Monday, June 29, 2020

Let's Talk, Tea




Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears
Today of past regrets and future Fears
- Omer Khayyam

It’s been tough for few weeks and I know many people have it far worse. My family and I are trying to take it one day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time when even a day becomes too much to be planned about. But you know…the bliss of morning air touching your face sometimes wipes off ghosts of slain past, lost opportunities, uncertain future and all those moments held tight in a swinging balance. You sense a warm rush spreading from the tips of your fingers to your chest- a moment you can only describe as feeling free. Few rituals unconsciously drive us to experience a moment like this over and over again. For me, one such little whiles is sipping from my tea cup every morning.

This morning the sky looked overwhelmed with emotion, like there was something folded inside it, something I could see a hundred times over and never tired of it…Deep breaths…I held my cuppa in both of my hands, felt the warmth perfectly, I thought of my father…

Baba would (and still does) the morning’s first cup on his own. Watching my father go through the morning ritual of preparing tea was poetry by itself. At 6:30 in the morning he put the water to boil, fill that boiling water with tea leaves and turned the radio on.  We the two sisters along with my mother used to be half asleep, the rich aroma of Darjeeling tea would fill our entire house. The sound of cup on the saucer, the tinkling spoon swirled and mingled in the morning air. Baba would then sip it in silence while reading the newspaper, alone, unfazed by anything in the world it seemed. His small obsession in a cup, the first few minutes of a day hydrated his mind and soul…

                          Picture Courtesy: My morning tea cup

I kept on holding the ceramic cup watching the rich blackish red colour. I gazed outside my window. Baba has been right, the first cup in the morning is always very special. It brings in its fresh brew the thought of another experience with the blue sky, when I am not my work, I am not where I live or what I own, I am not even my relationships. I am right here, at this moment with few parts of my life have slipped beyond my reach. It tells me that even if my To Do List is long and daunting today, I need to focus on the invisible item at the top of the list: I need to live and the rest is optional.

Each morning I try to get my nose close enough to the rim of the cup so that I can get a clear scent, I take a silent sip and allow it to stay in my mouth for some time. It’s a pattern that slows me down and gives me perspective for a whole new patience to hold on the things that goes missing between the lips and the voice. I sit with my cup soundless and see all the vicissitudes that life brings forth, its pleasures, sorrows, joys and miseries, responsibilities, disillusionment and youthful enthusiasm.

Having my cuppa in early morning light is my way of meditation that helps me in the easiest possible way to look beyond action and realisation the slow movement that life follows only by observing with great care… I sip in silence and words are born.  And as Thomas Jefferson once said,
‘’ I steer my bark with Hope ahead and Fear astern.’’

Friday, April 24, 2020

Living Within



I walked the streets where I was born and grew
And all the streets were new.
Exile, Donald Hall

Dear Saquib,

I wish it is not too late to get in touch with you. I think we still are not individually demented as witnessing an unusually intense era which probably is going to wipe off most of the things that came before it. My life has been redrawn, there’s a massive shift in all the dreams I’ve dreamt so far and the foundations of my interpretations of life – the spoils of a pandemic. These blurred days lost in isolation, this thick air… Hunger strikes, torchlight processions, football matches, adda sessions in road side tea stalls in my city have been snuffed out somewhere or may be nowhere in the planet. As the sun rises I wake up, have my cup of tea sitting by the eastward window of my study, looking at the neighbour’s mango tree. The birds still make their presence felt…uncaged, the early rays still lay on my study desk, the morning radiance still glows like fresh fish scales. The summer has not been quarantined yet. Heck, something that I’ve always heard and smelt for years goes missing. And I blame the virus.

I slouch around my home. It feels like the new definition of universe. Saquib, I cook three meals every day, steamed rice, curries, rotis, fries. I wash my hands like a maniac in between. I obsessively sweep and mop the floor, sanitize the door knobs and the table tops. I’m not sure if it is only to fight the virus or more for getting rid of the stains of crimes that we’ve collectively committed to the elements of the earth which in turn is now on a mission of taming its unruly children. I keep checking the hoarded essentials. I try to confront the drudgery of daily chores with much kindness. But the fear hovers around. And I blame the virus.

The days are long, increasingly challenging with no stanza breaks. I’m in exile Saquib, disconnected, losing certainty in the present. Never before the future seemed so obscure. We are clapping, banging utensils, lighting candles in hope of good riddance. After all you can’t pelt stones to drive away the outbreak. Religion, politics, economy and all the masts projecting the aggressive assertiveness of civilization are yielding every moment to the increasing death count and daily briefings by the Government. The fault lines in family, social structure and above all the absurdity of human beings on earth are becoming effortlessly evident. Indignation mounts up. And I blame the virus.


