A Birth,a Storm, a Stormy Life.

These two beautiful pieces of prose were composed by my two friends who at present are honing their creative talents while home bound during the threat of Sandy. I found an odd connection in the following three posts:

On my Son’s Birthday

 It has been a sweet and wonderful journey with you starting from the day I held you in my arms for the first time. You were born on a bright Thursday morning right after a snow storm the day before. The lovely black curly hair on your cherubic small frame of 5lb and 4ozs and your twinkling eyes brought a sense of gratification of having par taken in your creation that word cannot describe enough. Looking at you, my dreams of future were renewed with a fresh zeal. Everything or anything is possible - that is how I felt with you in my arms.

Oh, the path traversed has been a remarkable one - learning new things from you every day, ever since with renewed vigor. You brought back my cherished childhood again - through you I have re-lived another childhood of innocence, wild bewilderment, and an unabashed curiosity to know everything. Your questioning mind and analytical inquisition has shown me the beauty in asking questions anew.

My discovery of "Winnie the Pooh" through sharing bed-time stories with you brought me the simple pleasures of reading beautiful literature. I have since cherished the books by A. A. Milne and hope to keep them to eternity. The discovery of poetry by Dr. Suess where we shared many a laughter while deciphering the inner meaning behind those poems. Your philosophizing during your potty breaks, at times quite irritating, and yet another lovely encounter with your developing and a very curious mind. So many times I had wished that I had paid more attention while learning to answer the myriad of questions that you often posed and not provided you with a dumb answer instead.

As you approach your 16th birthday, I realize that soon you would be entering the world of the "grown-ups", figuring out your destiny amidst various challenges and making your own mistakes. I wish that you find your true-calling and that make your decisions with much after-thought and analysis as you have done in the past.  I wish that you expect the best in you and not expect anything from others. I wish you never find excuses to not do something which you started with strong convictions, to weaken the cause. I wish you always have pride in your abilities and never doubt your conviction. I wish you develop strong individuality and remain true to yourself. I wish you never look for gratification for your actions from others. I finally wish that you find true joy in everything you chose to do and never compromise or put others before your own conviction.

By Bipasa  Biswas.

A Storm Unlike:

Sandy has actually been a real positive thing for me. I am in a place in my life where I want to celebrate - to dance with - what is unwanted, uninvited, marginalized, feared. And if not anything, Sandy has been so much about fear-mongering - "make sure you have drinking water and candles and batteries," "Make sure you stay away from windows"... this is not to say that there is no real suffering - yes, people have died, people have been stranded... But everything said and done, this is the reality for many people in this world day after day after day. I think of the flood plains of Bangladesh, where tens of thousands die every year in floods. I think of the families who sleep under bridges in New Delhi - 365 days a year. I think of the many more who have already lost their lives to Sandy in the Caribbean. What gives us (the Americans) the right to expect that the Universe is somehow obliged to uphold our health, wealth and youth at all costs? I am thankful to Sandy for reminding us about where our lives and preferences stand, vis-a-vis the vast theatre of life!!

Amazing fury and yes, beauty of Mother Nature as she rages outside. I couldn't resist going out for a brief stroll about an hour ago. On Roosevelt Island, the river is level with the boardwalk, and water is flowing right in! No separation between land and water. Winds gusting so hard that it is hard even for me to stand in one spot. Lots of trees broken, uprooted. But also amazingly beautiful -fierce - like Kali or Rudra or Oya... Certainly once in a lifetime experience and I am so glad I went out...

By Sushmita Mukherjee.

-------------------------------

A birth...Inset of a storm

Somehow, the onset of Sandy, a birthday letter written in a distant land and another infamous birth with a famous comet like life span 125 years ago on this same date, seemed  as an incidental planning by destiny.

He was indeed a stormy appearance on the pages of Bangla Literature. He still lives and will always occupy a place in our heart as he was the one who taught us the logic of illogical imagination, and taught us how to think, how to ride the dreams to listen to the thundering creation:

Sukumar Ray...a legend we still  live by.

If Wishes Were...

“Is it that beautiful?” she whirled around at the baritone voice.

“Is the painting that beautiful?” the voice belonged to a well groomed middle aged person. She looked at him with a guilty smile.

