Sunday, July 26, 2009


Obhyesh onobhyesh er boshey ajkal shoye geche baparta
shoye jawa shitheel dampotyer joratali dewa somporkota choleyi jache eibhabe, ketey jabe ordhoshotabdi bhor
tobuo noishobdyo gulo majhe majheyi hahakar kore othey
megh er rashi bhenge bhenge tukro tukro hoye jaay....choriye chitiye pore akasher koney
brishti tobu nemeo name na.....

jedin amader sobar modhye lukiye thaka aditir "hemonter pakhi" urey jabe akashpaney, baanvashi hobe amar shohor, purgatorio r itihash tao notun kore likhbe dante namok kono kobi......shyambajar er barir khirki duar theke uki mere dekhbo amio........

Wednesday, July 22, 2009


Ekta rohoshymoy roktalpotar gondho chilo
stage er anache kanache jora dewa onek gulo shoukheen porda chilo
pordata chire geche
iche kore bhenge fela ekta shopno ache ba jodio.

bhalobasha r nishwashey dombondho hoye jay sokal bela gulo?
tai oshwikar korata nityonoimityeek ghotona matro.......

....majhe shudhu boye geche jhoro hawa, rashi rashi bhalolaga
shorotkaler kashphool, sheetkaley amar rikto flatbarir tukro baranday dholey pora ektukro mithey roddur.

Ey roddur badh mane na, ey bhalolagar gondho ochena
eyi golpotar tai kono shuru nei, sesh nei,
othanama, khoy-obokhoy, dwondo, bidwesh, protidwondita, climax, happy ending.......kichuu nei
stage charar agey tai sathey roye jaay shudhu ek raash mon kharap.

Sunday, July 19, 2009


Being in touch with the virtual reality seems to be the latest fad. I know am putting forth my valuable opinion almost 2-3 years late, but better late than never. and needless to say i love the idea of staying connected with many of my friends around the globe with whom i had shared my classroom since nursery. their orkut or facebook profiles sometimes do baffle me. only that day did i bump on the profile of a batchmate who was married and all, happily settled in domesticity. another day i came across the profile of this guy who was a primary school mate having a gala time in the us of a with a live in relationship to flaunt (many of our common friends who were guys were plain and simple jealous). those are braodly the two ends of the spectrum....but am immensely happy sometimes to be back in touch with someone i had rather forgotten about. rather their existance was purely circumstantial, but being connected to them through the virtual world brings back the memories of the circumstances in which we came to know each other. and that works for me.....keeps me fascinated for a few hours atleast.

Do i live in the past? i dont care, i love my forwardlooking present too much :P

For someone like me who had shared her daily dose of gossip with her didibhai while growing up, it's almost unimaginable how would i have survived thousands of miles away from home, without actually doing that. and voila! gtalk is here :-) thanks to it, my std bills dont run too high!

A heartfelt thanks to all those tech geeks for making me a virtual reality. (*sniff*)

P.S. I warned you i am overtly emotional.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Growing up...what a pain!

