be a thing. ‘In the Suharawardy Udyan, adjacent to the Arts Faculty of Dhaka University, under a tree we were face to face. She took me there across the Mymensingh Road. She said she had something important to share. I was at first taken aback. Though we were childhood pals and read at the same school at the primary level, we were not intimate at the English Department we belonged to at the university. Rather we avoided each other. That day it was a different story. In the morning after the tutorial class, she said she would be in the library at 3 p.m. She expected me. I could not disoblige. I said,’ Well, I will come.’ That was all, after so many years. She left our school after class V and studied at Holy Cross School and College in Dhaka. I saw her after seven years at English Department where we took admission, unaware of each other. We saw each other but did not talk. I thought I should not until she came forward. She also thought in the same way, as she told me that day. She is a five feet four inches blonde, her complexion tawny. During our childhood we played and studied together, quarreled, and again cuddled each other. That was an innocent phase. Now we were experienced. O, when she asked me to be with her in the library a train of thoughts and emotions ran through me. I came back to the residential hall, bathed and had lunch in the dining room.I was delighted. At last Nilu asked me. But why? Back to my room, I lay on the bed for a couple of hours. I could not find any definite answer to the question. Excited, I could not sleep. I was also afraid –‘If I sleep I may miss the tryst ahead.’ Five minutes to 3 p.m. I left the room and turned up at the library on time. She was there in the magazine section on the ground floor leafing through a journal.As soon as she saw me, she rose and we came out of the library. ‘Let’s go to the Udyan,’ she suggested, as we walked side by side, smelling each other, after years. The Mymensingh Road running between the campus and the udyan is always busy with fast vehicles wheezing down. In the July afternoon when the sun was in the west we crossed the road and went into the arbor where many other university students already had occupied cozy spots under the trees. We sat under a krishnachura. Nilu broke our silence: ‘Then you are confused as to why I have called you?’ I said, ‘A bit.’ She said,’ Do you remember what your uncle, our teacher, and my father decided one morning while we were in our math session?’ ‘Yes, but that was a joke,’ I said. ‘Not at all. You are still a simpleton. They were serious and meant business.’ ‘How do you know?’ I asked her. ‘Your uncle is no more. My father has come to Dhaka. He loves you. Papa asked me last night how I rated you, and if I remembered what he shared with your uncle regarding you and me.’ She blushed as she was reproducing the conversation. She told her father she distinctly remembered and was not averse to see their wishes being materialized. So, she would like to know my opinion and fathom my emotion. She looked at me, her face brightened, and said,’ What do you read on my face?’ I could not say anything. I took her beautiful hand into mine and kissed on the back of it. She leaned on me and we had lips on lips, and again she enjoyed the touch of my wet lips on her rosy cheeks. We were there till sundown, and before parting she told me her father would be waiting for having breakfast with me at their flat near our hall next morning. I turned up at their flat at 8 a.m. Her father, our beloved teacher, was waiting with other members of the family, including her mother, the tender hearted lady. At breakfast the issue was raised by her parents. They were straight: ‘Will you tie knot with Nilu to honor the wish of your uncle? We are ready.’ I am willing if Nilu has no reservation,’ said I , frankly. ‘Why reservation?’ asked papa. ‘Because we belong to different religions,’ I said. He laughed and said unequivocally that was no problem. That day we were engaged and after one year we were married. We have one daughter, living in Maryland, the USA, still single. Nilu says our daughter will settle as and when she finds the right person to partner with for life. I agree.