Picture Courtesy: Google images from theconversation.com

Do you sing these days Saquib or recite Agha Shahid Ali?  In these dark times most of us can seek solace from your Kashmir. Truth be told Saquib, have you ever asked your God to make us live in such crippling blockade which you have been suffering for decades? Haven’t you ever fancied to see the whole world in lock down?  Which is more definitive Saquib, divine forces or scientific discipline? I fear them both.  I’ve become a part of your community, defeated faces wrapped in smoke and we all suffer a common fate trying to fritter away time and horror. And I blame the virus.
Difficult though it is to quantify which can be more damaging to human race state militancy or a single disease prevalent over the whole world, the fact remains that our minds are undone by uncertainty when old harmonies are falling apart under the burden of a seemingly endless turmoil. My city has been turned into a junkyard of half-baked wishes and lives jostling each other to metamorphose it to a burial ground. People are dying like cattle Saquib. And I blame the virus.

Before the sun goes down I sit in my balcony, see the birds flying high…unshackled, I get to smell the sky. I water the plants with my three-year-old son who is vastly unaware of what is going on outside. He is much contended to believe that the earth has fallen tired and needs some time to restore itself. Therefore, both of us are having a long vacation. We sing, we dance, we play, we get to see a moral retreat in each other. The night deepens, my little one coils up in my breasts, I sing a lullaby, he sleeps off. Should I blame the virus?

Our vanity as superior species is crushed forever Saquib. A single whirling disease can annihilate all the shadow lines of class creed or nationality. The slippery guidelines of science and metaphysics seem to be hilariously useless. Someday we’ll all become small personal stories or rather a larger sweep of history. May be we need to deconflict with magnanimity. With bowed head let us accept all our misdeeds and ask for forgiveness to the universal law of sustainability. Let us go deep down, deeper, farther, let us cut and compress, rearrange and rewrite, add and subtract until a door opens with clarity and a light seep out to heal the earth. Let us do not blame the virus.

Meet me in Light, bring me Splendour.
Debasmita.

Monday, April 20, 2020

So! Yes, Again!



I have been working for years
on a four-line poem
about the life of a leaf;
I think it might come out right this winter.
                                       Derek Mahon, ‘The Mayo Tao’

So! Yes, Again!

Hey
How have you been!

After quite a long  here I’m, prepared with the awkwardness and a subtle uncomfortable feeling to pick up where I left off. Truth be told, during these six years I’ve been taught that life is just life and all you have to do is to live it even though sometimes it gets in the way and few things that you find sustaining has to take a backseat. Those days establish a certain quietude in being, in its vibrations. They prepare you for a different consciousness to preserve your energy.  The break in continuity that I took in writing wasn’t really intentional, I really missed it. Even more penetrating was the fact that most of the time I had ideas flying around but I could not bring them to my desk. Strangely I looked at this as phenomena of my self-identification. This moving around of ideas, this coming and going, this gliding, this chasing one another was so full of exciting adventures, completely absorbed in their own stories…

My heart yearns to begin again but I do fumble around where to start. The flux and flow of my language may show you a sense of continual crisis or sometimes fraught with a little music of its own. However, as you’ll see that I’ll keep it real. After all we cannot love every moment we live. Henceforth, my blog will preserve moments of significance, often small and apparently trifling instants or perceptions. These moments actually take precedence over big dramatic events of our life. The long afternoon walks in solitude, coffee with a friend, early morning rays of the sun, sunset by the river or long conversations with your kids: they actually lead us to where we want to be.
Wislawa Szymborska once wrote:
                          Seeing such sights I loose my certainty
                           that what is important
                           is more important than the important.

Dear visitors, time to dust out the cobwebs. Let words flow…
Now, it’s over to you.

Friday, May 30, 2014

Rituparno , A Life Celebrated

Bespectacled eyes, a mass of unruly curls, attired in kurta –pyjama...Kajal-rimmed eyes, Sunset Boulevard turbans, flowing outfit and the dangling earrings...a transformation from Rituparno to being Rituparno and his experiment with alternative sexuality. The things that remained constant were an erudite, articulate disposition with a keen acumen of seducing hyper aestheticism. Rituparno, a life of audacity, a life well-lived with a singular cinematic vision and elephantine knowledge of human relationships layered with vivid dimensions of interpersonal angst. A film director of national and international acclaim, he painted picture with his moving emotional quotient that crossed narrow shackles of reality and provided the viewers with the strength to go beyond.

Picture courtesy: HT
Let me sing a dirge, dear readers, for this soul immortal. Let me feel the inextricable oneness with the intellect and passion that Rituparno epitomizes...