“I know I have been staring at it. It is beautiful” she replied. He was quite tall, so she had to look up to meet his inquiring gaze.

“Why?”

Now she was at complete loss for words.

The painting in question was a part of a week long art exhibition that was organised in the Seema Art Gallery. She, being an art dealer, always attended the exhibitions. The painter Avik Gupta was a name which was gaining a quite popularity in the circuit. He was known for his post impressionist influences in his contemporary style. His paintings used vibrant colors unabashedly often irritating the critics with his non-conformist ways.

Raya, on the other hand was a biased observer. She had always felt a curious attraction towards his paintings. As if they were trying to communicate something to her, a feeling, or some thoughts. She often experienced a rush of emotion whenever she had seen some of his work, and this one in particular had absolutely mesmerized her. She would often try to guess what he was like in person. At times, she felt as she had known him for a long time. All the landscapes, events, objects, were nothing but a part of her imagination to which he had lent his colors.

This in particular was a painting of a woman, arms extended towards the sky, as if asking for something, set in the backdrop of vibrant hues of dawn. It was completely inexplicable what she had felt towards the creation.

“I can’t explain, it’s too beautiful. I really can’t explain” She smiled at him, and turned towards the painting again. But this time her whole being was aware of his penetrating gaze scanning her back. She felt uneasy.

“I think I understand. You have been visiting us every day, same time; same painting and then you leave.” He looked at her, directing his gaze at her profile. “I guess I was just curious, care for a coffee?” the tone was casual .She turned to look at his eyes, his deep penetrating eyes. Something was pulling her towards him. She was uneasy but plain curiosity made her blurt out, “I don’t mind”.

They walked together to the corner coffee shop and took the corner table. By this time she was completely wired to his movements. He pulled out a chair for her then sitting in his chair, again looked at her and smiled. This time it was a soft beautiful smile which lit up his eyes.

Raya was rooted to her chair. Why on the earth was she reacting to him in such a childlike manner? She pretended to glance through the menu card. Blur. “Well, milk, sugar? Coffee Indiana...whatever that might mean” baritone again. She nodded, looked at him. He seemed oddly familiar like an old song. Maybe somebody in the Gallery, or a visitor like herself.

Raya looked at him and smiled, “I often come to the Gallery. I am sorry but I did not catch your name.”

“I never mentioned it. Is it really very important? Let’s talk about something else.” He looked directly into her eyes “You have not answered, what is so special about the painting?”

“The woman, the posture, fighting, reaching out, independence, I don’t really know...I wish I could reach out to the sky like that.”

“You can, you know. You just have to wish it hard enough” He picked up a tissue,his fingers brushing her hand. She recoiled, electrified. “You have to close your eyes and only feel yourself and then will be able to fly, light as a bird.”

She was mesmerized by his tone, the words spoken resounded in her heart. “I don’t think that’s possible. How can we think only about ourselves? We are but the extensions of our surroundings. It’s impossible”

“Of course it’s possible. For example we are sitting here chatting over a cup of coffee. This is reality, we are right now separated from our identity, so we can be ourselves just here and now, let ourselves be free and reach out just like the painting.” He picked up the coffee mug, eyes twinkling over the rim. “Tell me your dreams.”

“My dreams? Let me think. I have never thought about it,really”

“Anything, come on let’s not waste time, think, think. What is it you dream about, often?”

“Dream?” her eyes lighted up. “Mountains. A cottage, fireplace, a swing, you know the jute swings, a book on my lap and cuddled up with a special someone, light snowy drizzle outside. A light massage...” She popped open her eyes. What was she doing? Blabbering about her innermost dreams to a complete stranger. “Who are you?” she croaked.

“Does it really matter? So mountains .Hmm” He was touching her with his eyes, her gaze was transfixed. “Come, drink the coffee”. He smiled the knowing smile. It was then he touched her hand. She looked at him, alarmed.

“Relax, just relax”. She could not pull away. She felt his warm palm, slowly messaging her fingertips. It was a wonderful feeling, her whole body responded. It was here and now, nothing else mattered.

