What is it with places and conversations?

Have you noticed how some conversations get attached to particular places?
I mean real, actual places in the city that you live in.
Or lived in.
Or just visited on work.
Or on a holiday.
May be you had that conversation on phone,

Or with a co-traveller or in your mind.
Does not matter! 

These places just get attached to these conversations.
And when you rethink these,
the place gets replayed in your mind too. 

Once my friend Samik explained a thing about Compact Disks.
He said, "You must not let anybody store a video in a CD.
It mixes up the sound track with the video track."
And he added,
"These can not be isolated from each other.
These, then can no longer be used separately.
They don't give in to the editor's wishes, anymore. 
They have to be presented together. Always."

In that same way,
A highway, a fly over, a park, a subway, a hairpin turn
Get attached to conversations.
They get entwined in my head, in a strange moment of indiscretion.
Then I can't think of one without the other.
Whenever I think of these conversations, 
I see these places, in my mind's eye
And whenever I pass these places physically,
I can not help but remember these conversations.
It is uncanny! Spooks me at times!
But there is no running away from either.

You remember that new part of our city, where an elevated road has been built?
You can see a 16th century monument when you look leftwards.
You recognize that place, right?
I always remember these words whenever I pass by.
"I miss a place that is silent!
"The moment I spot that moment of tranquility, I will call you.
"The moment I am alone in that all pervasive emptiness, I will call you.
"The moment I feel it is one of those moments to do the silliest of things,
I will call you." 

These words play in my mind as I wait for that one call.
And whenever these words appear in my head, I know,
I can turn my head left-wise and spot that monument again.
Even when I am not on that elevated road. 


Then near the river, I always think of food.
That too egg rolls in particular! 
No. Don't laugh! I specifically remember this conversation about
Picking up warm rolls while I was approaching that river. 
I was very hungry that day
And when I am hungry, I repeat this ad infinitum
"I am hungry". "I am hungry". "I am very hungry."
I can not stop!
It was lovely to hear about rolls,'though I knew I could pick none. 
And every time I remember that conversation, the river appears too.

There is also that other road. Pretty nondescript.
It has no claim to fame whatsoever.
But whenever I pass by, even in my car,
I get transported to a slow moving cycle. 
The building moves ever so slowly .
Only this time, I can not hear the conversation. 
They were mostly spoken through eyes.
Or in words inaudible to the world.
And I am part of "the world" now. 

A conversation with a star, reminds me of a forest of tall trees.
I walked up a road while speaking to a star.
When I went back there after 5 long years,
I could not believe I walked that long.
All because of a conversation with a star! 

Some places remind me of my utmost efforts to explain, 
And my utter failures to do so.
Then there is that turn on the way back from office, which reminds me 
A long conversation with a new friend.
This was about a friend who did not quite remain a friend,
When I needed him.
But thankfully, the new friend remained.
And we still talk about him, at times.
Places also remind me of animated conversations to plan holidays.
I have anyway planned more than I have actually executed.

And then there are those roads going to nowhere
That keeps replaying in my mind with that conversation about nothing.
It's the conversation about nothing, that always takes me
To the road going to nowhere.

What is it with these conversations and places?
How do they get attached to each other? 
How does one disentangle them?
How do you forget some while keep some others alive forever?
I have not figured out. 
And guess what? 

I am not complaining!

আমাদের অনেকের কথা

আমি ভীতু।  আমি ভয় পাই
তোর আমার একটুখানি জায়গা কে না মুছে ফেলতে পারলে
যাদের খুশি সম্পূর্ণতা পায় না
আমি তাদের ভয় পাই।

যারা খোঁজে প্রতি কথায়, কথার দোষ
কথা শেষের আগেই ঝাঁপিয়ে পড়ে,
লন্ডভন্ড করে দেয় কথার রেশ
টুঁটি টিপে ধরে যারা প্রতিটা শব্দর, অনুভূতির
তাদের আমি  ভয় পাই।

যারা শেষ করতে পারে না আমাকে শেষ করতে পারার আনন্দ উত্সব
চলতে থাকে নানান আয়োজন, বারো মাসে তের' পার্বণ এর মতই
যারা বেঁকায় আমার শব্দ, শব্দ শিকে গাঁথবে তাই
তাদের আমি ভয় পাই।

যারা ছোট করে। বুঝিয়ে দেয় - আমি কেও না, কিছু না
যারা বোঝায় তাদের কাছে ও তাদের ছাড়া আরো সবার কাছে
আমি শুন্য, রিক্ত, "আই ডু নট ম্যাটার"
আর এই একটা কথাই বার বার বোঝাতে ফিরে ফিরে আসে
আমি তাদের ভয় পাই।


যারা একজনকে ভালবাসে কিন্তু অন্যজন কে ছিন্ন ভিন্ন করতে পিছপা নয়
যারা বলে ভালোবাসে কিন্তু তোমার ভালোর সাথে যাদের আত্মিক যোগ নেই
তাদের আমি ভয় পেতে শিখছি ......
যাদের নিজের সন্তান প্রিয় কিন্তু অন্যের সন্তানের প্রতি মমতা নেই
যারা রক্ষক শুধু নিজের টুকুর, যার গন্ডী আরও ছোট হয় প্রতিদিন
শুধু নিজের স্ত্রী, নিজের সন্তান, নিজের মা বা বাবা
কোনদিন বা শুধুই নিজে ....
এই ক্রমশ ছোট হয়ে আসা মানুষদের আমি ভীষণ ভয় পাই।