She Notices Me

Nidhu Bhusan Das : She notices me even to-day. She is younger than I, by seven years. I am 57. Mother of four, Jharna has still those profound eyes though the moderate wrinkles on her face betray her dream remains unfulfilled. Her hair is graying. Five feet four inches, she does not have the grace in movement she had in her twenties. She smiles only when we are face to face, and feels free to talk to me. In fact, we often meet. We talk about the days when we were in our twenties. The other day, we had the same nostalgic stance during the routine tryst. ‘You are so nice, madam’, I said. ‘Don’t try to pamper, I know what I am. You didn’t care --- to know my mind.’ I would not say she is wrong --- accusing me unreasonably. During my university days I would come from time to time to our village to meet my widow mother. She would live alone at Ghagra, our village, two hours away from Dhaka by train. We have the same family tree, and the district board road separates our house from theirs. Jharna would regularly cross the road to visit my mother in the afternoon. In one such afternoon she came to my study with a cup of tea. She would make tea for my mother. Sipping , I said , ‘ Your tea is so intoxicating.’ ‘Is it? ‘she asked , taking interest. ‘ I am not lying ,girl --- it is true’, I sought to assure her. ‘ Let me see’, she said taking the cup. She sipped and smiled betraying her joy at sharing the cup with me. We dwelt on the tea for some time, and this led to what you would say philandering and amorous advances. Meanwhile, she was leafing through my Shakespeare, leaning forward close to me. We were breathing hot and quick. She broke the spell of silence: ‘Will you take mother away from the village when you have a job once university study is complete?’ ‘I have the mind’, I said candidly, and noticed her smile had vanished. She rose to leave, eyes brimming with tears. This happens in case of a village maiden that cannot hold back emotion. I began to rub her head embellished with long dark hair made into two neat and tidy buns. In a moment, we were kissing and cuddling on the couch. How long, I cannot remember. But the memory lingers. I postponed my return to Dhaka the next day. Jharna came to know about the postponement. She heard I had bathed at noon and swam across the river as we did during our school days. Many of my school mates are now working men but our friendship remains. After lunch I was lying on the couch. I was brooding over the closeness with her last afternoon and its significance when she crept into the study and planted a kiss on my forehead, desperately. I reciprocated. ‘Why have not gone to Dhaka?’ she asked, smiling, triumphantly. I felt ashamed and said laboriously, ‘I thought I should stay with my mother one day more.’ She chuckled and softly said ‘Is it? An obedient boy, indeed! When will you return then?’ I asked, ‘Are you eager to see me away from the village? ‘Do you think so?’ she snapped, her cheeks swelled. I pulled her and kissed indiscriminately for a few minutes. She gave in and lay on my lap, holding my stooped neck with two hands. I said, ‘Tomorrow.’ She said, frankly, ‘I love you. Will you remember?’ I smiled and kissed the village girl, saying ‘I shall remember and be with you for ever.’ She was assured. But the parents of the girl would not like to see it happen. The next 25 Baishakh ( 8 April) wedding songs greeted my classmate Rekhan who exchanged garland with reluctant Jharna and reddened her forehead with vermilion the next morning. It was a negotiated marriage in which the bride did not have any say. I dared not go and take her to me for life. We did not forget the tea party that afternoon and what followed . I remember, she said, ‘ I love you.’ Last night we met and again vowed , ‘ We love.’ On Facebook regarding status our profiles read : In relationship with --- .’ We are in dream. Though in different countries, we dream and love.We go back to our twenties.

The Myth and Aura Will Pass Away

The Myth and Aura will Pass Away Nidhu Bhusan Das The Mamata myth appears to be waning rapidly after Ms Banerjee has become the Chief Minister of West Bengal. The Chief Minister tends more to play to the gallery than to be serious about steering the state clear of the mess she inherited from the left rule of about 35 years. She deserves credit for the ouster of the Left Front from power. It was she who pulled down the left edifice which once was thought to be impregnable. Her sustained movement against what was seen as left misrule earned her the credibility which ultimately catapulted her to power in the state. Once in power, she is in a hurry to project herself as the Santa Claus to the people, and heaps promise upon promise to keep the people in good humour.Even she squanders money in the form of donations to the clubs of the state and her government organizes gala festivals while roads and highways remain degraded. Siliguri has begun to be illuminated on the occasion of the North Bengal Festival which she will inaugurate at Kanchenjunga Krirangan (stadium) on 10 February next when many roads of the municipal corporation are in terrible condition. The corporation is under their coalition rule. This is like building Tajmahal ignoring the fact that many impoverished subjects were unfed. Mamata is seen to be honest personally. But many of her party men during their eight months in power could have proven that given the scope they could be corrupt and corruptible. They have already had the arrogance which goes with power for those who enjoy power and tend to abuse it. Quite a number of them have become paper tigers and seek to use the media for projecting themselves. This, perhaps, cannot augur well for the party and its supremo. Mamata and her party call their coalition partner Congress the B team of CPI(M) but in case of North Bengal University it is found that they are so far apparently on the same wavelength with CPI(M) in respect of alleged corruptions galore. During their eight months in power, permission could not be granted for filing charge sheet against a registrar against whom the university lodged an FIR during the left rule alleging corruptions involving crores of rupees. This irony of situation may not be without reason, politically significant. If the charge sheet is not filed in time, the case against the person will become infructuous. People, in the know of the affairs of the university, may read the meaning in it in their own way. If Mamata allows scope for such reading and go on with her populism, the myth about and the aura around her will pass away. She may continue in power but will lose authority and goodwill she earned after a long and ceaseless struggle for the cause of the people.