“Just close your eyes.” His voice was now a whisper. “Come follow me, let’s go to the mountains. Beautiful white ranges surrounding us. It’s an English cottage, red bricks, and fireplace, warm room. We enter; I am holding you close to my body. Pace by pace, walking slowly up to the swing in front of the fireplace. We sit on the swing, there is a book lying on it, its ‘Rebecca’. You pick it up, and open at a marked page. You start reading; I lightly stroke your arm, touching your body like a whisper. ” She was absolutely helpless, pliant and soft. She was in a to and fro motion, the printed pages in front of her.. They sat down curled unto each other.

“This moment was safe though, this could not be touched. Here we sat together; Maxim and I, hand-in-hand, and the past and the future mattered not at all. This was secure, this funny little fragment of time he would never remember, never think about again…For them it was just after lunch, quarter-past-three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day. They did not want to hold it close, imprisoned and secure, as I did. They were not afraid.” 

“We swing together. To and Fro, to and fro. I touch your hands, curled up in mine, holding you from behind, and the fire burns. You feel me, comforting, caring. The swing in motion. Drizzle and snow continue like white speck of starlight against the window. Just relax...” his voice was in seductive whisper.

She was all feelings now, her hand a complete captive in his, he was playing with her palm now, soft massaging touch...she was on that swing  lightly moving, his body comforting her, making her senses reel..

“Madam, aap aur kuch lengey?” Her eyes snapped open. She looked blankly at the face in front of her, “Aap aur kuch lengey?”

She looked at the vacant chair in front of her, still unable to believe. Where was he? Who was he? Questions were hounding her in multitudes. “Saab?”

“Saab to chaley gaye. Bill detey bakht,apko yeh deneko kaha.” The waiter held out a tissue paper.

Raya glanced at it, scripted in neat and beautiful hand were the words “Dreams have their roots buried in the reality, follow your heart and you will live them. Just be brave enough to dream on....A”  

My Sunil.

As I sit here with a remorseful heart, memories with rushing emotions all jumble my mind. Sliding  back to my Delhi days ,when with bated breath I would wait for Desh Pujabarshiki to hit the stands some days before puja,  I remember rushing to the door as soon as it arrived and scanning  through the contents  and before anyone could lay their hands on the magazine. Then for hours together I would be well settled in a chair, deeply immersed in the stories.

Born and brought up in a probashi bangali family in Delhi, my list of Bangla authors and their stories was very small and precise. It started with Satyajit Ray, seconded by Sunil Gangopadhay and Shankar. The extended list which included Samaresh Majumder and Sirshendu Mukhopadhay ,Samaresh Basu, Sayyad Mustafa Shiraj,Nabanita Debsen,and many many others were formed much later when I had reached high school.

In the years, when invading the forbidden territory of the adult literary  world was a hidden pleasure I often derived, I was quite intrigued by my mother’s intense interest in a one page article in Desh weekly magazine, titled ‘Nillohiter Chokhey’. One fine day, I picked up the magazine and started reading when my mother was taking her afternoon nap.

And I fell in love. It was a love at first read. Nillohit, the unobtrusive observer wrote one page journal, anecdotal and about life. Just that. There were no grotesque rhetoric, no hyperboles, no extra embellishments to prove the penman’s worth. Simple style, easy read, right from the heart and detailed observation of the smallest nuances of life. Nillohit was of course the pen name of the erstwhile novelist Sunil Gangopadhay. My young heart was snared by Sunil.

Every week I would wait for him with bated breath for a peep into his world, and derive great fulfilment once I was through the lines. It was an affair which led me to venture deep into the wealth of Bangla contemporary literature. Thus my sojourn into English Literature and Bangla continued side by side.

Year 1974: Anandamela started publishing Kakababu series.Kakabau was an investigator assisted by his nephew Santu in all his adventures to unravel the great mysteries of the world around us. I waited for their incredible journeys and adventure into the unknown terrains. But being an ardent Feluda follower, Kakababu could only remain that in my heart, respected, interesting and adventures Kakababu. But Sabuj Dipwer Raja, a serial in the same magazine would most certainly  have me as its first reader in our house. Sabuj Dipwer Raja was followed by many more adventurous journeys with him namely: Kakababu O Sindukrahasya, Kakababu O Bajralama,Santu Kothay,Kakababu Kothay, Vijaynagarer Hire,Jangaler Modhe Ek Hotel and it continued.