আমাদের অনেকের কথা (II)

আমি বড্ড ভীতু রে, ছুটি ।  আমি ভয় পাই
তোর-আমার একটুখানি জায়গাকে,
না মুছে ফেলতে পারলে, যাদের খুশি সম্পূর্ণতা পায় না
আমি তাদের ভয় পাই।

যারা খোঁজে আমার প্রতি কথায়, কথার দোষ
কথা শেষের আগেই ঝাঁপিয়ে পড়ে,
লন্ডভন্ড করে কথার রেশ
টুঁটি টিপে ধরে যারা প্রতিটা শব্দর,
আর অনুভূতির ...
জানিস ছুটি, তাদের আমি সত্যি  ভয় পাই।

যেমন ছোটপিসি শেষ করতে পারেন না, আমাকে শেষ করতে পারার উৎসব।
শুনছিস তুই, ছুটি? নাকি মনই নেই আর আমার দিকে?
চলতে থাকে নানান আয়োজন, বহু বছর ধরে
বারো মাসে তের' পার্বণ এর মতই।
আর শান্তনু বেঁকায় আমার শব্দ,
শব্দ-শিকে গাঁথবে আমায়, তাই।
ওদের দুজনকেই আমি বেশ ভয় পাই।

অনেকে আবার বড্ড ছোট করে রে!
বুঝিয়ে দেয় - আমি তাদের জন্যে কেও না, কিচ্ছুটি না।

তোর মনে আছে, কি ভীষণ চেয়েছিলাম আমি নির্ঝর কে...
নির্ঝর বুঝিয়েছিল তিল তিল ক'রে,
আমি শুন্য, রিক্ত, "আই ডু নট ম্যাটার"!
আর এটাই বোঝাতে ফিরে এসেছিল বহুবার।
আমি ওকে  ভয় পাই এখন, ছুটি।

বিভিন্ন ব্লগ, কবিতা, লেখায় দেখি, কিন্জল একজনকে ভালবাসে খুব।
দীর্ঘ দিন ধ'রে  সেই ভালবাসা ঘর করে আছে ওর বুকে,
ভালো লাগে দেখে ওর ভালবাসা।
কিন্তু অবাক লাগে, সেই একই  কিন্জল
অন্যদের ভালবাসা কে ছিন্ন-ভিন্ন  করতে পিছপা নয়!
আরও অনেককে দেখি রে ছুটি,
যারা বলে ভালোবাসে,
কিন্তু, তোর ভালোর সাথে, তাদের আত্মিক যোগ নেই।
এদেরও এখন আমি ভয় পেতে শিখছি ...

রোজ নতুন ছবি দেয় দীপা নিজের সন্তানের, কিন্তু,
অন্যের সন্তানের প্রতি মমতা শর্তাধীন।
শুভেন্দু রক্ষক শুধু নিজেরটুকুর, যার গন্ডী ছোট হয় প্রতিদিন
শুধু নিজের স্ত্রী, নিজের সন্তান, নিজের মা বা বাবা
কোনদিন বা শুধুই নিজে ....স্ত্রী মিতাও তখন অন্য মানুষ।
এই ক্রমশ ছোট হয়ে আসা মানুষদের আমি ভীষণ ভয় পাই।

তুই ঠিকই বলেছিস ছুটি, আমি বড্ড ভীতু।
আমি বড্ড ভয় পাই।  

একটা দুটো তিনটে মেয়ের গল্প

 মাঝে মাঝে মনে হয় আমার মধ্যে দুটো, তিনটে, চারটে মেয়ে আছে
মেয়ে কিংবা ছেলে, সবসময় ঠিক ক'রে উঠতে পারি না।
কিন্তু আছে মনে হয় সত্যি।  তিন কি চার বা পাঁচ জনা ...
নাকি আরও বেশ কয়েকজন? জানিনা।  বুঝে উঠতে পারি না।

"দু'জন তো খুবই স্পষ্ট", বলতেন জেঠিমা, মুচকি হেসে।
"দুপুরে আমার পাশে শুয়ে ঘুমালো একজন আর
হালকা ঘুমে আধখোলা চোখে যাকে পাঁচিলে দেখলাম, সে অন্য।"
না বোঝার ভান করতাম অন্য দিকে মুখ ফিরিয়ে।
আমি তো নই! শুনব কেন?

"উঁহু! ছেলেই দেখেছি গোটা তিনেক", ঠাম্মা বলতেন দাঁত পিষে
"বোসেদের ছেলেকে ওরকম মেরে আসা কোন মেয়েছেলের কাজ বাপু?
আর ওই নেড়ির বাচ্চার পেছনে দিনরাত টই টই, খড়ি উঠছে গায়ে?
আর কেই বা দেখেছে কোনো মেয়েকে বাপের ঘাড়ে চড়ে ফুটবল দেখতে যেতে!
এর যদি একটিকেও মেয়ে বলিস, এই রইলো দন্ডবত তোদের পায়ে।"
এরকম কথা শুনে মন খারাপ করার সময় ছিল না আমার
মিলিয়ে গেছে ঠাম্মার জানা কথার একশ' পনের বারের পূনরাবৃত্তি।
শুধু কি ঠাম্মারই গলায় জোর? আমার প্যাডেল এর জোর বুঝি ক'ম?

