Sunday, October 22, 2006
Starting of a journey -3
‘What’s this I hear. You are going on giving comments about me?’
The accusation startled me so much that I was fully out of my gears. What’s she talking about? For a couple of seconds I stood there like a statue. Actually cannot be described as standing. I was about to sit on the chair and was in a comic like stance half standing half sitting, looking at her.
But that’s only for few seconds. Soon I tried to get back my poise. Sat down making maximum amount of noise pulling the chair. In the present situation just could not think anything and tried to bring my senses in gear and purposefully looked around as if looking for some one?
My mind started its whirlwind tour; what’s she talking about? When did I talk about her? To whom? I hardly know her. This is only our second meeting. Well actually that’s not true. It’s a fact that our first meeting was a great one. We did hit like anything. We have lot in common. Her passion for literature supersedes mine in leaps and bounds. I am only master of Bengali literature. But she is master of Bengali and English. I have only a couple of poems of Keats, Wordsorth to recite about. But She is doing her honors in English literature.
I did know lot about her and would not have mind commenting, but the truth is; my present state of mind and occupation never gives me any time to talk with anyone about a girl whom, I, well what should I say? Like? Admire? God knows. It’s a fact which I do not like to admit to myself that during last fortnight or so, in flints of moments, when I felt despair, lonesome, thinking about her fresh bubbly face did come to mind bringing some secret joy.
But those were moments of weaknesses. I really did not think about her seriously.
But discussing her with anybody? No way! And ultimately came to the conclusion that she is only trying to pull my legs, which I did not consider a very good conducive thing to do as a starter for lunch.
Observations completed, I brought back my eyes on the other lady sitting there, the originator of this program, my sister-in-law. She eyed me with all the innocence one can expect from an angel. This pretty face is really becoming troublesome for me. Finding no other option, ultimately I eyed Geeta sternly, well actually not so sternly, rather tried to be very casual.
‘What are the comments am I making?’
‘Me being a nice girl’ came the immediate reply.
I could not keep my seriousness any more. A trace of smile came out on my face betraying my resolve.
‘Do you have any doubt?’
‘Off course not.’
‘Then what is the complaint about?’
“Well just liked to get the confirmation from you directly.’ Her bright black eyes are directly on me with all the brightness one can see in a clear autumn sky.
All three of us burst out in laughter. Well not a bad starter for the luncheon meeting.
Suddenly I realized it’s ages since I had a hearty laugh. Life has become so serious now a days that a stern serious mask is set permanently on my face. The world around us is so gray with all the injustices, sufferings, struggle that rarely there is anything to laugh about. How one can laugh when every morning one learns of death of some of his friends, either in a police encounter or in a class war. The whole city of Calcutta and its surroundings areas are in a state of panic. Nobody really knows what is happening.
‘Hey. Hey, Where are you?’
‘Dipu.’
The calls from two voices brought me back to the present.
I just shook my head with a limp smile as if to through away some bad dreams.
‘What are we eating today?’
‘Do you have choice. Same bread, butter and omelets.’
Actually nobody comes here for the food they offer; otherwise this place would have been shut down long back.
I looked around again. The high ceiling. The heritage class ceiling fans moaning, showing their age with every rotation they make. The noise. There is something special about the noise. The hall is always humming with noise. But there is something about this noise, which cannot be described; one has to experience it to feel. The total hum noise creates a kind of privacy. So much noise that you cannot hear anything the young couple whispering sitting on the next table. It gives some sort of privacy. Nobody can eavesdrop on others. That makes everyone engrossed in their own world oblivious to the happenings around
The walls are plastered with posters. ‘Long Live Mao Tse Tung’ , ‘Cheener Chairman amader Chairman – China’s Chairman is our Chairman. ’, ‘Bhulte Pari Baper naam, Bhulbo nako Vietnam – We can forget our father’s name but we can not forget Vietnam.’ ‘ Naxalbari Lal Selam’ so on and so on. There are names of Shaheeds – the boys who lost their lives in the struggle. A deep breadth came out from my heart.
I think we have chosen a wrong place; I thought and felt sorry for the ladies sitting around.
Sister-in-law took the lead. Actually both of them should be a couple of years younger to me but being my elder brother’s wife made her senior to me and she did her best to show off her seniority. Geeta, I presume a born commander. Hence my role became a secondary one.
