Continuance of the Discontinuity

discontinuity ... I feel thats the term that may fit right while depicting my love-hate relationship with this venture of mine.
This was basically an initiative to vent the anger-anguish that had pent up in me...a sense of miserable loss...some unknown-unspeakable pain ...I just tried to channelize those feelings through this...probably I became numb as not being able to re-feel that sensation...neither do I yearn for that to be true....but what queer point rises is...is writing or expression so much dependent on pains and woes?
as if....the fun times are too short lived to allow me to jot them down or I get too engaged in it to pen down a few....the sad moments remains to be ruminated alone and there comes out the urge to ket the world know my pains and suffering and hence the need to blog some obscure-childish-utter gibberish like jotting down which ultimately makes no sense to any one who so ever....do they bother me even...after that particular moment???
propagandizing my deepest private thoughts and boasting of being able to do so is nothing but imbecile upmanship.
So i discontinue .... right or wrong?...who cares
stay well...hope to put something down in near future

Aamar Bhasha

Kono ekdin amar anubhutira bhasha pabe,

Kono ekdin amar bhalobasa sochchaar hobe,

Kono ekdin amar protibaad mukhor hobe,

Kono ekdin,

Aasbe sedin ...

Jedin aamar bhabna jure elo melo rasta gulo

Sobaak bismoye taakiye bolbe,

"Bhasha phutechhe"

Bolbe ... "aami banchiye rekhechhi tomar prothom uchcharon

Prithibi ke chomke diye tomar prothom konthoswor

Stobdho juddhe hoy herechho noy jitechho

Aaj bojro nirghoshe janao toar abirbhab

Janao amar bhasha ache ...

Nirob bhasha

Adi-akritrim ... ajatshatru ...

My Dreams ... They live

Dreams cluster

Thoughts collage…

They form a fondling family in my mind.

They now rest in peace.

Scorched by the deadly sun,

Burned in the burning sand,

Betrayed by the killing storm,

They now rest in peace.

They have flapped their limits

Thousands and thousands of times.

They stirred,

They failed.

They resurged,

They prevailed…

Now after a toilsome ordeal

They rest in peace.

Do you know my dreams?

Look up anywhere

You find them.

Look into yourself,

You know them.

Those unplugged dreams of mine.

They live through pains

They suffer pains through living.

They embrace malice…

They tarnish them into gold.

My unplugged dreams,

They live through the pains.

They germinate

New soul in the New Horizon.

MY unplugged dreams…

They live through battles,

They strive through struggle,

They thrive through storms.

Now they rest in peace.

You find them dead.

Yes they die…

Only to rise like phoenix.

They only live.

My dreams---they still dream.

Back Again ...Lolzzz

yeah ... laughing stock at length...even what more was expected...and surely I'm not to be blamed. The very first day I took up this blog I had this idea that my love with this will dwindle in no time. Even then a 2-3 months break is ok na?....so far sighted, I'm amused at my own feat.

As to why I do'n came pr rather did not came...to tell the truth i have no idea. And to be precise that is the reason too....just like me ever confused in what's happening or going to happen and every thing gets just messed up too much for me to decipher and then I sit idle with the pen and the empty paper not knowing what to write or even better what to say and only ponder over the wretched factuality thinking if this could only be the other way round...

One thing that strikes me is.....I came here to share my idle moments, busy times...if I got nothing to write then I wasn't sitting idle ... not even keeping busy ...then what the hell was I doing???

Round and Round???....Dazed???...well that's me and I'm back again.

BYGONE

On the paper boats floating
Swept away my childhood days...
Blown away to some obscure unknown.
The mysterious history,
School days - fun days - old days--
Friends - love - care - misunderstandings..
Sank deep down
As emotions stirred up to the brim...


An aura of nostalgia cloaks me.
I sit idle---
Pondering the past...
At a time
When 'friends', 'caring', 'sharing' have drastically changed...


When the world has broadened up
And the minds narrowed down,
Those bygone days sneaks back.
A plethora of unalloyed joy...
My golden old days...

AaNdharbela : Darkness Defined

AaNdharbela--written by Mrs Suchitra Bhattacharya
Published in Sharodiya Ananda Bazar Patrika.


firstly kudis to Suchitra Bhattacharya for being able to pen down the most turbulent time of Bengal politics in recent times....the Singur-Nandigram massacare...though the places and the characters are all changes yet the connection can be made without any effort.

The story revolves around an elderly man, Prabhash who has an ancestral land in Ruudrapur....thing take unexpected ( or expected??) turn when a foreign business man ...some Sakura comes up with a car-plant proposal...and huge land in and aroung Rudrapur needs to be acquired. The government's turning a deaf ear, its pro-active acquisition and tourture...the present political scenario of the ctate, the sharp polarization, disillushionment of the intellectuals with the so called communists....all these come as it had actually happened.