As the years rolled, my peregrination with Sunil continued. It was an odd relationship, as if I knew all that he wrote but have not really thought about it like he did. His words revealed to me the mysteries of  a whole alternate universe of adventurous and bohemian thoughts.

He won many accolades, many felicitation and praises and criticisms alike but to me as his reader, those were but a small cover page introduction to a 2000 page novel. I had never had the opportunity to read his first serial in Desh, published in 1965 ‘Atmaprakash’ but have often heard it being referred to as quite a revolution for its aggressive and 'obscene' style. But that really, did not matter to me. He was known for his bohemian thoughts, but that again was a point of fatal attraction for me to his novels and short stories.

Often in a raging discussion, friends would ask me to read his poems which they said were more potent than his prose. I read one or two of them but thought they were too surreal for my liking. I chose to read his prose.

 Exposed to the nonchalance towards vernacular literature of the erstwhile Delhi crowd, it was with a gladdened heart that I shifted to Kolkata after my marriage. I was excited as, this was the city which hosted all my favourite  Bangla authors. But to my mild surprise I discovered that in niche South Kolkata crowd, very few were there who shared my enthusiastic passion. By this time I have already finished reading Shei Shomoy and Purba Paschim along with numerous other novels and short stories of Bangla literature. But these two works of literature had yet again robbed my heart. Intense research, photographic detail congregated storyline and my induction to Bangla was somehow being fortified by these creations of Sunil Gangopadhyay.

It was then that Prathom Alo was published. I had received two thousand rupees from a benevolent relative who could not attend my marriage. With glee in my heart I bought the entire set of Prathom Alo and Shei Shomoy . I was ecstatic. The brilliant ensemble of literature, history and a beautifully woven central theme made the novels an absolute fantasy. I was again completely floored.

It was in1995, during one of my trips to Shantiniketan that I chanced to meet him in the platform of Bhubandanga station. I was rooted to the spot and stared at him unabashedly for quite a long time before conjuring up the courage to go and talk to him. I went up to him and must have muttered or stuttered something out, which, till today is a mass of confusion in my mind. He just looked at me for some time and smiled a nice gentle smile. It was as if he knew. I must have said something appropriate as he had actually spoken to me for some time. I was one miniscule portion of his huge brigade of admirers mainly dominated by women. But yet he spoke. The train to Kolkata had arrived and we all boarded the train. I carried his essence in my heart and still remember each and every moment with a blurred memory of the words exchanged.

I am not a well read person and neither have I ever prided in reading everything that he has ever written but in later years, one of my relatives in Delhi had translated two of his great works into English. I had read them but never had had the heart to tell her that it was adequate and not really rewarding. But then the flavor of the original is always lost in translations isn’t it?

  
 ‘Sunil Gangopadhyay is no more’. I can never accept it. He will always reign over my heart through his creations as he will undoubtedly continue to reside in millions more. Today, now, when with a saddened heart I write I am reminded of these lines by John Keats:

‘When old age shall this generation waste, 
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
    than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all 
        ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

Sunil Gangopadhay will always live as he had captured beauty and enslaved it in his creations.

The Lone Women.

She was a lone woman. They have really increased in number nowadays. You will find them everywhere. Coffee shops, malls, restaurants, vegetable markets, homes, workplaces, everywhere. Wherever you look, you will find them increasing in number like microbes.Buying dresses, books,drinking coffee, reading books, Browsing through jewelleries and so on ,but all alone.

They are the ones who will have very similar choice and tastes and hobbies. Most of them either will be book readers or dress designers with cooking as weekend passion (where the maid would get all the ingredients ready and She will just workout the right combination and stir or fry or mix, and a great dish will be born).

The lone woman was known for her various talent either home bound or at the workplace. She would be an excellent professional, excellent mother, wife, daughter in law, sister in law, and so much more. Giving no one any room to complain, or that’s what she thought. She would try to please everyone and thus garner a great satisfaction when everyone praised her, getting more and more morally bound to her multidimensional role plays in her life.