They were looking at me with a kind of sympathy and the moment I looked back at them they started discussing about the menu, calling the waiter.
I took the opportunity to scrutinize Geeta. She is looking different today. In place of scarlet red she was wearing on our first meeting, today it is a sky-blue saree. Blue is my favourite colour. Specially sky-blue is a symbol for vastness. It has some pleasing, soothing effect. I did not fail to notice she is great in her attire. There is nothing missing, everything is matched in colour and size; eardrops, blouse, bangles even the bindi on her forehead, everything is perfectly matched.
I recollected the song, ‘Neelambaree saree pore neel jamunay ke jai ke jai.- Who is this lady going to blue Yamuna wearing a blue colour saree?’ Looks like the song is meant for her only.
How much time she must have spent preparing for this attire. Actually here I have some serious problem. I simply cannot understand how a person can spend so much time for his/her attire. But that is my problem. And today I must agree, because of her meticulous dressing she has become an object of desire, object of love, object of admiration. I just tried to put her in a drab so-called intellectual dress. Just can’t think of it.
Back to my observation of …what should I call her? Saraswati – no, Lakshmi un, hun, Urvashi? I think presently I should be satisfied with Urvashi, fully geared up. No No Today I think I should compare her with Menaka, at her best to distract the ‘Dhyan – meditation’ of Shiva.
Well, I was thinking about Menaka and forgot about the surroundings. Was I at Agra on the bank of Yamuna looking at the blue saree clad Menaka trying to disturb my dhyan? Was it a full moon night? She was looking even more irresistible under the soft moonlight. The atmosphere being a fairy one, the Tajmahal as the background screen, the soft sounds of waves on yamuna rendering the background music, all under a blanket of celestial white soft moonlight.
‘Hey. You have come for lunch or want to eat me?’ Geeta’s question brought me back to the present.
I don’t know what is happening to me. I was looking at her forgetting everything. I am making myself a fool in front of her.
‘You are looking very pretty on this saree.’ Sheepishly I blurted out.
There ensued a pin drop silence. Both the ladies were stunned to silence, their eyes on me. It seemed like ages.
Oh God, what did I do? I simply did not know what to do next. But I did not need to do anything. Lots of things happened simultaneously.
Exchange of glances between the ladies, one or two glances towards me, my increasing nervousness, as if the world is moving in a very slow motion.
‘Well, nice to know you appreciate the nice things in life. How pity, you never noticed me during last one month.’ My sister-in-law tried to break the silence.
Things improved, smiles appeared on their faces.
‘Well actually I am flattered that you liked my saree.’ Geeta remarked keeping her eyes steady on me, a mischievous smile playing on her face, hands on her saree, adjusting here and there, as if to present the saree in a better way.
At the same time waiter arrived with the dishes thus saving me.
With lots of gusto we attacked the dishes. The lunch moved on satisfactorily with little conversation in between.
‘You must be a regular here?’
‘Used to be.’
‘Why don’t you narrate some interesting incident of your time’?
‘It is always interesting here.’
‘I know, but every generation has something different ‘
‘Well don’t force me out of your generation. I must be only a couple of years elder to you.’
‘Do you think so? When did you last look at a mirror?’
‘Do I look old?’
‘Old is not the word. You look different. How do I put it, SPENT. As if the vitality of your life has gone away. Why are you so sad?’
‘Do I look sad?’
‘Not only sad. Your face has some remoteness in it. The eyes are tired.’
‘Eyes are tired because it has seen too much.’
Again a big pause. Geeta stopped eating looking at me. So am I.
‘Do you really think that you are the only person who has problems?’
‘No, I know everyone has problem. But my problem is that everyone else is not bothered about the problem. My problem is that in this kind of society, where there is so much injustice, how one can keep quite? How one can wish away the reality.’
‘Nobody is wishing away the reality. But life goes on.’
‘Do you call this life?’
‘Then what?’
‘You live in a society where you cannot even attend college daily due to n nos. of Bandh. You don’t know after studying when are you going to get a job, if you get one at all. The mill workers are oppressed everyday. More than 80% industries are either closed because of lock out or strike. Everyday there is gunfight on the streets. Half of the peasant population is waging a war for equal right. More than 90% of the youths are unemployed. There is no social order. Do you really call this a life?’