                    Sackcloth and Ashes                                                                                                                                                             
A bloated throat wake me up this morning
Some uncanny resonance with a flash
Mephistopheles at your doorstep. Oh, Faustus!
Leave those scattered contention,
Remnants you found within.

Wriggle your path by those thick evenings
Those penetrating rumination,
Those affable agonies vaccinated into my soul
“I hate life being caged”, you said. Oh, Doyen!
Those exasperated thoughts, hefty forebodings.

You traded your days for grasping inspiration
The unheard whispers, the clenched up faces,
The worn-out fatigue, the palsied rage
The emotions to switch between. Oh, Master!
The world you gave your own translation.

Some covetous landlord, an appalling life,
A vindictive widow or a self-deluded man
A cob-webbed relation with grey eyes
Coveting shadow dreams. Oh, Swashbuckler!
You captured with discarded strife.

Flowering reflection of yours furnished my valise
And made my perception pregnant with musing.
Valediction with sackcloth and ashes,
With a dominion of spirit and impregnable soul, oh, Artisan!
Thou now rest in peace.

N.B. The poem had been published in “The Criterion-An International Journal in English” in its August, 2013 issue after the unfortunate demise of the great craftsman on 30th May,2013.


Friday, February 21, 2014

A Day Reddened

21st February,1952... The day of much bloodshed, the day of enormous vigour, the day when an enraged group of youths moved beyond the shackles of imposed will, only with the purpose of crowning their mother tongue with the glory of a national language. Yes, the Language Movement  was a political and cultural one centred around the question of recognition of Bengali as the official language of the then Pakistan dominion and the reaffirmation of the ethno-cultural cognizance of Bengali people. It was a spontaneous upheaval of the Bengali masses in opposition to Pakistan’s ‘Urdu only’ policy . They braved bullets and died martyrs...

In the darkness of the night when the entire universe is bolted out of my room, let me commemorate those brave hearts with a little effort of mine which makes me render in English few incarnadined lines penned by Abdul Gaffar Chowdhury.


আমার ভাইয়ের রক্তে রাঙানো একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি
আমার ভাইয়ের রক্তে রাঙানো একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি
আমি কি ভুলিতে পারি
ছেলেহারা শত মায়ের অশ্রু গড়ায়ে ফেব্রুয়ারি
আমি কি ভুলিতে পারি
আমার সোনার দেশের রক্তে রাঙানো একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি
আমি কি ভুলিতে পারি।।
জাগো নাগিনীরা জাগো নাগিনীরা জাগো কালবোশেখীরা
শিশু হত্যার বিক্ষোভে আজ কাঁপুক বসুন্ধরা,
দেশের সোনার ছেলে খুন করে রোখে মানুষের দাবী
দিন বদলের ক্রান্তিলগ্নে তবু তোরা পার পাবি?
না, না, না, না খুন রাঙা ইতিহাসে শেষ রায় দেওয়া তারই
একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি।
সেদিনও এমনি নীল গগনের বসনে শীতের শেষে
রাত জাগা চাঁদ চুমো খেয়েছিল হেসে;
পথে পথে ফোটে রজনীগন্ধা অলকনন্দা যেন,
এমন সময় ঝড় এলো এক ঝড় এলো খ্যাপা বুনো।।
সেই আঁধারের পশুদের মুখ চেনা,
তাহাদের তরে মায়ের, বোনের, ভায়ের চরম ঘৃণা
ওরা গুলি ছোঁড়ে এদেশের প্রাণে দেশের দাবীকে রোখে
ওদের ঘৃণ্য পদাঘাত এই সারা বাংলার বুকে
ওরা এদেশের নয়,
দেশের ভাগ্য ওরা করে বিক্রয়
ওরা মানুষের অন্ন, বস্ত্র, শান্তি নিয়েছে কাড়ি
একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি।।
তুমি আজ জাগো তুমি আজ জাগো একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি
আজো জালিমের কারাগারে মরে বীর ছেলে বীর নারী
আমার শহীদ ভায়ের আত্মা ডাকে
জাগো মানুষের সুপ্ত শক্তি হাটে মাঠে ঘাটে বাটে
দারুণ ক্রোধের আগুনে আবার জ্বালবো ফেব্রুয়ারি
একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি একুশে ফেব্রুয়ারি।।