I refuse to grow up! yes, I detest the idea. I am really hating this phase of my life when everyone around me (I mean female friends of my age) talks only about marriage and boyfriends! gosh! there are better things in life to talk about.
I know am trying to turn the clock back, but i cannot come to terms with 'us' being 21 years 'old'. I agree that it's not merely an observation that your life do really move very fast right now. everything seem to change now and then. But that's not me. Give me my space and time to enjoy ours being just 21 years young.
Ok! i agree that I had been contemplating this for long, but I simply cannot come to terms with my acquaintances talking about finding a "suitable boy" for me. Thankfully, i have a very supportive family in that regard. I don't actually mind meeting assorted exotic species of the opposite sex who have proper grammar and good spelling and don't think one dimensionally about marriage-housewife-compromise-male ego stereotype- but it's too much of a turn off to think that every guy I meet has a hidden agenda of spending their lives with me.
Frankly speaking, I really don't know how my ideal guy will be. yeah! am once bitten twice, thrice......zillionth time shy. Am i being shy? May be- but i don't want another jerk to come up and tell me that he will have difficulties introducing me to his social circle just because I do not fit into that very Indian homely stereotype of "fair and lovely"
Yes! I am a loud, brash girl who behaves way below her age. I can be a public embarrassment anytime (Ah! yes, am warning you). But that's me, that's the way I am. I prefer to be in touch with the inane sensibilities of life which your 10th board marks robbed you off. And I have no qualms in being so. I am just being myself!
On a second thought I think even I have a stereotype in my mind. The Ideal man you see. Yes! he has to be someone who is just not another showpiece trophy that some of my acquaintances prefer to flaunt around. seriously dear, they suck big time with their spellings!...and their perception of life?? the less said the better!- their degrees from their nondescript engineering colleges somewhere or the other (ajkal to kahi na kahi se milhi jaati hain :P) mean the world to them. Kupomonduk! (sorry, could not find an apt english equivalent).
I really don't know if there will be someone who can put up with my idiosyncrancies and that ranges from me falling in love all over again- albeit every two or three days. and my objects of fancy range from the oh! so ouch! Kabir Durrani or the very down to earth guy who did the mime act so well on his first public performance or may be Bilawal Bhutto. (and people who are reading this who do NOT know who is this Mr. Durrani in question- do a google search please! I am not going to educate you on him! you are really missing out on something!) My sense of committment does not equate to only "me and you" to the exclusion of all others. trust me! it never becomes "us".
So! the moral of the story is, Dilli door hi nahin, pahuchna namumkin hain! (I am still learning the language)
All what I can do right now is to wish my self luck- Better luck next time mate! actually better luck next life- if with all the bitchiness I have exhibited this lifetime (and there is more to come) can be forgiven enough by God to be given another chance to be born as a human being!

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Blossoms of the winter sun

(This is a Carpe Diem- 'my annual college fest'- effort. This won the 2nd prize this year. Read on!)