খানিকটা যেন গল্প হলেও সত্যি
ওই একটা, দুটো, তিনটে মেয়ের কথা।
মেয়ে? নাকি ছেলে? নাকি শুধুই মানুষ তারা?
সব গোলানো।  মন ভোলানো।  রঙ্গীন কাঁচের ধাঁধা?
কেও তখনো বসেই থাকে সমুদ্দুরের তীরে
অন্যজন ঘায়েল যখন তোমার কথার বিষে।
একজন রোজ তারায় খোঁজে মায়ায় ভরা চোখ
অন্যজনের থোড়েই  কেয়ার! আর যা বলে বলুক অন্যলোক!
একজনকার নৌকো বাঁধা খোয়াই নদীর ধারে
অন্যজনের নদীর সাথে সদাই বিবাদ বাধে।
শহরতলির ঘরে ফেরে ক্লান্ত একজনা
অন্যজনের নেই সে বালাই।  নেই ক' ঘরে ফেরা।
গল্প বল', সত্যি বল', যেমন ম'নে ধরে
রাত্রি হ'লে অন্ধকারের সঙ্গে সন্ধি করে।

Letters in my Draftbox

There are many letters in my mailbox that would never get sent. Ever.

Image courtesy: Google

So that I never press the "sent" button in a moment of weakness
I have made sure none of them has an address.
Some of them, well most of them, are not even complete!

These letters start and end in one sentence at times.
Fail to go past the first paragraph in others
But sometimes they carry on for a few hundred words.
And still urge me to go on. 
Some try my favorite game of playing with beautiful words.
Some others are plain. They could not care less for adornments! 

Some show the urge to explain and re-explain the unexplainable.
(Is there even a word like that?)
And then stop the effort mid way. 
When has one ever been able to explain matters of heart, 
Especially when its not understood with heart, at the first go.
Some talk about the days long gone and the hurt that they have left behind. 
Its only good that typed words do not get smeared by tears. 

Some were written when I was so angry that I could barely breathe.
This is a trick an aunt taught me when I was a child.
"Write a long letter in your mind, admonishing the person and then tear it to shreds".
"Never actually write it or send it", she said.
I took part of the advice. I type them and keep.
You should forgive the person, never forget the experience.
And I have figured out if I do not keep it written down somewhere
My memory plays textbook Freud with painful experiences. 

Then there is that letter written to Nobody.
And it reads....
"Dear Nobody, I have never held you in your arms
But in the twilight zone of the day, when my old heart gets squeezed hard
And I like to think of it beyond systolic pressure, I yearn for you.
I know you are a nobody. 
But, you still make me long for you.
In the autumn nights when the cool breeze picks up speed
It pushes me towards you. Urge me to run a bit faster.

In these dew drenched nights,
Do you also wake up and feel like walking towards me?
And stop yourself the two hundred and forty sixth time? 
Do you think of this and that and how impossible it is,
Then return to bed, toss and turn,
And go back to sleep at 2.31 am? 
Finally?"

Do you, Nobody?
For I sure have a letter for you in my draft box. 
It would wait till it can not bear the possibility no more.
And then?
Then it would get deleted. 

All characters fictitious

This is a story of two women. They were very different. One wore saree all the time. The other was more comfortable in jeans. One, barely literate, the other, highly educated. One never saw a town before she was married, the other was a true blue town bred. They both laughed a lot!

Punita lives in an area that can not even be called a slum. It is a makeshift house with polythene sheets doing most of the needful, that is when they can. On nights with high speed wind, they can not hold together any more. Punita stays up tending to the sheets then with her three children, now two as one of them is married. The husband helps when he can. When he is in a state to tend to anything. Punita grew up in Rural Uttar Pradesh. Never went to school. Her only dream was to get married and a house to call her own. A smiling and hardworking woman, she got married as a 14 year old. Her husband worked in a big town, they told her. She could not fathom what awaited her in that big city. She, however, adjusted quickly and started working day and night. She would wake up early in the morning to clean cars, work in people's homes, wash dishes, sweep floors, wash clothes, folding the dried ones among many other things. People loved her for her smiling nature. The only problem was her husband drank too much and would pick up a quarrel now and then. She would get badly beaten up on those nights. She did not have time to nurse her hurt. She would wake up early and start her daily chores. It was good that she had these diversions. It made the going easier. 

Seema grew up thinking she will stand on her own feet. It never occurred to her that she could just be a homemaker or a house, as it was called then. In college she said, royally, "Even if my marital family does not need my income, I would still like to earn. I love gifting so much!" She did not know she had it in her head somewhere that her marital family would not need her earning! Or she did not recognize. She grew up in a family where the father earned and the mother tended the house. She wanted to work but did not think much about income. Although her family situation was otherwise. Her parents did not save much and they did not have much parental property, these made it important that she earned to support them. She did not think of this while struggling to make the ends meet in her highly subsidized college hostel. She was married even before her first salary reached home. She got her salary in cash for the first year. Later when she started getting cheques, it used to be deposited in her husband's account. It was a joint account with her Husband as the principal holder. She could not care less. She loved her husband. Her husband loved her. They had a wonderful time together. Not that there was no friction, but she learnt to carefully avoid them. She was a keen learner. 