The conversation went away in an unexpected direction.
‘You know Dipu, Geeta is very good singer. She is expert in Nazrul Geeti (songs composed by poet Nazrul Islam), Sister-in-law tried to divert the conversation.
‘Well, nice.’
‘Does that really matters to him. Nazrul geets are for romantic people, not revolutionaries like him.’
I looked at her and slowly recited
‘Maha Bidrohi rano klanto
Ami shei din habo shanto
jabe utpiriter krandanarol
akashe batashe dhawnibe na
attacharir kharga kripan
bhim ranabhume ranibe na,
Maha Bidrohi rano klanto
Ami shei din habo shanto
‘I, the great revolutionary
will stop only on the day,
when the sky will stop reverberating
with the wails of the suppressed,
when the sword of the tyrant
will no more be drawn out in the battlefield,
I, the great revolutionary,
tired of battles,
will stop only on that day’
Geeta stopped eating and sang,
‘Ami jar nupurer chhando
Benukar Sur,
Ke, shei sundara ke.
Ami jar bilasa jamuna
Biraha bidhur
Ke shei sundara ke
‘For whom
I am the music of Payal,
Tune of the flute
Who is that handsome
For whom
I am the accompaniment of enjoyment
Sufferer of desertion
Who is that handsome?’
Both of us looked at each other.
I felt this is the difference between us. Poet Kazi Nazrul has written inflammatory poems, inspiring youths during the freedom struggle and continues to inspire the youths of this generation. But there is also writer in him who wrote beautiful romantic songs. For an outsider it will be very difficult to believe it is the same revolutionary poet who has written such romantic songs.
‘I believe this is the difference between us. I see Nazrul as a revolutionary, you look him as a romantic poet.’ I said.
‘No, the difference is not between us, it is there in your character. You behave as a big revolutionary, bereft of any emotional feeling. But like Nazrul that is your outer mask. Scratch it and you will find a lovely romantic soul crying for affection, love. And the worst part is that you are such a fat head that you even deny to acknowledge it’ Asserted Geeta with great conviction in a simple, slow but strong voice.
We both kept looking at each other.
The accusation startled me so much that I was fully out of my gears. What’s she talking about? For a couple of seconds I stood there like a statue. Actually cannot be described as standing. I was about to sit on the chair and was in a comic like stance half standing half sitting, looking at her.
But that’s only for few seconds. Soon I tried to get back my poise. Sat down making maximum amount of noise pulling the chair. In the present situation just could not think anything and tried to bring my senses in gear and purposefully looked around as if looking for some one?
My mind started its whirlwind tour; what’s she talking about? When did I talk about her? To whom? I hardly know her. This is only our second meeting. Well actually that’s not true. It’s a fact that our first meeting was a great one. We did hit like anything. We have lot in common. Her passion for literature supersedes mine in leaps and bounds. I am only master of Bengali literature. But she is master of Bengali and English. I have only a couple of poems of Keats, Wordsorth to recite about. But She is doing her honors in English literature.
I did know lot about her and would not have mind commenting, but the truth is; my present state of mind and occupation never gives me any time to talk with anyone about a girl whom, I, well what should I say? Like? Admire? God knows. It’s a fact which I do not like to admit to myself that during last fortnight or so, in flints of moments, when I felt despair, lonesome, thinking about her fresh bubbly face did come to mind bringing some secret joy.
But those were moments of weaknesses. I really did not think about her seriously.
But discussing her with anybody? No way! And ultimately came to the conclusion that she is only trying to pull my legs, which I did not consider a very good conducive thing to do as a starter for lunch.
Observations completed, I brought back my eyes on the other lady sitting there, the originator of this program, my sister-in-law. She eyed me with all the innocence one can expect from an angel. This pretty face is really becoming troublesome for me. Finding no other option, ultimately I eyed Geeta sternly, well actually not so sternly, rather tried to be very casual.
‘What are the comments am I making?’
‘Me being a nice girl’ came the immediate reply.
I could not keep my seriousness any more. A trace of smile came out on my face betraying my resolve.
‘Do you have any doubt?’
‘Off course not.’
‘Then what is the complaint about?’