The vaudeville of events that unfolded in front of Tupur’s eyes this warm January morning could have been truly surprising for any member of her generation in the Sengupta household. Not her. Her parent’s divorce six years ago had suddenly transformed her blithe self into a blotting equation of emotions. She had spent six years of her lifetime in her mother’s nostalgically old North Calcutta house. She often wondered nowadays if she loved her Mathematician father anymore. The promises made to her mother during that long drawn bitter court battle regarding her custody, made her feel that her mother needed her more. She was her mother’s daughter- a very proud one.
The house wore a festive look today. It was Chotomashi’s wedding. The troika of Boromashi, chotomami and sejomashi were on their way to gossiping glory about how Rinku mashi’s daughter had planned to elope with the neighbourhood ruffian.
Tupur was chatting with her cousins in a corner when a pretty lady of Chotomashi’s age came forward and secretively asked, “Aren’t you Sandhya di’s daughter, Tupur?”
“Yes, but how do you know?”
“Actually…am….” Her face turned a shade lighter.
Even before she could answer, Boromashi shrieked and the entire gathering gave a scandalized expression. Ma came running hysterically from somewhere hurling choicest of expletives towards the lady and holding Tupur close to her chest.
Tupur had understood. She was Bela, Ma’s cousin, the one whom her father Abinash chose over her mother.
As the family grapevine goes, Bela used to stay in this house to study in Calcutta. Tupur’s father used to teach her in the University. Their affair grew during those times until Ma came to know about it a few years later. Bela’s mention made Ma feel insecure, just as the way she was behaving now. The divorce had made her mother self doubting and hysterical at times.
It took a whole lot of persuasion and consolation from other family members to send her mother back inside. The mood of celebration was not to be spoilt.
By lunchtime the incident was a part of common knowledge.
“Abinash did the right thing. My God! What language does she use! Dugga Dugga”
“Aha! Bor-di, as if we don’t know Sandhya…she was very well mannered….don’t you remember she used to sing so well before marriage. Aha re! Think of what she has gone through. We cannot really blame her.”
“Sandhya used to consider Bela as her own sister. And look what Abinash did?”
“As if Bela did not know what she was doing? These days the girls don’t have any morals.”
The conversations flowed. Sometimes the shabbiness of this house grew on its inhabitants.
The sunset rekindled the memories of the Bombay trip Tupur had enjoyed with Chotomama last winter. The twilight hues of iridescence bathing the virginal corners of the roof of their old Calcutta house transferred her to a world of her own. Far from the maddening secret, that her father had married her mother’s cousin three days before her tenth birthday, from the eyes of her relatives in this house who always pitied her life for the lack of a fatherly figure. Far from the school registration forms which asked for reconciliation between her Father’s name and Mother’s maiden name signed thereon.
The fervent blowing of conch shells downstairs announced the arrival of the groom. Somebody called out for her.
The merriment had just begun. The bitter expression that dominated the entire morning episode had vanished from Ma’s face.
Sejomesho already had a group of people listening agog to his stories of his exploits around the world including his visit to the White House or the anecdote about the African carnivores. The authenticities of these stories were not to be judged, they were meant for good humored enjoyment. Ma had also joined. The gathering had gained momentum when Boromami, the uniformly hated snob of the family, intervened sarcastically,
“So Sujoy, how many fools did you make this time?”
“Well as Confucius says, Fools are those who consider others to be so.” Sejomesho’s stinging anglicized humour did hit the right chord.
“Huh! So now you have started dishonouring elders also. Don’t forget am your elder sister in law.” Boromami just could not swallow the follow up to her attack.
Ma intervened to make peace.
“Boudi, Don’t take him seriously. You know how he jokes around.”
“Sandhya don’t try to cover him up. He jokes around, but that does not give him the liberty to call me a fool. Am I the butt of all jokes in this family?”
“Boudi he cracks joke on all of us.”
“Really! He never cracked a joke on you or how you behaved today morning when Bela came….as if you had just run away from Ranchi’s mental asylum.”
Silence prevailed again. Boromami never really knew where to stop. Tupur could see her mother’s face cringe with shame and sorrow. She decided to take her mother inside.
Long after her mother was asleep from the dosage of sedatives, Tupur was still sitting by her side. She pondered over the purpose of Bela’s visit today. It still remained a mystery for her. Whatever obtuse understanding she had of the issue, she had made out that no body in this house could have invited her to come. Not even Boromami. Her entry to this house was permanently barred. Probably she had come to visit Chotomashi, her childhood companion. But she too had disowned her years ago. Then what made her visit this household today, after six long years. Was it only for Chotomashi or there was more to it? The ash flakes of perceptions precipitated on her mind when didu entered the room.
Didu, her grandmom, looked relieved today. This marriage was the last of her responsibilities. The negotiations for Chotomashi’s marriage proposals failed mostly because of her mother’s divorcee past. Luckily this one survived.
“Tupur, everyone’s looking for you over there. I will be here with your mother. Go quickly.”
The pheras were being completed by the time she reached. Tupur was time and again amazed by the capacity of the member’s of this house to forget. Everyone looked so happy and content now. Boromashi, Sejomesho or Boromami, nobody remembered Bela’s visit in the morning or what happened with Ma sometimes back. She doubted that if anybody had even cared to find out why Bela came to this house today. No body did apparently.
It was around eleven in the morning after the wedding when Tupur woke up. The Tottwo (gifts) for tomorrow’s Boubhat at the groom’s place were being made ready.
The old landline telephone of the house suddenly bustled with exuberance. Sejomesho answered. Tupur could hear only one side of the conversation.
“Yes, May I know who’s speaking?”
“Who?” Sejomesho’s voice cracked
“What, When?”
“Accha! Can you give me the address?” He scribbled down something on the writing pad.
“Ok, ok, we will be there in sometime. Tupur…ok, Tupur will also come with us.”
Tupur was suddenly startled by the mention of her name in this seemingly normal conversation. She looked at sejomesho questioningly.
“Where is you mother Tupur?” sejomesho asked her.
“She is sleeping. She took some sedatives in the night.” She answered.
“Ok you go and wake her up. We need to go.”
“Where Sejomesho? What happened?”
“I will explain. You go and get your mother.”
Ma looked composed in the car. Tupur could make out that she already knew what was happening. She felt helpless. It was only she who did not have an inkling of what was happening around. Everyone seemed tense when they left the house. The frolic of festivity had disappeared.
The traffic lights blinked red. Sejomesho puffed another cigarette before Tupur could ask what had happened.
“Tupur, you have to be extremely brave. We all know how mature you are. Your father has passed away this morning. He had a heart attack day before yesterday. He wanted to meet you one last time. That is why we thought of taking you for his funeral.”
Sejomesho spoke in a monotone. Tupur listened carefully. Silently. The puzzled pieces of jigsaw were falling into place. That explained Bela’s visit to their house yesterday or speaking to her. Her immediate concern was for her mother. She seemed serene.
Individually, she did not know how to react to the situation. She had lost her father. Her school friends always told her about how much they were Daddy’s little girl. Surprisingly she had no such memories. The very few of them she had of her early ten years of existence in their Father’s house in Ballygunge were marked by quarrels between her parents. After the divorce battle was over, her mother’s insecurities never let them meet. Perhaps she was the only companion her mother could hold on to live in this world. Her father also never pressed over the Court’s orders about letting him meet Tupur once a week. May be that was his way of apologizing to her mother. He still used to send beautiful dresses for Tupur during the Durga pujo days, the ones that Ma never allowed her to wear.
She wondered if his father’s corpse still looked like the one that is there on her childhood photograph album.
It was around 1.30 in the afternoon when they reached the nursing home. Bela waited for them at the entrance. Her mother’s composure broke down as she saw the dead body. Sejomesho discussed minute medical details of her father’s death with his colleagues. Bela joined them.
Tupur was standing alone in the room perceiving everything around. The understanding was hazy. It was then that Bela came to speak to her.
“Tupur, Your father wished to see you once before he died. I could not explain anything yesterday. I was thrown out without even being given an opportunity to speak. He wanted me to give you this.”
Bela handed her an envelope with her name written on it. Tupur opened it at once. Inside there was a photograph of her on her Baba’s lap on her first birthday. A note accompanied the photograph. Inscribed on it was, “Dear Tupur, This is the loveliest memory I have of us together. I treasured this photograph all these years. Wish you luck in all your endeavors in life.
Love, Baba”
A drop of tear fell on the written alphabets of the letter. The relationship which never saw the light of the day blossomed on this winter afternoon, long after it was all over. Tupur could only say, “Thank you baba.”