Punita's husband sent money home to his parents regularly. This was a cause of tension between the couple. Punita resented it as she clearly worked more, earned more and saw her three children in need as this money was sent home. Whatever she saved over months, bit by bit, in her saree's folds, in the old tin box, in the pot near idol of Laxmi, would be either found or she would be beaten black and blue until it was taken out and given to her husband, either for his regular drinks or to be sent to his parents. His parents owned land and some silver. Punita was regularly threatened that this silver would be sold if she did not part with her money. She thought her children's future needs depend on saving that silver and complied. Once she had put together Rs 10,000, a princely sum in the beginning of year 2000. Her husband wanted to send all that home. Every single penny. When she tried to take away Rs 100 from it saying she wanted to buy some savory for her children to eat, her husband threw all the money on the floor and threatened her of dire consequences. He said, he would leave her. He would call her father and in front of him, he would denounce her forever. She could then take her Rs 100 and her three children with her. She cried the whole night but gave away all her money. She cried and sought forgiveness for daring to keep the money. She knew her father would not have kept her anyway. Next day when she went to her usual houses to do the dishes, one of the "madam"s asked about her wounds. She was asked then to get some pictures from home and this madam helped her open a bank account. A joint account with madam at first and within a month an account of her own. She put every bit of money that she saved in it. She did not know how to read and write but she had a sharp brain. When another madam started a literacy class she joined and learned fast. She can now read her passbook and know how much is saved there. Her husband can not. A few years later, her elder daughter took out the passbook out and read loudly, "Mother has 50,000 in her bank!" Her husband heard it. He asked her to part with the money for his sister's wedding but this time she did not. He beat her with bricks. She had a big wound on her forehead. She did not know from where she came up with this logic but shouted, "Kill me! All the money will be taken away by the government. You will not get it all the same." The next morning she was threatened that the silver would be sold. She could not care less this time. "Go ahead!" she said. 

Seema meanwhile gave birth to a daughter. She was too happy to fulfill her parents in law's ambition to become grandparents, However, she really struggled to keep her job. With a small child, in a town where much help was not available for women who worked outside home, each day presented a new challenge to her. The fact that her daughter did not keep good health only added to her troubles. It put considerable strain on the relationship too. Once she had a big fight with her husband. She wanted to read a book for some time and when she raised her eyes to see, her daughter was given ice cubes to chew on. Ice cubes to an asthmatic! Who does that! She was furious. And threw the glass snatching it away from the child. She shook her child hard and picked her to go to the other room. Book was left where it was. She never looked back at that book for that night turned her life upside down. Her husband came to the room and shut the door. He broke a few things to show how angry he was because how she behaved in front of his parents. Seema tried to smile, "Stop creating a scene!" He snarled baring his teeth. "Its no make belief. Its real. Get out with your daughter from my house. Go back to your father. Do whatever you like but do not show me your face." She was stunned as she heard her much loved husband rambling, "All that I have bought with my money, I would take with me. You can take your daughter." In that dark night, Seema realized for the first time, after 4 years of working outside home and being married, she had nothing to her name. If she really had to leave that night, she did not know how she could have survived. She cried the whole night and begged forgiveness. For what? I do not think she was sure. However, she knew she had to stay there. Her father would not have helped her in any case. It would have only added insult to the injury to get him involved who would have surely brought her back to the same house. She traveled to headquarters for work soon. She asked a male colleague to help her open an account for her. She had no identity proof and no address proof. The bank declined opening an account. Her male colleague suggested the same route. A joint account first and then a single account. Seema put her mind into accounts for the first time. It was the first time she decided to bother about her salary and where it is deposited. 

Seema and Punita, two women, and many other women like them, who never meet, never share their stories, who are so different, yet so similar in the lives they live and the lessons they learn about themselves, the people around them and money! May all their stories have a happy ending!

খুশি

আমার মাথায় কিছু বানানো খুশি আছে
সচ -নুমা। সত্যির মতো। সত্যির থেকেও সত্যি। 
বছর বছর দৈর্ঘে বেড়েছে এই খুশির লিস্ট , 
যোগ হয়েছে নতুন সব খুশি
সব আমার মাথায় ......

বাড়ি ফেরার খুশি, আব্বুর সঙ্গ পাবার খুশি 
মা এর সাথে লম্বা গল্পের পা ছড়ানো সময়ের খুশি 
শান্তির বাড়িতে স্বস্তির খুশি। 
তোমার হাত ধরে সারা রাত তারা দেখার খুশি
নিঝুম রাতে খুব কাছাকাছি শুয়ে.. পিঠে নরম ঘাস।

আরো অনেক বানানো খুশি আছে আমার
তারা ভরা রাতে খাটিয়ায় শুয়ে দড়ির বুনুনির মত করে বোনা
দীর্ঘ দিন ধরে, যত্ন ক'রে, যেমন করে ফুল তোলে কুরুশের কাঁটায়
তেমনি বুনেছি আমি এই সব খুশির স্বপ্ন , এমনই মন দিয়ে
অসাবধান মুহুর্তে ভেবে ফেলি, সত্যি।

এতবার শুনেছি আমি সবার মুখে
মনে হয়েছে এই সমস্ত খুশি আমার ও আছে।
একটা শীতল কোল আছে। কিছু স্নিগ্ধ দুপুর আছে।
আর আছে গাছে ঘেরা একটা মস্ত তাল পুকুর
যেখানে ডুবে যেতে মানা নেই।
শিউলি ফুল ভরা উঠোন আছে বুক হু হু করা সন্ধ্যের জন্যে।
"তুই এগো রে! আমি আছি সাথে ",
এরকমটা যেন আমিও শুনেছি মনে হয়।

মনে হয় এমন সব সত্যি হয়েছিল'
সত্যি দেখেছি তারা তোমার সাথে রাতভর
শান্তি পেয়েছি রাতের শিশিরে আর শিরশিরে হাওয়ায়।
চাইলেই আবার ফিরে যেতে পারি। যখন খুশি!
ভেবে ফেলি, সত্যি একটা ফিরে যাবার বাড়ি আছে আমার পরবাসীদের মত
সেখানে সত্যি আছে, স্বস্তি আছে। আর আছে নিঃশর্ত ভালবাসার আশ্বাস।

সচ -নুমা স্বপ্নময় খুশির এই এক ভীষন মুশকিল!
মাঝে মাঝেই সত্যি মনে হয়! 