“Well just liked to get the confirmation from you directly.’ Her bright black eyes are directly on me with all the brightness one can see in a clear autumn sky.
All three of us burst out in laughter. Well not a bad starter for the luncheon meeting.
Suddenly I realized it’s ages since I had a hearty laugh. Life has become so serious now a days that a stern serious mask is set permanently on my face. The world around us is so gray with all the injustices, sufferings, struggle that rarely there is anything to laugh about. How one can laugh when every morning one learns of death of some of his friends, either in a police encounter or in a class war. The whole city of Calcutta and its surroundings areas are in a state of panic. Nobody really knows what is happening.
‘Hey. Hey, Where are you?’
‘Dipu.’
The calls from two voices brought me back to the present.
I just shook my head with a limp smile as if to through away some bad dreams.
‘What are we eating today?’
‘Do you have choice. Same bread, butter and omelets.’
Actually nobody comes here for the food they offer; otherwise this place would have been shut down long back.
I looked around again. The high ceiling. The heritage class ceiling fans moaning, showing their age with every rotation they make. The noise. There is something special about the noise. The hall is always humming with noise. But there is something about this noise, which cannot be described; one has to experience it to feel. The total hum noise creates a kind of privacy. So much noise that you cannot hear anything the young couple whispering sitting on the next table. It gives some sort of privacy. Nobody can eavesdrop on others. That makes everyone engrossed in their own world oblivious to the happenings around
The walls are plastered with posters. ‘Long Live Mao Tse Tung’ , ‘Cheener Chairman amader Chairman – China’s Chairman is our Chairman. ’, ‘Bhulte Pari Baper naam, Bhulbo nako Vietnam – We can forget our father’s name but we can not forget Vietnam.’ ‘ Naxalbari Lal Selam’ so on and so on. There are names of Shaheeds – the boys who lost their lives in the struggle. A deep breadth came out from my heart.
I think we have chosen a wrong place; I thought and felt sorry for the ladies sitting around.
Sister-in-law took the lead. Actually both of them should be a couple of years younger to me but being my elder brother’s wife made her senior to me and she did her best to show off her seniority. Geeta, I presume a born commander. Hence my role became a secondary one.
They were looking at me with a kind of sympathy and the moment I looked back at them they started discussing about the menu, calling the waiter.
I took the opportunity to scrutinize Geeta. She is looking different today. In place of scarlet red she was wearing on our first meeting, today it is a sky-blue saree. Blue is my favourite colour. Specially sky-blue is a symbol for vastness. It has some pleasing, soothing effect. I did not fail to notice she is great in her attire. There is nothing missing, everything is matched in colour and size; eardrops, blouse, bangles even the bindi on her forehead, everything is perfectly matched.
I recollected the song, ‘Neelambaree saree pore neel jamunay ke jai ke jai.- Who is this lady going to blue Yamuna wearing a blue colour saree?’ Looks like the song is meant for her only.
How much time she must have spent preparing for this attire. Actually here I have some serious problem. I simply cannot understand how a person can spend so much time for his/her attire. But that is my problem. And today I must agree, because of her meticulous dressing she has become an object of desire, object of love, object of admiration. I just tried to put her in a drab so-called intellectual dress. Just can’t think of it.
Back to my observation of …what should I call her? Saraswati – no, Lakshmi un, hun, Urvashi? I think presently I should be satisfied with Urvashi, fully geared up. No No Today I think I should compare her with Menaka, at her best to distract the ‘Dhyan – meditation’ of Shiva.
Well, I was thinking about Menaka and forgot about the surroundings. Was I at Agra on the bank of Yamuna looking at the blue saree clad Menaka trying to disturb my dhyan? Was it a full moon night? She was looking even more irresistible under the soft moonlight. The atmosphere being a fairy one, the Tajmahal as the background screen, the soft sounds of waves on yamuna rendering the background music, all under a blanket of celestial white soft moonlight.
‘Hey. You have come for lunch or want to eat me?’ Geeta’s question brought me back to the present.
I don’t know what is happening to me. I was looking at her forgetting everything. I am making myself a fool in front of her.
‘You are looking very pretty on this saree.’ Sheepishly I blurted out.
There ensued a pin drop silence. Both the ladies were stunned to silence, their eyes on me. It seemed like ages.
