A Metro Ride to Office

It was 9.09am and I was pretty late,waiting in a crowded metro station as the scheduled train was getting delayed. As the train pulled in 10 minutes late,the frenzied crowd jumped on its helpless prey. I was a part of the wave.And gradually reached a iron shore and hit myself. Ouch! never mind am at least inside the bloody train!shh no swearing!behave-i told myself. As the uncountable bags kept nudging my posterior and "unassuming" hands tried to jostle me from my position, I kept fighting!

"Watch your steps!" an old man shouted at me. "Oops sorry Uncle" I mumbled, trying to adjust my foot in the ocean of feet. Suddenly a short, pale looking man decided to be very accommodating. He patted me on the shoulder and as I turned to face him- immediately he flashed a smile. With betel-nut stained teeth and a huge pot belly , he said, "Eidik taye chole ashun na...shubidhe hobe dnarate" (Come and stand here, it will be easier for you). I showed up my best behaviour and said "Na thikachhe dada" (No thank you, I'm fine). Then he pushed the crowd and stood beside me. One arm  almost around my shoulder, holding one of the many randomly placed posts. "Arey apnara holen mohila, apnader ektu protect na korle choley? ami bujhi ki shomoshya hoy roj roj.."(You are a woman, and you need to be protected, I understand you need some help in this every day ordeal...) He whispered. My antennas signaled red alert. I pushed his hand quite roughly and faced him "Thik ki problem apnar?" (What exactly is your problem , Man?). "Ei dekhun bhalo korte chaichhi ar apni rege jachchhen?"(I am just trying to help you, Don't flare up!) said the man and touched my shoulder gently. Well, that was it. I did something I never did in my life. I slapped him straight across his face and gave him quite a strong push, which was quite a wake-up call for all the other don't-bother-me crowd. Many "Ki hoyechhe didi?"(Whats wrong madam?) chorus started pouring in. But I really did not require any support from them.

The man was trying to recover from his plight as I looked straight at him.  Then I spoke " Er por kono mohila ke shahajyo korar aage chor ta mone kore neben. Jake take obola bhabar bod obhyesh ta chharun dada. Koto ar shomaj sheba kore bhul dharona shodhrabo?" (Next time when you attempt to "help" a woman am sure you will recall this slap! I am sure I have helped you in curing your helpfulness.). It was time for me to get down. As I got down there was an eerie silence in the compartment. An aged man in dhoti panjabi got down behind me. As I briskly walked towards the escalator, He called out "Shono!" ( Listen!). I turned my head, ready to dodge any further attack. "Well done! Iron lady, Well done!" he said with a bright smile, and took the staircase instead of the escalator. I beamed with a smile. Something fulfilled me. Its not men. Its the germ of patriarchy that pollutes the society. All the anger subsided with that smile. That gentleman's compliment was like a grandfather's blessing.

I wish we had more men like him. Then there would not have been any requirement to plead or bleed for "equality"


P.S. Was really late for office, so ran my way, but a tad bit triumphantly.

To Weirdo, with love

The door opened.
A dusty breeze kissed my cheek.
 It was you in various forms.
Littered among the yellowed restaurant bills.
Stained in the several kohl-smudged tissues
That has now become a part of my wardrobe!
You mingle in the unwashed clothes
Your touch grazes my forgotten wound.
I still stare at the scar down my left knee
 It was during those days of wild-goose-chase
You were my partner.
You were the one who uncorked the mock champagne
When I landed a job.
You ogled the chick, who was my room-mate.
You borrowed my XL T-shirt
And slept in it for years.
I was your wake-up call after those waste parties.
My crushes were your projects.
 You counted my break-ups.
All those boozy nights
When I cried over your shoulders
You were my pill and pillow.
Back-slapping, nonsensical days…
Those long-drives and sudden mood swings.
When you cried and refused meals
I suddenly did not enjoy the chicken drumstick.
You-a habit?
You-a friend?
You-a phenomenon-I can’t explain!

Rain-washed afternoons, I walk alone.
You are not here.
And it doesn’t exactly feel okay
I realize I need you to be with me
In my scary nightmares, incredible dreams
Half-cooked chicken and melted rice
I want you to see how I dance
Just when the rainbow kisses the horizon
I want to hear you snoring slow
Poking your tummy I want you to know
I’m there. I grow with you around me.
Life is one roller coaster. That does go on
But with you in the side seat it comes alive.
Here’s to that partnership that can create and recreate
World records of weirdness.
Remain a world-monger…
 Just two words
 Be Mine.

