Someday the daughter will tell them stories of Piku and Jhoru as if she had met and known them...:-)

Baap er bari

Baap-er bari bole ekta mawjar jayga achhe. Tor achhe, amar achhe, or achhe, taar-o achhe. Boro hoye othhar shomosto shakkhor jotne tuley rakha thake ei barir bishesh kono ghor-ey. ‘Nijer’ ghor-ey.

Eclairs er khorkhore wrapper, kona-chhnera ponchaash takar note, hariye-phela golap phool-er shukno dhushor dnaati, taar gnuro hoye jaowa pata.
Purano calendar er chnnire rakha chhobi-pata, kichhu taarikh-ey aanka gol, Xerox kora boi er dhibi, album-chyuto sepia photo, Melody theke kine aana Ingriji gaaner cassette.
Kono ek konay thake lukono chumur ushno dhulor raashi, aarek konay thaake dukre knadar shnyatshnyate ardrota. Chole jaowa priyojoner rnowa othha sweater thaake khaater neeche.

Thaake roj-i. Dekha dey na. Sheet-er thhik duppur bela, jakhan bhoot-kaal dey thhyala, takhan era guti paaye beriye aashe. Eshe chupishaare kaane kaane bole jaaye – Aamio chhilam.

Shotyii, baap-er bhaari mawja, ekhon-aagami naai…

Backu o Baba

Backul (Blacky>Backy>Backul) kal ekta chhoto kukur chhana ke akarane merechhe. Khubi anyay. Aaami chhilam na jakhan ghatana ti ghote. Baba, Sree Sourya Deb ghatonar protyokkho dorshee chhilen. Aami bari ferar por amake janiyechhen Backul er uttorottor berey othha dourattwer katha. Aami kichhui bolte/ bokte paarini, karon (shambhoboto) aporaadh bodhe kal Backul bari fere ni. Aaj shey abar gechhe Baba'r kachhe, dupurer khabarer aabdare. Takhan Baba taake bokechhen. Ei taar nidorshon.
Lyaj naarar speed dekhe amar onumaan Backul khubi anutapto.

"Bhagye khoka chhilo ma er shathe..."

Oi je doore kheen, asposhto, lyajbishishto oboyob ti dekha jay, kalponar obhaabe or naam, or gayer rong er shathe miliye Blacky rekhechhi. Adorer daaknaam Backy. Anyodin ei shamaye backy or dui bondhur sathe para beray, beral taaray, hullor kore.
Kintu aj Backyr baba, orofe Sourya Deb kaje atke gechhen. Raat hobe, nao firte paren. Tai backy aj beral taarate jay ni; amake aagle rakhte beerangana roop dharon korechhe. Kato bipad na achhe ~ doshyur bhoy, tar cheye bhoy, kakhan tiktiki orey!

Seems just like yesterday. Or, does it?
I can distinctly recollect what the real yesterday felt like, and it was nothing like that day which suddenly feels so near me, that I call it yesterday.
So close, it seems like I could turn around and see it unfold in all its vividly minute details. Like I could reach out and clasp it like moonbeams in my palm: such is its pulsating tactility.
Perhaps, its just that, all the years, months, minutes and moments that stood between that day and today, seemed to have closed in~almost collapsed~like the flaps of a piano accordion.

Portrait of a Young Man

Braving the deluge-inducing shower with an umbrella double her own petite size, she finally managed to arrive for the art-exhibition of her colleague Tuhina.  Save for a few lone souls, whom she guessed to be the other participating artists, the gallery was starkly empty. Tuhina too was nowhere to be seen - must have gone out for tea or a smoke - Tara thought to herself, looking around and vigorously jerking her half-closed umbrella in an attempt to dry it off its rain dews, all the while.

Dabbing her moist face with the end of her dupatta, she slowly went around the oval of the gallery, pausing to stand before each mounted photograph - inching closer, backing away, and losing herself in the moment of this stolen time here and that frozen space there.

As the sound of the rain outside droned into a lull, Tara’s engrossment inched towards a stupor. The gallery would close in about ten more minutes, but there was still no sign of Tuhina. The others had also left, leaving Tara alone with the colourless streets, animals, buildings and humans of the city, trapped unbeknownst to them within the sleek black frames…when suddenly her eyes met his!

For a fleeting moment, Tara froze! She blinked to be sure, but yes, that was him alright! It had been seventeen long years since she’d last seen him on a rainy evening just like today. From the moment she’d turned her back on him to board S15, she’d decided to never set eyes on him again. For every day since then, she’d roamed her own city with the trepidation of a fugitive on the run: skirting possible lanes and averting familiar alleys, she’d prayed with all earnestness to not run into him. But seventeen long years hadn’t been able to prepare her for what to do, if and when she did.

Even if in the form of a prayer, thus, he had been on her mind for every day since that day. In fact, it awed her to think how even in a city of teeming millions, where people were bumping into each other at metro stations, shopping malls, bus-stops or cinema halls all the time, her prayers had steadfastly provided a shielding nimbus around her…

…Only to snap it open today, here - while she stood, all alone, soaked to the bone – no-one to turn to, no-where to hide. Just like that rainy evening seventeen years ago. His eyes, as they searched hers today remained lost, faraway and just as kind, tired and forlorn. How was it that he’d not changed one bit, while her own skin had wrinkled and her once-flowing black hair was now all short and grey? She remembered the shirt he was wearing from the star-sign on the pocket. This is still there? Goodness, she thought!