A lay person's account of mental illness

I was reading the latest post (http://bellejar.ca/2014/08/18/airing-my-dirty-laundry/ ) on a blog I follow and found these lines:. "For many people with mental illness, talking about it is the first step they take to recovering. But they’re not going to talk about it if no one else talks about it, you know?"

...and it got me thinking. Did not one of my favorite bloggers miss an important step? How about admitting to themselves first that they have a problem? Then comes talking about it, right? But then I could not agree more when she said "Everyone knows that mental illness exists; everyone knows the devastating effect that it can have, both on the people suffering from it and their friends and families. This is not new information – it’s something that we’ve known forever and ever. But the hush-hush way we’ve developed of discussing it and dealing with it clearly aren’t working. So let’s finally start talking about it, because that’s the only chance that we have of beating it."

Thank you for raising it. Let's talk about it. I would also talk about caregivers. And the supposed caregivers. Because to be a caregiver you need a person to at least vaguely recognise he/she is in need of care. Here the one in need often denies being in need. I had some first hand and some borrowed experience. Some I knew completely denied any existence of any problem. The others had inkling from time to time. And some others sought regular treatment.

 The other day, my friend wrote from USA. Her friend needs support. This girl's parents are severely depressed. They did not like to wash up now anymore. They were blocking everyone even hinting at getting support. Instead they want their only daughter to divorce her husband, leave her children in USA, come back and stay with them to take care. No. She can not come for a short duration to help them. They think their only daughter being away is the most unnatural thing that could have happened to anyone and feel most justified in feeling a sadness that crippled their everyday life. If this can not be corrected, they would like to remain sad. 

A friend of mine was constantly pushed to get married by his father who blamed his depression on this friend. His bad mood had only one cure; my friend's marriage. I wish it was this easy. We talked about the ridiculousness of it knowing there were far deeper reasons. Now that his father is no more, I know the loving son that my friend is, he would feel the pinch of this unfulfilled wish. However much he knew that his marriage was no way responsible for his father's sadness.

Another friend's mother suffered from bipolarity. She also lived two lives between her workplace and home. In her college she was very popular. At home she was a monster whom all of us feared. Our friend had a pretty horrible childhood. She literally ran away to another city in pretext of work as soon as she could get a degree. Just to get rid of that killing negativity. Her mother held this against her till she was alive. She called her selfish for choosing to work outside that city. No. Her mother was not a single woman. Now that her mother is no more following a massive heart attack, this friend examines and re-examines whether she was really selfish in leaving her parents behind? She often tries to picture her mother as a nice, warm, loving woman in her conversations with us.  Some of us have been with her through this journey and find it hard to take. However, we hear her patiently and keep our sighs well hidden. It may be her way of coping. We often wonder whether she needs help.

Then there is that identified someone who is the root of all the problems. This identified person changes from time to time but it is always someone else. At times more than one. And that is part of the illness, right? The person sees the source of all his happiness and sorrows outside himself. Someone else causes them. Everything that she does is done for others. Every time he feels bad is because of situations created by others. She feels constantly controlled by others. He feels constantly pulled into other's agenda. Its a tough life. Can you even imagine living that nightmare? Its a struggle to wake yourself up everyday. To get ready. To go to a office that you hate. Especially when all you want is to sleep. Scary. Isn't it? 

But, have you tried sitting on the seat of those supposedly creating this unhappiness? Being those who are constantly causing pain? Or being those who have pushed them to do these terrible things that they are not happy about? And tolerate this almost forever? Then you would know what I am talking about. Have you tried to make things alright? In all your naivete somehow believed if you find a solution to this one problem, things will be better? Have you constantly tried to change your life, curbed your idea of happiness, limited your ideas of living because you wanted to see the other person happy? And have you given up, finally? After years of trying to make someone happy and then trying to help recognizing the issue and then trying to take them to a doctor and trying to make them follow the treatment plan and giving up, finally? Have you run for your life? Have you felt so sucked into that environment of negativity that the only way to live, seemed to run? Or have you accepted their wish and let them move away? Then you know what I am talking about. At the same  time you also know that if they seek help at a moment of desperation,  you will stand there again. You will run to be of help. 

If you have gone through any one set of these experiences, you would appreciate it so much that there is movement to recognize depression as a major illness. Depression however, is the most treatable of all the mental illnesses. It has the best prognosis. Please seek professional help. Do not self diagnose. Do not prescribe medicines to each other. Counselors being churned out of short courses scare the hell out of me. More so when I hear experiences of some of my courageous friends who have tried to visit a so called psychological counselor in India. Please take good advice. As people discuss depression, I would also urge all of you to raise consciousness about other mental illnesses.  There is not enough awareness on other mental illnesses like bipolarity. It does not have a good prognosis, especially if the patient is non cooperative. Or the DSM II category issues. Popping a pill will not help always. That brings me back to the caregivers. There is tremendous pressure on them. Unsolicited advice is part of their every day life. They are made to feel guilty about the unhappiness of their spouses. It is in any case difficult to manage a patient who is not cooperating and not responsive. Its not only a thankless job, a caregiver often finds himself or herself completely isolated from the patient. She/he gets blocked out. And the pressure of keeping the household going with children, senior members in need of care is so much that one feels one would break down any time. Therefore the caregivers need good advice too. They need support too. There is a need for support group for caregivers, where you can discuss feeling wretched in a guilt free manner and get support. Do they exist?