Okal Kushmander Korcha

Aj ekta gaan shunie shuru kori amar korcha! Aha chotben na...lekhaye lekhaye toh...gola chhere ei duhshoho grishme bhismolochon er lochon kopale tolar ichchhe amar nei! Tahole shuru kori...amader Bhoomir gawa ek bishesh gaan “Aami daan dike roi na aami baam dike roi na..ami dui dike tei roi..poraan jolanjoli dia” Bortomaan poristhiti te ei goshthir lokederi holo joto jwala. Na ghar ka na ghaat ka dosha! Baam e gele bidhi baam; daan dike haate haatkora ar poshchat deshe hurricane. Apnara buddhi bibechonar manush amar moto okalkushmander iniye biniye bolte chawa katha nirghat dhore phelechhen! Agge hyan..(bhoy toh korchhe..kintu likhe jokhon pheleichhi tokhon aar lojja ghenna bhoy kore ki hobe) ami amader bongomatar bhogno doshar katha bolchhi! Bongo bhonger andoloner shomoy kobigurur kolome gorje uthechhilo ek opurbo shongeet (Amar gaaner gnuto ke khoma ghenna koren babu ra o bibi ra) “banglar mati banglar jol…banglar bayu banglar phol…punyo houk punyo houk…punyo houk hey bhogoban” ei gaan tir shotyota aj bishesh bhabei drishyoman. Banglar mati jol bayu phol maye ki manusho ekhon ekjot! (Bhebe dekhun banglar jono-birodhi, phut-katiye, porer dhone poddari kora o poronindaye doctorate manush ekhon ek hoechhe) Kintu golmal onyo jayegaye ghote gachhe. Mane jar jonyo ajker ei Okalkusmander korcha! Rajneetir niteeheenota ke pnaach phoron die bheje khete khete amader jibhe ekhon pore gachhe inchi-koyek puru ek astoron. Baam jomanar ghor kateni…ui ketechhe mulyobodh.Aar amra dibbi “oi shala CPM…” buli aaure nijeder nanan hotasha k ek jotne lalito asroy rekhe ditei obhyosto. Ekhon je golmaltar katha ami bolchhilam taholo ei je…amader rajjye “ammo pari bodlate” hawar shathe shathe ek poriborton eshe porechhe. Nandigram ar Shingur er buker opor kaste haturi chalano dordondoprotap omnipotent baame der kyanch kola dekhie ahlade maa ke maatir manush peye tuk kore ghnati gerechhilo Trinamool Congress. Ei dolti thuri dolonetri manusher mone jayega kore niechhilen kotokta amar motoi..mane ami jamon apnader gaan shunie mon bhulie jor kore amar korcha gelachhhi thik tamoni, baam otyachare mritopraye bongo shontaner ektu momotwer ashaye praan die shunechhilo shei dolonetrir konthe jono dorodi kobi gurur gaan “amar matha noto kore dao hey tomar …chorono dhular pore…”. Ratarati shei netri hoye othen shobhanetri. Onoshoner brommhaastre godogodo bangla…mathaye tule nilo momotwer protimurti ke ! Ebong take kore tullo jononetri. Hyan ek bakye swikar kore ni-i amio shei bohul jonosroteri ekjon. Banglar buke swadhin surjyo dekhar lobh aar dolbajir iti hobe ei ashaye gamchha diya poraan ta re baidhya neme porechhilam unmotto jonosroter shathe! Shurjyo uthlo. Shokal holo. Poriborton er hawa jhor hoye boye gelo ei bongo bhumite. Bangla tokhon rokte snato baam jomanar shomapti te utshob-mukhor. Okal bodhon jyano abar shotyi holo. Durgapujor moto ek drim drim dhaak tokhon bajchhe buke. Chokh ranganir oboshan. Ei bar bodlabe bongo bhagyo. Tik-Tik-tik…shomoy kat te laglo, kat te laglo utshober ghor kat te laglo megher aboron, diner aalo porishfuto holo. Kothaye poriborton? Shudhu pantha ke bolchhi mutton aar alu ke potato! Er cheye beshi ar toh kichhui bodlalo na. Phoenix pakhi rup bodle TMC er chhade dana jhaptalo. Dneto hashi heshe gailo shei Phoenix (Achchha nahoy ektu gaan er adhikyo holoi..adote gaite na parle eibhabei toh shokh metaye manush!) “Tobo mukut porilo podo tole haye eki dosha…egg roll e aj shudhui piyaj nai shosha!...” Hyan poribortoner iti katha geye shoalo shey.. “Shuno he bongo shontan shuno diya mon… elo elo bongo deshe poriborton bidaye korile jare bhebe Harmad Tarai phiria elo hoye Unmaad!” Jak unmadonar shompadona korte korte khei harie hothat atke gelam, Sukumar babur ek kobitay! Shey ek bikhyato lok ke nie lekha- Srijukto Babu Hnuko Mukho Hyangla. Amra protyekei ekhon Hyangla babur bongsho talikar ontorbhukto. Akhon ei sham rakhi na kul rakhi doshaye amader bilap rakhar jonyo hoogly nodio jotheshto noy. Rokkhok jetha bhokkhok, shekhane protimuhurto shikaar hoe jawar bhoy thake. Amadero ache. Baam ponthi ba daan ponthi eder otyachar e mrityu oboshombhabi, kintu unmaad ponthider haat theke nistar pawa boroi kothin… Tai amra ekhon chhonde taale Hnuko Mukhor gachher niche boshe geye cholechhi (he he he…ei shesh katha dilam ar gaibo na!hok kotha!) “ “Machhi mara fondi e..Joto bhabi mon die… Bhebe bhebe kete jaye dinta! Jodi boshe daine…Lekhe mor aine… Ei lyaj e machhi mari trosto! Baam e Jodi boshe tao…noi ami pichh pao Ei lyaj e achhe tar ostro! Jodi dekhi kono paji…Boshe thik Majhamajhi Ki je kori bhebe nahi pai re! Bhebe dekho eki daye…Kon lyaje mari taye? Duti boi lyaj mor nai toh!” Tai tritiyo noyon bhule..tritiyo lyaj er khnojei egie pori amra bangali ra! Ki r korbo… kanna kati hollahatir sheshe..raj shontrasher roshe…lyaj ta je boroi proyojonio ! ashun amra agami je kono punyo probhate, lyaj gojanor uddeshe Brigade theke mohakoron ekti nirob michhil kori (gaan gawa allowed!). Apnader shokol ke janai shador amontron. Iti Okal Kushmando