Odhbhut Akaash

Odhbhut akaash, nilchey abha kintu onektayi holud......
pollution naki nostalgia....naki jaundice akranto akaash
amar premey porar akaash, amar sei unmukto neel
lojja, ghrina bhoy sob kichu bhule giye tomar kache atmoshomorponer akaash....
kokhono neel, kokhono roktim....amar rag onurag er kahini tomar mayabi aloy.....
Amar achinpurer golpo shona
tomar denim er gondho makha
tomar choley jawar shopno bhanga...akashpothey jetplane er pothorekha...amar akash
holde tey abha makha akash aj tumio kamon tel holuder gondhomakha bakshobondi grihini
Ekbaar firtey parena naki amar neel, amar akaash, amar prothom prem.....amar onko class, amar bangla khata, ingrejir hijibiji, trigonometry r jotil somporko........sagorparer noishobdo chere.......

The ceremonial 1st post!

As I get down to write my first post on this new blog of mine (yes, I finally decided that abegprobon is long dead.) it strikes me that the numbness hurts. Ouch! it has been a long long time that i have actually written something substantial. the comatose situation has existed for too long and that's something am not too happy with. This fella says it happens, but I really don't want to lose out on this trait of mine which I am actually quite fond of. The opening line shows now and then and there are stories all around and that draft of Titir's story still remains incomplete, but I am unable to shape them up. And am scared!

P.S. I had this long forgotten chat saved in my mailbox where I proclaim myself to be someone like God herself (yes, I think God/Goddess -the distinction is worthless and the stereotype quite non engaging). I could create life, emotions, kill them, hurt them, make them laugh and cry...all that with my keyboard (I so hate it!). May be "SHE" didn't like the idea much. You were right actually!! my overenthusiasm does actually put off people I love to be conversant with. But cant help it actually, I really want to know what's going on, plain and simple curious I am ;-)
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