Wise Dudu Takes Over

Wise Dudu Takes Over Nidhu Bhusan Das Rupam has a new boss.He is young,reticent,and wears the air of intellectuality.A stubble moustache hides expression that may linger on his upper lip.The new boss Dudu Chakladar has inherited the chair and the property of his father who has died recently at a little known kolkata nursing home without any fanfare.The son has been quick to take over.Since then he has been quite prompt to establish his power and control on the mini media empire his father has built and left behind.Rupam has found a new importance in the dispensation of the new boss.Dudu is 35,father of one son,who is,unlike,Dudu lucky to have no sibling. Dudu need not think,like his father, of partitioning the property as he has the sole heir. Dudu is confident he knows everything of the trade. Saurav Chakladar had a team of confidantes whom Dudu would not like to deal with. He,quite reasonably and expectedly, has chosen his own team of young people who respect and follow him faithfully.This has created a withdrawal mood among those who feel let down after the demise of the founder of the empire.They have their own interpretation of the attitude of Dudu.They say Dudu suffers from inferiority complex which his young followers would not take.Rupam feels Dudu is wise enough to discard the old haggards and pick up his dynamic young team.In fact, there is nothing wrong in it.Every leader should have the privilege to choose his own team,be it in business, sports, politics and in other fields.Dudu in his wisdom would have it that the senior employees quit, being embarrassed. This, of course, is a pragmatic idea. Rupam , handpicked by the senior Chakladar for odd jobs , is a resourceful boy.He can sniff and follow events , decide which is the favourable current to float on. So,he quickfixed himself and remained constantly attached to Dudu when the father Chakladar was in the nursing home.Dudu has the impression Rupam was privy to the plans and programmes of his father,and,therefore, has made him his lieutenant. He thinks he would be able to keep his sister at bay from the media empire equipped with information shared from Rupam. In fact, he could. Elated,Rupam uses all his means to help upgrade those who ,he thinks, will remain loyal to him,whatever be the consequences for the empire.Rupam knows Dudu remains engrossed in stock trading, and is dependent on him for information about the day to day activities in the media houses. The executives of the houses also are,by now,aware of the fact and,thus, Rupam also commands their awe.What Rupam assesses and says becomes the decision of Dudu. Rupam felt Kalinath Roy,news-in-charge of The People should be replaced by Shyam Singh and Dudu in no time abliged him.Kalinath not being far away from retirement could not come in conflict with Dudu,who,he understands, is impertinent and see by the ear..With this change Dudu and Rupam have been able to strike terror on the old haggards and the executives to the delight of Rupam loyalists.The turn for Rupam to be rewarded handsomely has come. His loyalists are known to be close to the ruling party always,and party leaders ,in many cases, tend to be paper tigers.This fact has created opportunities for Rupam,his followers and Dudu.After the change of guards in the state,Dudu feels his extra-importance as a couple of ministers of the new government have established firm relationship with him.The new government pledged it would cleanse the academic institutions of corruptions and party-ism. But it has not happened,rather people alleged to be in corrupt practices are apparently sought to be relieved. Dudu asked Kalinath to contribute a post edit every week,and he issued a circular to the effect. Kalinath’s post edit on the the bungling of the couple of ministers at the Royal University irks Dudu who has been promised a large tract of land in Dreamland for his pet project of a tourist resort. Dudu is right,Rupam is wise,his loyalists are happy.Newspaper is for business,and editors like Dudu make business in different ways.Business ethics may not always go with media ethics.writers in newspapers with such editors do not have the freedom to write what he knows to be true.They have to know what the editor in his business interest knows to be true,or they are to be thrown overboard.