The Beloved

Frail, tall, white saree with red border, betel nut stained lips, thick bordered specs and a pair of very soft palms- that’s my Dinna for you. An excellent cook, a voracious reader, a remarkable story-teller- that’s my mother’s mother for you. An erect spine, a dauntless woman, a quick wit with sparkling humour-that’s Bani Ghosh for you. Yes, she did not have formal education, she did not know how to converse in English, she had no access to internet, and she was averse to mobile phones. She loved adda, she enjoyed roaming about in the brinks of Kolkata, she was a complete foodie, and she had the best knowledge of authentic Bengali cuisine. Back in the 1980’s her adventurous mind took her out to experience the great ratha yatra conducted by IISKCon. Her innocent devotion made her adamant. She had to beat the jostling crowd to touch the rope slinging from the huge motor-driven Ratha. She fell to the ground as the entire Ratha started moving. Her 1year old niece was with her. And the brave lady had to save the little girl from any harm whatsoever. And she let go of her right foot. The spokes of the wheel mangled her foot robbing her of her heel. She did not bother, she did not succumb. She proved all speculations wrong and began walking without any support. That’s my brave dinna for you. She shouldered all the responsibility of a wife, a daughter-in-law, a mother and a grandmother-with an incredible simplicity that helped her through all odds and adversity. My maternal family belongs to one huge big trademark Kolkata clan. They take a lot of pride in the word “bonedi”. And yes the Jorasanko Ghosh’s are renowned in their field. The clan of lawyers in Kolkata with leading attorneys and chief justices in the family- they were the babus of Kolkata. My dinna belonged to a zamindar family of North Kolkata. Brought up with excess of allowance and pamper, she was a princess to her dad. Her dad’s sudden death had crumbled the basis of the empire, and that is when she got married to my dadai and walked into 11/2 Goabagan Lane’s mansion. The 26 year old adapted to every detail of the family. She never found herself out of place. In fact it is she who changed the food habits of the household. Introducing red chili in mutton curry, making the amazing badam makha (cashew paste) with ginger and green chili; she was an immediate hit with the kids and her mother-in-law. Dinna never tolerated nonsense. It would be injustice to my document if I do not share one anecdote that makes me so very proud of the simple woman! My dadai’s mejdada, Shyam Chandra Ghosh was a very short tempered person, who was known for his anger. The entire household used to be a bit wary of his tantrums. One fine afternoon my dadai’s father, a retired attorney, was talking to his second son about his business, standing in the corridor of the enormous kitchen. However Shyam Chandra Ghosh(Second son) was not in any mood to discuss his business with his father. Being a rebel and the odd one out in a family where advocates were groomed he always was a bit defensive about his business. The conversation became a bit loud when the son accused the father of being partial to his other sons; and eventually the father lost his temper and shouted back. This precipitated into something pretty unprecedented. The short tempered man attempted to push his old father on the chest, just then something even more unprecedented occurred. A lady, then barely married for a year or two in the family, lifted the chopper(boti) in which she was cutting vegetable, and pulled this short tempered man by his shoulder and uttered exactly the following “Apni amar bhashur hote paren. Kintu bhul koreo Jodi konodin aar babar gaaye haat tolen morjada longhon korte amio du bar bhabbo na”. (You might be my brother-in-law. But henceforth if you even think of assaulting Father (your father) then I would not take time to forget decorum). It was a pinch of salt on the face of the leech. The angry young man became unusually quiet. Soon, in the evening apologized to his father and to that lady who voiced the protest against him. That lady was my Dinna. She had no idea of feminism, she did not even hear of patriarchy. She was conditioned by the world. She rejoiced when a son was born to the family and always covered her head with veil when in front of elders (ghomta or ghoonghat). But she had the courage to voice her own political bent of mind. She was a communist supporter as opposed to my Dadai who was a hard-core congress activist and a freedom fighter. An unassuming woman, who had seen the India Pakistan war, the emergency, had seen ample death but was not brazen by life. She simply loved life; she was passionate about living it in her own terms. She could love intensely and could laugh and cry aloud. She was never ashamed of anything that she did not know, neither was she unnecessarily modest of her knowledge. She could shout out loud when happy. She could cry out loud when sad. Yet she was sophisticated in her own way, she realized the world of Ashapurna Debi, and analysed it better than many scholars. She believed Sarada Ma existed with her, in her, around her. She never felt intimidated to talk to a picture of Sarada Maa. To her She was as real as Dadai. She had her specialties, which she designed for us carefully, lovingly. She was biased about me. I could somehow never be wrong. No matter how mediocre I am, to her I was a winner, through and through. If I lost in a competition, she easily concluded that it is the organizer’s bad luck. If I won a very insignificant prize, it was no less than Oscar to her. When there was a sudden power-cut she was confident that the system would be restored if I made a call to the electricity board. Whenever we left home for work or for a tour her “Dugga Dugga” (Durga-Durga) was an essential touch. She knew that we would be safe with the utterance of those two words. I would not argue about the logic behind it, but even I felt safe when she said those words. With so much love and care she spoke, I doubt whether any one in my life had ever spoken to me with that much genuine emotion. On the day of every examination after touching her feet, she used to pray elaborately keeping her palm on my head. And that was my strength. It gave the last touch I needed before I left. She has left me, now a year has gone by. But I could not yet come in to terms with her death. There’s a void. Whenever I enter her room, I feel, she has just gone out to the balcony perhaps, would return soon with her signature, betel-nut dibba. I miss her? I don’t know. I feel her, yes intensely. I saw her body being engulfed in the raging fire of the electric furnace. I was numb. That numbness is still with me. I know it is hugely psychotic, but when she was being pushed inside the electric furnace and her shape was being circled by fire, I wanted to pull her back in a sharp fear that she will be in such pain. I guess I could never believe that body was lifeless. How can it be? That lively body, who lived life king size- that person would not breathe again? Dinna has turned me into a dilettante. I know I’d never recover from the loss. I am not sure whether I lost her. In some sub-conscious sleep, during high fever, in very tense moments, I feel her soft palms on my forehead. I can smell her betel-nut fragrance mixed with a typical intoxicating smell of Pond’s dream flower talc. Wherever you are dinna…may you be safe. Dugga Dugga.