Suchitra touched politics without being political. Nowhere she can be accused of dogmatism...well some people may find her work a bit disturbing because she by far represented the voice of common man. The characters...those characters who are not associated with political organisations.....react in the way the general people reacted.

She has tried to maintain a distance so that she may not be regarded a spokesperson of a particular political organization....the problem with this state lies in this malicious tendency...either with "us" or with "them" and thanks to the Chief Minister this split is clearer than ever. people surrounding Prabhash are divided, his son...a college lecturer...and a smart and trendy 'communist' is in favour of giving up the land...he has no sentiment for the landless farmers who earn working on their land....roblem is he is the owner and he is settled in the city with hardly any attachment to ta rural life....he fails to understand the sentiments of the farmers...but what complicates the situation is his "communism"...which claims to establish his pro-poor legacy while at heart is is nothing but an outright rightist. He lobbies for the investors...investment is necessary but not at the cost of lives of poor people...but for the people like Ayan....the city bred brand-conscious communists...what the CPM government declares is comminism....these people have known to love CPM because it breeds jobs and other earning oppurtunities in return.
The inhuman, illegal misrule of the Left Front is lablasted at.

Expanded Metro and Frustrated Politics

After the long lone wait Metro rail started rolling from Tollygunj to Garia bazar since yesterday. I had my first ride today and it was such a relief for the daily commuters like us. From Naktala (Geetanjali) to Rabindra Sarovar only in 10 minutes...gosh...the regular jostling for autos, then traffic snarl, then the pollution and the inevitable late....I am now spared of that Horror. thanks to our railway minister, Ms Mamata Banerjee. whatever the CPI(M) may say, u did it for us and thats thats the thing all will remember.
It was rather shocking, or should I spare that too, because shock is I guess no longer the term to be associated with the ruling party....to see the CHief Minister, The self-professed champion of Bengali culture and intelligentsia...blurting out venom against the actually acting minister. in Bengali there is a term "bhaat debar murod nei, keel marar gosai"( u don't have the capacity to feed but u never fall short of beating)...CPI(M) and the government it heads is following this line.
This is nothing but utter frustration, 33 years of complete non-performance......33 years of incompetence....33 years of torture, of corruption and gradual and steady down slide of the state. the party got the toughest drubbing at the recently concluded Lok Sabha polls, in the just concluded Assembly by-elections. it is frustrated to see that not only the general people leaguing behind Mamata, also the Bengali film fraternity, which he once counted as his strongest constituency, too is quing up...and not for nothing.,.....she delivers
Its 3 months she took over as the Railway Minister and she has shown how a department can be used to help the state and work for the people. the CPI(M) is now unnerved. Its can sense the plight that ts going to face in the forthcoming Assembly polls and more awaiting if Mamata goes on her develpoment drive in this way....who cares what the CPI(M) is telling?...we are helped and relieved....thanks to didi

Afuran

OBLIVION....(short story)

Nizam was fast asleep. Mithi Amma fed him, some vada that she prepared early evening before the news came. Mithi Amma was sitting, wide awake, looking bluntly at the moon dim glimmering outside the window pane. Late night it was. All the proceedings took a lot of time.

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

Nizam never studied Quran. He learnt, he was taught that he was a Muslim. He was never even taught how it felt to be a Muslim, he never felt anything special, never couldn’t differentiate if the ‘others’ felt other way as he could never be other. It was not that he bothered though. Nizam loved Mithi Amma, grandma of his friend Santanam. He was taught that Mithi Amma, Santanam were ‘other’. They were different. Nizam often wondered, how? They all had two hands, two legs…only when they spoke he understood nothing. And yes, Mithi Amma’s husband and Santanam’s grandpa was different. He was a photo man. He never talked, never walked, never even ate. He wore mysterious glasses through which Nizam could never see. He was a photo man…always wearing a garland.

“Ammu…why is Santanam different?” often he would ask his mother.

“They are Hindus…they worship different Gods….but they are good….”

Yes…yes….he had seen. Mithi Amma worshipped Gods which were like the dolls of his cousin sister. But Santanam never plays with these dolls which Mithi Amma worshiped. Nizam also never played with them.

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

Nizam was only six years old. He lived in the least known Ghulab Chowk in Ahmedabad. It was one of those dingy over crowded residential places in the town. The market place was not far. Ghulab Chowk never required descriptions. Almost every town in India has places like it. It saw the two communities residing side by side. It never created any problem, except some small incidents during the riots. Yet then Ghulab Chowk never hit the head lines. Neither the Muslims nor the Hindus were brutal enough, perhaps.