Dreams

Do you dream? What is your dream? 

For everybody has a dream,
Actually many different dreams.

And these dreams again are of many different kinds.
You may dream many a dreams in a lifetime of dreaming!

They say, when you are too tired, you sleep dreamless. 
I have never slept dreamless.

May be I have never been too tired to dream.
Some dreams keep you awake.
And with some others?
You try hard to fall back asleep so that you can start dreaming again.

They once said dreams are black and white

 But then they changed their mind about it.
My dreams never followed their opinion. 
Sometimes they appear in rainbow colors as if you are looking through a kaleidoscope
At times they are all grey as if no other color is left in the universe!

They also say we can not create a new face in our dreams.

May be that's why your face keeps appearing in my dream.
I do not remember the last time I met you in person.
I do not think of you in real life
I can not tolerate the possibility of meeting you again
But in my dreams your entry is abundant ...
Why? I have still not figured out. 

Some dreams recur. Like that big ball of salt in my dream
It starts rolling towards me as I run down a slope.
Neither the slope ends nor the ball stops rolling
I pant and sweat and lose all my breath
I do everything to get rid of the salt ball,
And then wake up breathing heavily. 

At times life imitates dreams.
In a kind of your dreams you start at a train station and wait for the train to arrive.
All excited, happy and full of anticipation
You board the train with others, chat, eat, chat some more.
You walk up and down the carriage but
Never reach your destination.Never.
They say, you never reach anywhere in your dreams
What they did not say, your life imitates the dream at times.  . 

And then there is that dream....
I have finally pushed aside all of your work, 
The synthesizer and the rest of the world..
And finally been able make some space,
In that small single bed by the window  for me.
The possibility keeps me awake the rest of the night...

May be another time....may be in another life....

যাই তাহ'লে?

কষ্ট দিলাম? যাই তাহ'লে?

অসময়ে, অযাচিত,  এমনি এসে
দুঃখ দিলাম ?
যাই তাহ'লে?

দুপুর বেলা কড়া নাড়ে
দুঃসহ সুখ।  অবোধ কারণ!
অসহ্য প্রেম। নানান  বারণ।
শোনা সবই উচিত  ছিল।
কড়া এবং কড়া শাসন।
কষ্ট দিলাম না শোনাতে?
যাই তাহ'লে?

দুঃখ পেলে, না চাওয়াতে ?
চেয়ে এবং না চেয়ে কি ক্লান্ত হ'লে?
নিজের সাথে যুদ্ধ করে, অকারণে
পাগল হলে? শান্তি গেল'? আকুল হ'লে ?
কষ্ট পেলে ? যাই তাহলে? 

Smells

Smells always told me more than I could see.
Well! almost always...
As long as I remember, I smelled sunshine, rain, heat and dampness.
Even indoors. 

I could smell rain in parched afternoons when no rain was in sight.
When the whole world felt completely exhausted and fell silent in a slumber
I pressed my cheek hard against the iron railings in our small balcony
And smelled with all my might for rain, through the thick sheet of sunlight
that makes you go blind by its brilliance in the mid-summer day....
I knew if I could find that smell of rain, the whole neighborhood would wake up
Like the enchanted city that woke up when Sindbad killed the wicked witch.

I could smell days of the week.
Mondays smelled of detergent, fresh uniforms, polished shoes, 
but it also smelled of routine.
Thursdays smelled of sweat. 
The uniform could not take it any more, neither could I.
Thursdays also smelled of incense sticks. 
And it did not smell of blood as I passed the fish market, on my way to school. 
Just some fishy smell from yesterday. 
Sunday had the best smell, as I woke up to the smell of Sun.
I refused to open my eyes till I smelled it.
On the days it rained, my mother was cajoled to bring me a cover,
as the household stirred in our two bedroom flat.
On those Sundays, another smell woke me up - 
A whole neighborhood smelling of mutton curry!

The home also smelled different in presence of different people...
I knew my father was home when I could smell boot leather.
One of my favorite authors could smell old age.
I on the other hand, could sometimes smell uncomfortable joint living..
I realized it much later that one can. One actually can!
The pungent smell in beautiful homes 
That all of a sudden makes you sick in the stomach.
The stale air. Have you felt it?
Open the windows, leave the doors ajar, 
The smell refuses to go away.
It sits on the words exchanged, lips upturned, frowned looks in those houses.
between the framed photographs on the walls that are not looked at,
Not cared for. 

I can not smell love though. Not anymore. 

It smelled of rain at one point in time...
Then of thunderstorms.
Much later like the star-filled nights of late autumn. 
It once smelled of warm bed and smoking hot coffee. 
Not anymore. Now I can no longer tell love from no love.
I have lost the identification of that smell now. 

Now, it all seem similar....
Love and denial of love, care and no care, trust and no trust.
They sit so close that they are mingling in my head. 
The boundaries are getting blurred...
They increasingly smell the same. 

Nonetheless, I trust smells to tell me much more than I can see.
Always. 
I finally found why!
The other day when I visited a winery,
The guide urged, "Use your nose. 
Your tongue can only identify six basic types.
Your nose? One trillion!"