Intoxicated…since birth

When for the very first time…I lisped…It was you in broken form. When for the very first time I fumbled the word “Maa” it was you I took refuge in. Toddling my way when I fell and hurt my knees it was you again giving shape to my pain. A pre-teen kid with intense interest in “Nonte-fonte, Aranyadeb, Handa Bhnoda and Feluda” it was you who filled me with thrill, connect and excitement. Like every teenager I too wrote poems, and yes my crudeness, immaturity, deformed narration was again encased in you! How innately you were there when I sat staring at an autumnal sky waiting for Durga Puja or maybe curled up in my bed listening to Rabindra-Sangeet or tapping my foot to a Bangla Band Track. School ended I joined college; I took up English as my major subject. But in every book fair, in every little magazine I smelled you, I felt you. You were the one who made me love literature; fall in love with it…
I have crossed the threshold of student life, entered the world of adults. I am a working professional-or so the society would like to refer. I sit back and wonder sometimes, how could you be such a formidable presence in my life? Perhaps after my mother it is you who encircles my being. My madness for Kolkata, Satyajit Ray, Theatre, Poems, Rabindra Sangeet, Rabindranath-himself, Anjan Dutta, Films, everything…my entire being roots back to you. I would not have been complete without you. If you are not there, I shrink to nothingness. Yes you my mother tongue…my bangla!

I write this piece in English-an apparent irony to what I wrote? No, it’s just that I wanted to communicate to all irrespective of languages…that my language is my foundation. I speak in Bangla, I love in Bangla and I dream in Bangla.
“Moder gorob Moder Asha…Aa mori Bangla Bhasha...” (The crescent of our pride, the silver line of hope...ah…Bangla…my love!)