Nizam was a resident of Ghulab Chowk ever since he was born. His father too. Might be his grandpa, whom he has never seen, too. Nizam did not know. Nizam was happy in the small world of his own, with the dreams he dreamt but never understood, with the friends who were either similar or different, but he never bothered. Nizam attended the nearby English medium school. It was necessary, his Abbajan said. Santanam went there too.

Arzan, Nizam’s Abbajan, was a self made man of sort. Education was never a favorite occupation with the youth of his community in the locality. Arzan and many like him in the locality were made to believe that they were a special community and they have the right to special privileges. What privileges nobody ever asked. Never did any privilege come. And yes they were to vote, that was essential for the continual flow of privileges. But Arzan thought more. Blessed probably he was that he went to a bigger school and befriended people from better families.

Arzan studied. When the similar friends dropped out to join their fathers as daily labors or set sail across the Arabian Sea, Arzan continued to study. He studied hard and ended up securing a good job. His academic record has always been brilliant. Along with the education he brought the air of liberty otherwise denied to the residents on the both sides. He was an MBA, worked for a reputed multi-national company. The pay cheque was phenomenal, at least in comparison to the other ‘similars’ in the locality. After all the daily wages and Arzan’s pay package could hardly meet.

Like any other upwardly mobile Indian, Arzan gave his family a taste of Good-Shining India. A car for occasional family outings, a revamped and redecorated house, and week-end shopping mall vistas--- these became a part of their life…a far cry for most of the people belonging to his community in the locality. Gradually the lines separating him from his ‘other’ friends became blurred. It never mattered for him. Though he even had thought of injecting the idea in his son after the Godhra carnage and aftermath, still he never felt the binaries to be too strong as to hinder him from making good friends. Arzan met Salima at the office, a brief courtship followed. Salima’s family objected to her love marriage and Arzan’s family to a working wife. But all evaporated with time--- Salima and Arzan were happy together---- working together, spending together. A new lease of freshness, a new outlook crawled in. By the time Nizam was born all animosities died down. Though Arzan’s father Amanulla Sahib could not live to see his grandson, Nizam got the company of his grandma Rabeya’s when toddler. Mithi Amma too was there, but her company became more prominent and to some extent necessary too, after Rabeya ceased to live. The working parents were relieved of their tension and Nizam was also happy getting to spend more time with Santanam. Days passed so good….who could have even thought of this?

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

When Mithi Amma moved into Ahmedabad, she was already widowed. She was brought here by her son Karthikeyan and daughter-in-law Revathi. Earlier Karthikeyan had a small business in Madurai. A certain advertisement in a news paper struck his eyes. He applied for it, and got into a diamond factory here. His business had already hit the rough patches. So this was a smooth way out for him. His only sister was already married off to a rich farmer of a nearby town. Therefore Karthikeyan had no problem in shifting to Gujarat.

But after moving in, he had to face huge difficulties. There were no Tamil families nearby. A sense of alienation crept in. Mithi Amma and Revathi thought of some domestic business. But could not because of the linguistic hindrances--- culture, language--- nothing matched. Nobody even bothered. In the midst of all these, one day Revathi met Salima at the nearest stationary shop. Salima’s demeanor and warmth took no time to endear the ‘outsider’ and Revathi and her family took no time to shed their well-caressed orthodoxy about the ‘others’. Salima taught them Gujarati, Revathi showed them South Indian cuisines. The two families spent time together on various occasions. Revathi started a handloom shop mixing Gujarati and Tamil crafts and patterns, Salima stood behind her as a rock solid support. Things went on so smoothly---- Navratris, Makar Sankranti, Id….both the families enjoyed together. Then Santanam was born, followed by Nizam. Though both were made aware of the other ones ‘otherness’, it was never stringent. It is so, in India religion becomes an indispensable luggage to carry through out the life for an individual. Religion is a must; so as to say the primary identity of an Indian….even a ‘liberated’ family needs to carry it, whether to be a bigot or not was individual choice, in many cases though. These two kids, though made aware, their awareness never clogged the way of mutual respect and warmth. Even the Godhra riots could not embitter their relation. Actually Ghulab Chowk remained relatively calm--- except for some stray incidents. But as it happens… …life is jeopardized just then, when it seems all are going perfectly all right.

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

It was week end.

---“Reva, I’ll be going to the Dazzling Shopping Mall…today evening…will you come?”