How do you learn?

Where did you learn about love?
My kid sister learnt about it from a yellow frock
A frilled frock with L O V E embroidered in red.
She called it "lovee" frock (greedy in Bengali)
She made the connection with desire early.
She only wanted her "lovee" frock on special evenings.

Where did you learn about love?
In the tenderness of your mother's words..
As you fell asleep on your big brother's lap
As you hugged and then missed your grand mom forever
In that smell of her wet clothes, in those veined fingers
That you played with in summer afternoons.
Or as you sat on that front rod of the bicycle of your favorite uncle
Where you were perched safely and rode humming "John Henry"
And imagined your uncle to be no less than the folk hero.
What if none of this ever happened to you?
How would you learn about love, then?
What would guide your idea ? Who would tell you about it?

Where did you learn about hugs?
Was it from that back thumping friend of yours
Who casually kicked your butt with a leg folded backwards as you walked side by side
Was it from him that you learnt you do not have to worry about your body to hug?
Or from that baby who after quietly lying in your arms for months
decided to raise his hands to give you an embrace in no unclear terms.
Was it from him that you learnt that hugs can be happy, unconditional and unhesitating?
Or was it from the woman who always "win"s?
She came from far east and hugged to change my world.
I wish I could hug like her. Always unconscious of my body!
I wish I could touch the soul like she always does.
Bodies do not matter!
And if none of this ever happened to you where would you learn about hugs?
Would you still learn about them?

Where did you learn about laughter?
Was it from that black and white shot of your mother?
It seemed she would come out of that picture, any moment
You can almost hear the laugh she laughed that afternoon.
What if your mother did not believe in laughing out loud?
What if she believed you are not to make noise?
Where would you learn about laughter then?
May be from that gang of girls? Nah! what would giggling girls know about laughter!
May be from those young boys? Nah! that hyena calling is very far from a laughter!
And if you do not...
Would you then look starry eyed at men who can laugh that full throat laugh?
Would you be at awe of those high-fiving women laughing their heads off?
Would you still find these...umm..them.. normal?

Now a days picture of a child forms in my mind
Who played with cars incessantly while others remained busy with knitting and pets
With their school and exercise copies, their so called work
As their own growing up did not get over....
They remained busy.
The child never made many friends and never looked for a hug
She knew none was coming!

I wonder would he ever learn about love, hugs and laughter?
Would he look for any? Ever?
Would she turn her head the other way
And doze off.....
I wonder...

The one you could send away

I am being sent away. 

Again!
For the umpteenth time.
Who was I this time?
Who did you send away?

That girl who sat with you all through your journey 
When you traveled from Sawantwadi to Pernem.
That young girl whom you’d love to see again.
You felt forever grateful to the booking clerk
For giving her a seat beside you.
You could view the beautiful Konkan landscape, together.
Through one wide carriage-window.
And you thought, "All my life beside this girl
I’d gladly travel through the world."
Alas! She never looked back.

Or that girl whom you met near your door?
She needed to know her way in Karachi
and lost her's into you.
You had told her, you were to marry someone else.
And you shared nothing beyond the oral pleasures.
"I am a shy man", you said. "Do not expect much". 
She persisted. But then one day, decided,
Downtown is not somewhere she wanted to go anymore!
She had made up her mind.
And this, even before you, yourself could actually marry and move on.
She did not care any more about your pleasures 
And pleasurable pains.
She sent you off! 
She went the way she came. Sudden. Just like that.

Looking for another way perhaps.
She defied every logic. 
Were you trying to send her away this time? 

Or, was I that classmate? Your first love?
She admired you with her eyes in a way that
Her eyelashes brushed your cheeks every time you looked at her.
She lit up the deserted streets in the spring evenings by simply walking through them.
Sudden showers seemed her forte.
They were at her beck and call. 
But then she grew up and realized you did not!
She studied hard. 

Moved to a bigger city. 
A city pregnant with possibilities...
Where you became a memory for her. 
Was I that girl when you sent me away this time? 

I came to tell you stories.
There are so many tales to tell you still.
A part of me wants to sit with you and tell you
About a wanderer at heart who built a peaceful home.
Unhurried. Sun and clouds take their time lazing there. 
And about these strong, upright women 

Who love being enveloped in friendly hugs.
A globe trotter who leaves herself in her motherland.
She comes back every time to find her, again!  
About a wounded heart who loves protecting others'.
About someone struggling to get out of a maze...
How they push inch by inch and do not give up!
I thought of telling you about dreams, 

About forests, and rivers...
And of course people.
Stories are almost always about people.

But I will tell you none of these.
This time, I will let you send me away.
I want to go away precisely when you ask me to
And I would hope that it helps. 
I hope it settles the score! 

One final time.

Although, I know scores can't be settled that way..

But still I would...

Because I believe, 
Once you see you can send away too,
And go away when you want to..
You will find a way of getting back.
To yourself.

The vanishing act

As a young girl I really wanted to learn the vanishing act!

I liked to think some day nobody will find me ever again. 

Nowhere!
I wanted to test whether my parents would be anxious for me.
I wanted to see whether my sister would stop eating.
But my wish could not be fulfilled!

It was not only about disappearance, right?
I had to be there somehow to witness 

All the things that could  happen in my absence.
The only recourse was the vanishing act!
And I was sure I could master it, somehow!

Some day!