Our Paramita

Our Paramita Nidhu Bhusan Das If you ask me what her Achilles’ heel is, I will readily say ‘She’ll break but not bend.’ Yes, she is determined, forward looking, and has the emotion and dream to do something for the people she leads. Our Paramita is now on the pinnacle. She has scaled the height after a long struggle which was made difficult by dictatorship-of-the-proletariat-ideology, behind the scene manipulation of her parent organization and fatal attack on her person. Her birth in a little known family came in the way of her going ahead down a path strewn with roses – rather it was thorns all the way. In the male dominated state- politics she carved her niche facing odds. She earned the love and affection of her people demonstrating her uncompromising stance in respect their interest. Even she recorded a hunger strike of 26 days to press for the cause of the affected peasants of her state. Yet one cannot be sure how far she will succeed because the serpents are around spiting venom. People may misunderstand her vis-à-vis the concerted campaigns of her detractors within and outside her coalition. Besides, a horde of sycophants are all around to mislead her. Perhaps, she needs a fool, as we find in a Shakespearean tragedy like ‘King Lear’. Her Dreamland was in the immediate past the fiefdom of the red rulers who earned the reputation of turning it into a graveyard – literally and metaphorically. After a resounding victory in the polls, she has formed a government to the relief of the people. Unwilling to lick the dust for long, the red are up and doing to resurrect with the help of former allies who are in the coalition government of Paramita as a junior partner. She understands it but is, most likely, unaware of the foul play of a section of her colleagues in the government and the party. One of her senior colleagues in the cabinet has been registered as a PhD student under a red activist in Proscenium University with the understanding that another red activist allegedly involved in corruptions of huge proportions will be given the tactical space to go scot-free. Another cabinet colleague helped him in striking the deal. Many of her party colleagues at the grass root level are in the same role as the red were during their long rule. In fact, many from the red party were welcomed into the party by her junior colleagues to utilize their experienced hands for perpetuation of corruptions to their personal benefits, and, thus, to the detriment of the party and government. The duo have brought Dudu Chakladar, the editor- by- inheritance of the daily newspaper ‘ The Gatekeeper’ within their fold offering him a large tract of land for his pet project of a tourist resort. If she fails to understand this and remains unaware of the diabolic activities within her house, innocence will be the victim, and a dream will end in nullity. Rituja, one of her party men says, ‘Didi (sister) is overworked … the state is in shambles, no money, no infrastructure, a politicized bureaucracy … it’s difficult.’ People may give her more time to bring the state back to track. ‘But how long?’ wondered Motilal, a resident of Nandigram which turned out to be the Waterloo of the red. This is a moot question, but could be a decider if her party colleagues continue to replicate the anti-people activities in the rural belt and the government fails to begin delivering the goods. ‘Paramita’, tells her wise octogenarian mother, ‘don’t go by what the sycophants say, give importance to the critics who point out mistakes and faults, throw suggestions. Remember, to err is human. Don’t be in the illusion that you cannot make mistakes.’ We don’t know if she will follow the advice of the mother.

Equity a Far Cry,in West Bengal Intolerance Rules

Equity a Far Cry, in West Bengal
Intolerance Rules

Nidhu Bhusan Das

Democracy degenerates when party politics overpowers governance.In West Bengal politics, dominated for a long time by the leftists,terms like fascism and fascists became clichés.The predecessor of Ms Mamata Banerjee betrayed his scarce respect for democracy when he said ‘we are 235 and they are 30’.If this presumption of Mr. Buddhadev Bhattacharyya smacked of fascist tendency,the use of the phrase ‘barking dogs’ by the incumbent Chief Minister in oblique reference to her opponents suggests intolerance which is anathema to democracy.The present state of academic institutions and student politics demonstrates intolerance which may lead to anarchy, if allowed to persist unabated in the absence of the impartial role of the police which the Chief Minister promised on the assumption of power after a landslide victory in the assembly polls,and which is conspicuous in its absence till date.The assailants of the teacher-in-charge of Raigonj University College were booked under bailable sections of the Indian Penal Code (IPC) while the assailants of the Principal of Majdia College were booked under non-bailable sections. The Home(Police) Department is held by the Chief Minister.Such discriminatory approach frustrates the Chief Minister’s espousal of a equity-based dispensation.
The people of the state voted out the Left Front believing Mamata would be able to live upto their expectation of an egalitarian society where equity and rule of law would prevail.The way police have dealt with the incidents in different colleges so far has belied the expectation. The controversy over ‘Indira Bhawan’ at Salt Lake,Kalkata between ruling coalition partners Trinamool Congress and Congress is unwarranted as much as the hurling of invectives between them has crossed all limits of decency and responsible behaviour. Trinamool Congress as the major partner of the coalition in the state has the primary responsibility to keep the flock together for the sake of good governance which reticent Chief Minister Mr. Nitish Kumar could have been able to provide in Bihar which was once thought to be a difficult state to govern.
The Chief Minister harps on the denial of special package by the centre for the revival of the economic health of the state. True,the package remains elusive. But what about the central schemes like NREG for which funds have been transferred ? The state government has miserably failed in different districts to guarantee to the rural poor employment for 100 days this financial year.The government may say it has not got a full year to implement the scheme but that would not justify the failure because they have passed seven months and a half which period is marked by inaction in respect of such projects. Inefficiency and lack of vision on the part of the concerned minister could be the cause of such failure.If these progammes could have been implemented in earnestness and with vision, the rural Bengal could have seen a semblance of development, if not a full scale resurgence.


.The government,no doubt, has been successful in taming the violent Jungle Mahal and Darjeeling hills,which are not a mean achievement. The peace is fragile and may, any time, be disturbed and lost if development activities can not be started within a reasonable time. However, if the government remains busy with trading blames, altercating and the interest of the ruling party is seen to be synonymous with public interest,good governance will be beyond the horizon.West Bengal will,eventually, slide into a state of hopelessness.