She would breeze through her twenties and thirties with complete panache and zest, involved in her family, looking after every aspect of life, juggling options and doing her best. She would be a steady companion for her mate. Providing him support, both moral and of course ‘otherwise’, as scripted for the ideal wives by Manusmriti. She would try to make her parents proud that she was born unto them and revel in the praise of her in laws and parents and other relatives whenever they met up for any formal occasion hosted by her ( but of course). She would smile to herself and feel proud of her achievements in life, trying to pick up words and praises a midst all running around and getting the chores done. After all no one should complain.

She would think it was her primary duty to look after her ailing sister in law when she was afflicted by an unmentionable illness,look after her mother in law when she had taken seriously ill for a long time, support her husband with financial help (although no one thought that she should work), teach the children, attend each and every one of their parent teacher meets or annual functions in their schools, get photographs taken for future reference (after all albums were important to prove how accomplished she was) and most of all be a docile and obedient wife when her provider was too tired or too busy to pay any attention to her needs. She did not want to lose the praises. It was in this frenzy she would breeze through her life.

And then one day she would wake up in the morning and look into the mirror, and notice the gray hair at her temple, with a pounding heart she would find the prominent laugh lines around her once beautiful eyes and luscious mouth. She would try to find herself but look at a shadow, a silhouette dressed in her night garb. She would then start with a palpitating heart and search in other’s glances what she knew within her. The life around her would continue in the same old pace that she had set once. Nobody looked at her. They called her, they spoke to her but none of them saw her.

It would be at that precise moment she would start this indescribable confusing set of actions. She would lose all interest in her daily chores. She would get ready and go out for some shopping. First a hair color and then some makeup, few well cut branded dresses, and pair of stylish shoe. All alone. She would fight this lone battle tooth and nail. She would try and remember all her lost passions. How she loved to read books, sang well and danced some mean steps. How she loved to spent time in shopping malls,long drives,dancing in the rain,and so much more.

It would be then that she would decide to look at herself.Now,in her spare time she would visit parlours  go and watch movies, attend parties, browse and buy books and become a regular in the Face book site, all alone. After all social networking was important to make new friends. People who knew her would be quite baffled by her sudden changes both in appearance and behavior.  As she would hone the art of saying ‘no’ more confusion would arise. Her family too would struggle to match their knowledge of her and this newness.

She would start enjoying her life more. She would make friends outside the realm of her family circuit. Others, who once had been benefited by her, would now start ignoring her. She would find herself much relieved. At last she would have her own self back. The praises would still rain but it would be from different quarters, complimenting her looks and vigor.  She would still have that secret half smile on her now painted lips, as if she knew. But she would need the reassurances again and again, as she would find it very hard to believe in the complements. After all, the most important person in her life has never found her either beautiful or satisfactory.

She would keep herself busy all day, so that at night she did not have to ask for anything.And then, when the entire world would sleep and she would find sleep completely eluding her, she would toss and turn and feel herself. She would wonder with thousand fantasies, of a lost life and then the tears would come; slowly gathering on her eyelashes, the salty tears would remind her that she had lost her battle...and there was none to come.

In pursuit of a thing called 'love'

Morning tea and the newspaper always meant something special to her. It was her time. Time to keep track of the whole world .Catching a headline here, or small news there and of course page 3 and the photographs. Then the magazine section, the celebrity lives and movie reviews but most important of all, just before folding up the paper, the astrological prediction of the day ahead.

Today was special. It was her birthday. So the prediction had to be different and meaningful and impactful and whatever 'ful'  it took to ‘ fulfill’ her. She cheered up considerably after reading the lines ‘you will meet someone special today’. Yes, that is exactly what she has been waiting for or rather hoping for. She finished reading the paper and went hurriedly to get ready. She was going to spend the day with herself and if in the process she met someone ‘special’, so be it.

Her birthdays had ceased to be an important event after she had attained her admission into a family which did not believe in birthdays or for that matter any special days.  She had always been too much of a people’s person to stand this anonymity. So along with her own birthdays, she started celebrating everyone’s birthdays anniversaries special days and not so special days and so on, just as a lesson that needed to be taught to the ignorant bunch that were her in-laws.

