Why have I been blogging like a woman possessed over the last couple of days?"Charu protignya koriyaa boshechhilo shey likhibe-Amol ke aashchorjyo koriya dibe; Mandar shohit taahar jey awnek probhed ey kawtha promaan na koriya shey chharibey na. Ei koydin bistawr likhiya shey chhniriya pheliyachhe. Jaaha likhite jaay taaha nitaanto Amol er lekhar mato hoiya uthey...Dekhile Amol nishchoi mone mone hashibe, ihaai kalpona koriya Charu shey-shawkol lekha kuti-kuti koriya chhniriya pukurer moddhye pheliya diyachhe, paachhe taahar ekta khawndo-o doibath Amol er haate aashiya pawre."
And yet, all I write, I do not keep to myself; do not shred and blow them away.
I publish.
In the secret hope that he will read. And like it as much as he likes her's. And proudly display it. Talk about it. And yet I know, he never will. And I am consumed with intense, insane jealousy. And anger. And hurt. I feel the hatred in my guts. It chokes my arteries. Numbs me. Makes me dizzy.
"Amol khanokaaler jannyo pawray khaanto dilo. Manda haashiya Charur uddeshhye ingeet korilo. Amol mone mone kohilo, 'Bouthaaner ey ki douraattmyo. Tini ki thhik koriyaa raakhiyachhen, aami tnaahari kreetodaash. Tnaahake chhara aar kaahakeo pawraa shunaite paaribo na. Ey jey bhoyaanok julum.'"
True. I know. I know how futile and misplaced even my jealousy is. After all, what right do i have over him? None. None whatsoever. Then why do tears well up inspite of myself, when i see a perfectly harmless, innocuous, even affectionate(when judged dispassionately) comment or wish...?
"Ki hoiyachhe taaha bawla shawkto. Amoni ki hoyechhe. Bishesh to kichhui hoy naai. Amol nijer nutan lekha prathome taahake na shunaiyya Manda ke shunaiyyachhe, ey kawtha loiyya Bhupatir kaachhe ki naalish koribe? ...Ei tuchchho byapaarer moddhye gurutawro naalsiher bishoy jey konnkhaaney lukaiyya achhe taaha khnujiya baahir kawra Charur pokkhe awshaddhyo. Awkaarone shey jey kyano ato odhik kawshto paaitechhe, ihaai shawmpurno bujhite naa paariya taahar kawshter bedona aaro baariya uthhiyaachhey."
It is I, who has always secretly nurtured the wish to publish his writings...it is I who has been trusted with their safekeeping ...it is I who has spent sleepless nights pouring over each letter, each alphabet, touching and caressing each blot of the pen, in the desire to know him better, in a bid to get a feel of him when i didn't know him...
These however matter not. For he does not belong to me. Nor I to him. Nor ever will. What possible 'odhikaar' may I claim over him? Especially now?
What claim, for that matter, did a much-married Charu have over Amol...?
I wonder...
"Haay, ki kukkhawnei ei shawmosto lekhalekhi aarombho hoiyachhilo."
2 comments:
complicated question? not really. weeds last while mighty banyans give in. you know why? because weeds never grow too high, and remain freely bound in a symbiotic relationship with the soil,and the soil nurtures it without any hope of it ever growing tall. why have not writers thought of it as a more intimate, enduring bond and lost sleep over the mighty banyan and its large looming shadow? I don't know but i guess 'right' is an inappropriate concept to work with. it demands, it expects, it binds and it makes the provider fall short, no matter how large it is to begin with. can writers start working with a concept of emotional attachment that sets the characters free, to be freely bound, like the soil is with the weed? who are we to call weeds weeds? change the parameters of assessment and rights will be so much more liberating!
good good, gucchho laglo, form ar content duToi bhalo.. ar dibyi khaap kheye gyachhe dadur lekhar sane
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