Slowly, her eyes moved away from him to focus on the scores of people beside him – some looking at their friends while they chatted, while others looking down as they walked. Somnath was the only one who kept his gaze fixed on her, even as her eyes welled up into a blur.

“It’s my favourite too” Tuhina’s voice broke Tara’s daze. “There was something about the gaze of that man-in-a-crowd that somehow seemed to perfectly embody the spirit of this city, don’t you think? I’d taken this with a film camera almost seventeen years ago…see…” said Tuhina, as she directed Tara’s attention to the date superimposed on the photograph that hung limpidly from the wall…

Like every morning else, the day Etenielle turned nineteen, she could vividly recall her dream from last night. It was no longer a task. For it was the same dream she had had since the day she'd started dreaming. Which was back when she was...she couldn't even remember now. Night in and night out, however, the same sequence of events played in her slumbered brain, without so much as a change in colour, shape, form, length or size.

She would be sitting in the park opposite the great lake, reading Maugham, till the fading lights of twilight would force her to put it down. She would look up, only to see him advancing on a bicycle. He would stop by her, smile and say, 'Happy Birthday!' and hand her a scroll. She would unfold it, read it and sign it with a pen, dipping it every now and then in the bottle of ink he would hold out for her. Once done, he would take it back from her and announce with some flourish: 'Beginning today thus, you and I are bound for life. It is my duty and responsibility from this day onwards to know and fulfill every dream you have while in sleep. Here is my key to your mind', he would pause to produce a tiny silver key and resume, 'that will help me unlock your mind and take a look at the most minute details of your dreams, in order to be able to make them come true. I shall never fail in my task for as long as either or both of us are alive. For if I do, even once, I shall lose you forever. So, my love, what dream are we to begin with...?'
And at this very point, unfailingly, for the nineteen years, she would have woken up.

*******************************************

"...I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist. I do not know to what inscrutable Nirvana you aim. Do you know yourself? Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that you seek, and for a moment you thought that you might find release in Love. I think your tired soul sought rest in a woman’s arms, and when you found no rest there you hated her..." And at this point of The Moon and Sixpence, she found the lights of November twilight fading, making it difficult for her to keep reading. She shut the book, looked up around her and felt strangely contended at having completed nineteen whole years of her life today. As she pulled the shrug around her shoulders to keep away the chill, she wondered at what point of her fingers could nineteen be marked. 1, 2, 3,4,5...10...she changed hands...11, 12, 13...18, 19, 20. The second mark on her left thumb would be nineteen, and the tip of it, twenty. What after that, she mused: how would she keep counting as she grew older still?
Still deep in thought, she looked up and could vaguely make out the silhouette of a young man walking his cycle towards her. As he reached her bench, he stopped, smiled, wished her a Happy Birthday and handed over a scroll...took out the bottle of ink...produced the key...went down on his knees and held out his hand...

                                      *******************************************

For every day of the past one year since that chilly November evening, Sharnok would come back from work, ask Etenielle for the keys, open the tiny latch just beneath her temple and peer down closely to inspect her dreams. Sometimes, he would take notes in his small pad; sometimes, he would frown and mutter 'impossible' under his breath; while at others, he would break into peals of laughter, annoying Etenielle no end! For ever since she had taken to surrendering the keys to Sharnok, she could no longer remember her own dreams, once awake. But at the end of every such inspection, he would do everything to make them come true. Once, when she had dreamed of a camel ride across the Alps, he had had to sell his mother's jewellery to arrange for it. One other time, when she had dreamt of making love to his friend Joshen, he had gone to the farthest ends to make it come true. What a task it had been - convincing Etenielle, getting Joshen drunk enough and watching it all as his heart broke into pieces through it all. But he couldn't bear the thought of losing her...                                    *******************************************
It was unusually chilly that day - exactly a year since they had met at the park - the day of Etenielle's twentieth birthday. Sharnok had gotten off early from work, so made it to the florist's, bought the prettiest lilies, had them wrapped and headed back home. There he found Etenielle sitting, reading by the window, looking radiant in the fading twilight of November. She faced to turn him, smiled and held up the cover of the book she'd been reading. He tilted his head and read 'The Moon and Sixpence...ah, I see you haven't finished reading it in one whole year!'
'I'm actually reading it from exactly the point I'd let go off, from last year', she smiled, put a bookmark and put it down. 'Let me get you the key' she said.
He would have to get over the dream-inspection quicker today, he thought as she went inside. Make quick notes and get on with the celebrations, is what he had in mind. When she handed him the key, she put her arms around his neck, tiptoed and kissed him, whispering a barely audible 'Thank You' in his ears...
He ran his fingers softly through her hair and said, 'Let's see what Little Missy has been dreaming about ...let's make them true, now, right?' They both smiled.

Gently he turned the key, opened the latch to her mind and peered down.
There she was, sprawled against their newly purchased carpet, blood spewing out of her throat, the tip of her left thumb desperately trying to grow longer. As she wriggled and writhed, he could make out the form of a man with blood-soaked hands kneeling slouched beside her - a sharp knife in his hands. Even as pools of sweat gathered around his brow, Sharnok peered closer into her mind, waiting in a fit of desperate urgency to see his face. The man in her dreams looked up to face him, his eyes tired and diffident.
Sharnok froze as his eyes met his own.

'What's taking you so long today? While you're at it then, let me read out to you..."You had no pity for her, because you have no pity for yourself. And you killed her out of fear, because you trembled still at the danger you had barely escaped” - Etenielle's voice wafted in ever so tenderly....