Till about an year or two ago. When she realized that nobody around her gave a damn about anyone’s birth anniversaries or death anniversaries anymore, she decided to make her birthdays special for herself. She would have a lunch with herself as her royal company and then buy her few gifts, mainly books and then would visit her parents (after all they were responsible for creating this special day in her life). She often ended the day with a very humble dinner and feeling very ignored.

11.30 a.m: As she got dressed, she felt a bit of twinge in her heart. Raktim was as usual not there. He, very seldom, got any opportunity to attend any birthdays, being in bank and all. The children missed him and so did she. It had mattered quite a lot at first, then it mattered a lot and now it mattered little.

‘Special someone’. She smiled to herself. Incurable romantic at heart, she had never missed a single chance to shed tears at the scenes of romantic reunions or debilitating departures or the ultimate utterance of the three divine words ‘I love you’. It seems that she had always waited for that perfect someone forever. She allowed herself another smile and picked up her purse, ‘forever’ indeed.

She would be on a lookout today, that’s for sure. She instructed her driver to take her to a nearby mall. In pursuit of excellence in her life nothing worked better than a book. A book was what she needed, or maybe several, she would decide once she reached her favorite book store.

2.30p.m:It was her lunch time and she decided on a sinfully loaded burger, today was after all her day. ‘Special someone’ still seemed elusive. She tried to concentrate on the people around her, two teenage sweethearts with one forever yours middleman, a couple with a child with lots of bags and baggage  puja shopping no doubt, two auntijies with strawberry ice creams and then herself. Noh! No contender there.

On special days she missed Delhi. Not that her life would have been much different but well it would have been flamboyant, to say the least. She missed Lutyen’s Delhi with tiny hideaway eateries like Bercos and gastronomic disaster joint called De Pauls in CP, browsing through footpath publications in the colonial roundabouts, or Jan path with its wealth of junk jewelleries. She missed being a college girl again, with no dearth of admirers to satisfy her vanity. She missed the joyrides in one of their bikes around North Campus. Oh! The feel of air and the rush of adrenalin.

5:00p.m: She was on her way back and still no someone. Maybe he would be virtual. ‘He’? Where did that come from? Of course it has to be a ‘he’, she was quite sure. After all it was a special someone wasn't it?

 She was quite irregular on the social networking sites. She would always have notifications pending and requests unattended. But one night, she just happened to check her pending friend’s request. Rejecting almost all she had accepted this one. It was the message which had caught her attention. It said ‘This is the third time I am knocking at your door, you cannot be knocked out for that long’. That too had been three months ago. She had instantly accepted. He had replied within seconds and the journey had begun. They would often talk for long duration.

5.45p.m: Today, throughout the day she had stayed connected with people, with wishes pouring out from every corner of her world. Friends, relatives, students, admirers but not him. Every time the phone rang and every time it sent out the message bell, her heart responded. But she had lost all hope now.

 The anonymity of the virtual relation had opened the floodgates. But the facelessness often made her uncomfortable, so she could not really open up and the conversations would often run dry. But they liked each others company. She was still not a regular in the site, so they would often leave messages to keep in touch. What attracted her to him was his sense of humor and quick wit. She staunchly believed that men with sense of humor and wit were more desirable to women, than men with only good looks and peanuts for a brain.  It was one of her core belief and criterion for rejecting many an admiring proposals. Of course she had to fight off the usual male attention concentrated solely on the libido but once that was settled, it was quite an unusual journey. Somehow she was in two minds whenever she weighed the idea of meeting him.

She took to reading one of the books she had bought but felt listless. The children were out for their tuition  She decided to go out. She took her purse and walked out. She would go to a neighboring coffee shop and have some coffee.

10.30p.m Dinner over. Children in bed and night time solace. She searched for her cell. Had to make a call to her sister. She looked everywhere but could not find it. She rang her number from her land line ..it rang in her purse. She took it out in a hurry .Her heart beating fast. There were series of missed calls and messages. She started reading them one by one and found the one she had been dreading. 6.05p.m-‘Meet me at CCD Golpark in half an hour. Will be wearing a blue shirt.’ Then again at 7.15 p.m ‘where are you? Said the spider to the beeJ’. Then at 9.30p.m- ‘waited and waited and waited..Guess some other time. Happy b’day’. She stared at the cell. The words were blurred and invisible.