"May be the secret of the vanishing act was some kind of a potion", I thought.
And of course, acted on that thought.
I mixed a popular antiseptic liquid in salt water
And added some broken egg shells for the effect...
I only ended up spending a few days in the hospital.
Parents did not cry...

They were angry!

And I was shared.

Playing in the beach during summer holidays,
I used to dig up the sand
and then go in and meticulously started covering myself feet upwards
bit by bit by bit...
I wished a miraculous knowledge would dawn upon me
And while covering every inch, every part of my body
I will find a way to cover my eyes and still see through the mist of sand.
But that did not happen.

I could run away from home,  I had thought about it.
I actually planned it in great details.
I even acquired a big bunch of incense sticks that I could sell for a living.
I calculated if they are sold per piece, I could live on my own for 2 full days!
But then it would not have been possible to see what was happening back home!
I had to abandon the project.

I came closest to vanishing, by climbing the overhead bunker at home one day!
I was looked for and not found the entire morning.
And I could see it all.
They just did not look up.

They did not think I could climb up.
I jumped from my hideout after some time to surprise them all.
I feared if I stayed any longer, returning to real world would not be possible

Without experiencing some real pain.

My fear came true though..

My mother made sure that
I felt it on my body; how she felt in her heart!

Or that was what I was told at least. 
That was the closest I got to vanishing!

It is only later, 

After many years, 
I learnt that every human being can vanish.
Every one actually know the vanishing act.
From the very first day. 
It is a talent that they are born with.
They appear and disappear at their own will.

Bodies have nothing to do with it.

And I? 

I can do that too.

In pursuit of a search

You tire me!
You and your meaningless blabber
I never thought I can get tired of words
Till I heard you in this Avatar.

I thought, words are my friends forever
They are my best confidante.
Words were my best bet in making a connect...
Until I heard you speak,
About loyalty and admiration
About celibacy and diversity
About feminism and filiality
About politics of sociology and sociology of politics.
(You gave these words a different meaning, altogether)
And finally, almost always, about us versus you, 
Which in reality turned out to be: 
You, versus the whole world!

Avatars they were...
You gave mythology a new lease of life!
It kept me amazed and intrigued for long.
Like the Loki himself, you changed from
A Salmon to a Mare, a Seal to a Fly..
And I kept scrambling from Roman to Vedic to Norse
To find some semblance, to get some meaning.
I found a new name and a new story every single day!

I also discovered my self (in the process).
Or did I just get confused about the real me?
Who was I, for you?
I, the whining one? Or the stony one?
The flirtatious one, or the stern one?
The well read one, or the dogmatist?
I, the humanist? or the feminist? 
(And wondered if they were so different from each other)
I realized, at last that you could just agree on one thing
I, on the whole, was never ever "the good enough one"!
And "that" was good enough for me, in the end.

You made me tired, till then, 'though.
With your lack of interest first and then the laments.
The laments that filled my evenings and the afternoons..
Like that "Pity to do it" bird in my backyard.
I could neither ask the spring to go away 
Nor could I tolerate this incessant lament.
Pretending dead seemed like the only option
For years...

As I rise from my ashes now 
And I look for myself, I know this search can take long.
This can even be lifelong, as I evolve everyday.
As I look for who I really am, I know one thing for sure
I am almost never the regretting one.
And that bitter broth, that you carry deep within
You can not make me take that. Ever.

My home town

Any motorcycle ride back in the streets of my hometown hurls me down the memory lane at such a speed that I hardly get time to breathe. How unfair! Why would it be successful even after all these years to make me relive my life 2 decades back? The cycle rides in groups, sudden rains that left us completely drenched, the long conversations about nothing in the street corners and all those forbidden things of those times that make me laugh now, the long rehearsals of a play that was never staged and the love that was not to be mine!

No, I would not say it was a time of no care. It was not. We had too many worries. Sudden tests at the tuition classes and more than that of the low scores that used to be announced in front of the boys one was trying to impress! The intense desire to chat longer with friends and show how one is not scared of the parents at all! And then worrying endlessly about reaching home later than usual and the scolding that awaited one there! Or the questions that I, wanted to ask my father and was not allowed to do so. And the answers that I had for my mother but had no way of mouthing them without causing the third world war in the household. All the restrictions and scolding did not make sense at all! They don’t even now! Therefore, most of my memories ask me not to go back. I love the freedom I have today. And above all I am happy I cleared my 12^th standard exam at one go. I don’t want to try my luck again!!

Then why the streets of my home town makes me want to go back to the friends who are not friends any more, to the houses which are now inhabited by unknown people, to the love that means nothing for me no more. Why the street next to the City library would without fail remind me the lines read and not read on the way to the library and back but not in the library? Why would it make me remember the filmy numbers that I hummed to the star filled sky while riding a motorbike with Baba? While passing through the street next my school, why should I always remember a particular evening when the street lights played along? This time I even remembered a long cycle ride with a few friends to my friend’s street just to get a glimpse. How silly! Yet how memorable! And then that morning when I noticed him on a scooter and he did not and hence came back looking for me. He bumped on to a divider and fell down from his scooter while looking for me. We both laughed a lot! All these and much more which have no relevance now. They are just memories of a distant life. So distant that it seems like another life!

My home town makes me way younger! And it makes me think everything can be started afresh! I feel confident to make mistakes again. Why do I want to relive all those sweet nothings? And arguing as if the issue really mattered! Is it because now-a-days when I forego fighting back even at the cost of feeling terrible about myself and tossing and turning in bed at night, I miss the spirit of that girl who lived in my hometown?

P.S. This was written in May, 2012.