---“Oh…sure…I would love to…Navratri approaching, even our Ramzan…need to buy some stuffs…”

---“That’s great…be ready, ok? 5 pm? Or should we make it a bit more lately? I’ll call you…”

---“5 pm is ok. I’ll be ready…will you be taking Santanam? Won’t take Nizam…he has got fever…”

---“Oh God… how’s he now? Consulted the doctor? Mmmmmm…..why don’t you keep him with Amma? She will take care of him…and yes…ask Arzan bhaiya to reach there after office…will have dinner together please…”

----“Hahahaha…ok baba…I’ll tell him…Karthik bhaiya will be there too, no? Well we can bring some for Amma…”

----“Sure…don’t be late ok? 5 pm sharp…”

“Sure...”

It was about 7 pm. Nizam was watching cartoon at Mithi Amma’s place. Amma was busy with the customers at the handloom, adjacent to their living room. Suddenly a commotion rose…then some murmurs…then cries….then shrieks…..Nizam turned pale….the world seemed spinning in front of Mithi Amma…she quickly shuffled through the channels till she stopped at a news channel….the breaking news read

“The consecutive blasts at the Dazzling Shopping Mall…over 300 feared dead…” the screen showed only blood…the disheveled bodies…people running mad….crying….extremist Islamic group suspected…compensation….blood…blast……

Bratyajaner Ruddhasangeet

Thursday I was opportune enough to watch Bratyajaner Ruddhasangeet at Kalamandir. Bratya Basu had made quite a name with his political production earlier, Winkle Twinkle. So the drama coming from this man, based on legendary Rabindrasangeet singer Debabrata Biswas, rode the hype from the very beginning. To be frank, Bratya did justice to his reputation--slips and some weakness are there still though, I think. What I feel about Ruddhasangeet is Debabrata Biswas here is a ploy---his life well delineated though---yet the character plays a number of shades. While at one hand, Bratya tries to capture the present in the trope of history, on the other, efforts to institutionalize Rabindranaath Tagore and his songs and the inhuman, demonic intrusion if the "institution", that never allowed anyone to surpass it and mount the steps of popularity, is severely lashed out at. In the drama, as history invades, past is relived, present becomes more vivid.

Bratya's present political activities quite places himself with a clear camp---thanks to the ruling front and its leader the divided 'campified' Bengali existence is very much to the fore. Basu tried to capture the dilemma that rocked the communist party in the time of its inception and cites the 'disillusionment' of the Bengali intelligentsia with the Communists or rather the 'party'. But as I said earlier, history played a trap at the hands of Bratya who I felt tried to bring up recent topical allusions time and again through the play. At a time when the 'communist' party is reeling under one of its worst debacles and rough times, the personality cult, the imbecile eulozisation of some foreign communist leaders who does not have even obscure relation with Indian society and polity whatsoever, the party shielding the leaders and the foul cry of plotting against all who try to defy or question 'party-line'...all these are not new....its the 'tradition'...as Bratya tried to make it out, I felt. So Bratya can easily put dialogues like, "can you assure that when your party comes to power it will not fire on the poor farmers?"( Nandigram, said anyone?) "Its better to be Maobadi than a Kamaobadi"( '70s had Naxal menace but Maoist allusion definitely establishes it in present mileau.) on Debabrata Biswas, or even his Rittwik can challenge Pramod Dasgupta of shielding the favourite leaders in the name of some far flung leaders of Europe or Latin America when they fail in direct confrontation falling short of proper argument. Nothing new, it was and it is the same and Bratya pointed out the fact quite deftly. And sure kudos for the man who can directly chalk out Jyoti Basu ( the semi-god in Indian Communism scenario), Pramod Dasgupta or Suchitra Mitra and present them directly on the stage...... and to be remembered however less the path may be followed still the state is ruled by leftists.....lolzzzz

True some elaborations could have made things more logical...but did Bratya sit for logically testifying things?.....on one hand he had to frame the life of a legend who was severely wronged and on the other he had to use the same as a trope to shoot his political views and if he chooses his events accordingly he does so in every right of his that he enjoys as a creator. Did he mislead?...if yes, suit him.....if not, take the art for art's sake......a conditioned mind probably hinder the appreciation of the drama....and it is outright political. Bratya did not have any liability to please all the political groups.

The use of the stage was Intelligent....Brechtian inclination was palpable enough. But regarding the characters....Debshankar Halder was superb in the role of Debabrata Biswas, in his moymansing dialect he simply went on winning the hearts and though out the lenght of the play he simple proved his credentials. But Salil or Rittwik's characters were rather poor in ther etching out. Salil was a bit loud and Rittwik appeared Shakespearean fool.

On a whole job done really well....though....it may leave a number of political questions unanswered, or rather Bratya omitted some...but as I said he probably had no intention to please one particular colour. And when the wind of change in undoubtedly sweeping this part of the world, a dramatist can not probably risk his production....lolzzz