Oh God, what did I do? I simply did not know what to do next. But I did not need to do anything. Lots of things happened simultaneously.
Exchange of glances between the ladies, one or two glances towards me, my increasing nervousness, as if the world is moving in a very slow motion.
‘Well, nice to know you appreciate the nice things in life. How pity, you never noticed me during last one month.’ My sister-in-law tried to break the silence.
Things improved, smiles appeared on their faces.
‘Well actually I am flattered that you liked my saree.’ Geeta remarked keeping her eyes steady on me, a mischievous smile playing on her face, hands on her saree, adjusting here and there, as if to present the saree in a better way.
At the same time waiter arrived with the dishes thus saving me.
With lots of gusto we attacked the dishes. The lunch moved on satisfactorily with little conversation in between.
‘You must be a regular here?’
‘Used to be.’
‘Why don’t you narrate some interesting incident of your time’?
‘It is always interesting here.’
‘I know, but every generation has something different ‘
‘Well don’t force me out of your generation. I must be only a couple of years elder to you.’
‘Do you think so? When did you last look at a mirror?’
‘Do I look old?’
‘Old is not the word. You look different. How do I put it, SPENT. As if the vitality of your life has gone away. Why are you so sad?’
‘Do I look sad?’
‘Not only sad. Your face has some remoteness in it. The eyes are tired.’
‘Eyes are tired because it has seen too much.’
Again a big pause. Geeta stopped eating looking at me. So am I.
‘Do you really think that you are the only person who has problems?’
‘No, I know everyone has problem. But my problem is that everyone else is not bothered about the problem. My problem is that in this kind of society, where there is so much injustice, how one can keep quite? How one can wish away the reality.’
‘Nobody is wishing away the reality. But life goes on.’
‘Do you call this life?’
‘Then what?’
‘You live in a society where you cannot even attend college daily due to n nos. of Bandh. You don’t know after studying when are you going to get a job, if you get one at all. The mill workers are oppressed everyday. More than 80% industries are either closed because of lock out or strike. Everyday there is gunfight on the streets. Half of the peasant population is waging a war for equal right. More than 90% of the youths are unemployed. There is no social order. Do you really call this a life?’
The conversation went away in an unexpected direction.
‘You know Dipu, Geeta is very good singer. She is expert in Nazrul Geeti (songs composed by poet Nazrul Islam), Sister-in-law tried to divert the conversation.
‘Well, nice.’
‘Does that really matters to him. Nazrul geets are for romantic people, not revolutionaries like him.’
I looked at her and slowly recited
‘Maha Bidrohi rano klanto
Ami shei din habo shanto
jabe utpiriter krandanarol
akashe batashe dhawnibe na
attacharir kharga kripan
bhim ranabhume ranibe na,
Maha Bidrohi rano klanto
Ami shei din habo shanto
‘I, the great revolutionary
will stop only on the day,
when the sky will stop reverberating
with the wails of the suppressed,
when the sword of the tyrant
will no more be drawn out in the battlefield,
I, the great revolutionary,
tired of battles,
will stop only on that day’
Geeta stopped eating and sang,
‘Ami jar nupurer chhando
Benukar Sur,
Ke, shei sundara ke.
Ami jar bilasa jamuna
Biraha bidhur
Ke shei sundara ke
‘For whom
I am the music of Payal,
Tune of the flute
Who is that handsome
For whom
I am the accompaniment of enjoyment
Sufferer of desertion
Who is that handsome?’
Both of us looked at each other.
I felt this is the difference between us. Poet Kazi Nazrul has written inflammatory poems, inspiring youths during the freedom struggle and continues to inspire the youths of this generation. But there is also writer in him who wrote beautiful romantic songs. For an outsider it will be very difficult to believe it is the same revolutionary poet who has written such romantic songs.
‘I believe this is the difference between us. I see Nazrul as a revolutionary, you look him as a romantic poet.’ I said.
‘No, the difference is not between us, it is there in your character. You behave as a big revolutionary, bereft of any emotional feeling. But like Nazrul that is your outer mask. Scratch it and you will find a lovely romantic soul crying for affection, love. And the worst part is that you are such a fat head that you even deny to acknowledge it’ Asserted Geeta with great conviction in a simple, slow but strong voice.
We both kept looking at each other.
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