Twenty-first February, sloshed with the blood of my brethren
How can I let it slip from my memory?
How can I be oblivious of February that is piled up with the growls of mothers with lost lineage
Twenty-first February, coloured by the sanguine fluid of my treasured country.
Ooze out all vermin, wake up mighty storm
Let the terra-firma be shaken with the grouse against infanticide.
They tried to squeeze popular demand by slaying the cherished sons of our land
Can you get away with it when the wind breathes an air of revolution?
No,no,no, the decree against incarnadined history of twenty-first February hovers.
That night when the winter was about to cease
The crescent moon caressing the azure sky,
Balmy flowers glistening everywhere like Alakananda
All at once the wind blasted with barbaric vigour
In that gloom the faces of those beasts were revealed
We drench them with our sourest scorn
They set sparks in the breast of our land, choking men’s will
They snapped at the bosom of Bengal
They are not of this nation
They barter the fate of our country
They have robbed the mass of their bares
Our valiant folks are still going to pieces in shackles
The souls of my martyr brothers bewailing.
Let all the smouldering muscles of our men break slumber everywhere
Let us set February ablaze with all blown up displeasure
Twenty-first February, twenty-first February...
p.s. I do take pride in my mother tongue and feel deeply rooted into the country of my forefathers,Bangladesh...  With a brimming happiness now I can say that in 1999, February 21 was declared as the International Mother Language Day by the United Nations.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

A Full Round

What does a year constitute for us? Has it become just a fad to celebrate the passing of one and ringing in of another with handful of resolutions which merely sustain themselves for a couple of days ? Do we really get perturbed with the passing of a year which makes us to be fortunate enough to live for another 365 days? Or we just love to give it a passing glance as the most granted reality?

Endless procession of Q and A starts passing across my already disputed mind (which keeps me irked and excited simultaneously) leaving me with no definite conclusion (now, that has become a part of every query of mine). However, all these incubous and succubous  somewhat in a semifinal way ( as I am a habitual changer of my own line of thought )have taken me close to at least my realisation about the importance of one long year.

Yes, a year as an accumulation of 365 or 366 days in the Gregorian Calendar , now divided into 12 months, reckoned as beginning January 1 and ending December 31st or if you want me to be more astronomically specific then it should be put like,a division of time comprising of 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes and 46 seconds , representing the interval between one vernal equinox and the next. All this cumbersome detailing should better be overlooked as it is another most granted reality which we live everyday. But can we? Should we? Will we? Some will definitely do so and the rest of us will keep on blinking with all doubt and disbelief.

In my growing up years ( I think I am still in that phase though) I heard a saying "Let bygones be bygones" and I have always been suspicious about the value it holds. Can bygones be bygones? Does the past hold no water in our life? Can we just erase it with our present and a more optimistic future?

 Removal of spent days from life has never been easy for me. To be more precise I never want it to be actually as over and done . Past has always remained as a slice of my stealthily developing being fraught with moments of splendour, bliss, uncertainty, hesitation and sublimity. I feel rooted into my existence through my already completed days, each of which has taught me a different story of life.

The year which has come to its threshold has been a blissful one...it has given me some more ambiguity and tried to sewn them with some more conviction; it has given me the lessons of the pleasure of walking through untrodden paths smeared with dust and mud, holding every pace with more firmness. My pounding heart is not really mourning the last few moments that the year is spending with me, it's telling the year, instead " You can never die ... Nobody can make us apart...You are and always will be holding a very special corner in my deepest self... No need to bid adieu my friend"…

Every split second of the passing year deserves my gratitude for keeping me alive with moments fortunate and deprived. The time has come that I should look back and cherish all ups and downs with orange satisfaction.

Oh! Listen...there's my soul is singing with all delight and disquiet, "There's time for another, there's time for anew"...

Monday, November 11, 2013

Homeland

What is to be at home in this world? Is it a person's historical position or the much celebrated conviction of  'same pool of blood' ? The midnight oil kept on burning faithfully leaving me ever vigilant  for getting an answer. After much drilling all I could settle for was the penchant for feeling 'rooted into' , a place which smells of one's desire, the gentle blossoming of early knowledge and not yet fully developed fantasies . It is the land where the diasporic lot wants to come back and die. It is a geo positional entity which exists not only in map but also in mind. Let me put it into some rhymes and give it a name ...

     
                  Coming into Being

    The journey was arduous
    But she kept me in care
    Opening the door to my new being
    Made me feel precious and rare
    Started with a bang I cried,
    "Mother, let me slip into again,
    It seems so barren and dried ,
    Clutched all in vain ."
    Kissed my forehead and blessed the angel
    Held me in coiling hands
    Muttered , "Child you need not fear
    This is your Homeland.
    Kings have come, crowns have gone
    Leaving shadows behind
    Gushes of blood , forces of love
    That'll keep you bind .
    A twitch in heart , a bloated throat
    Leave you with a smile ,
    Away from it in a far away land
    You will feel exile ."


And this careless verse of mine helped me to be landed as  the winner of a Creative Writing Competition organised by British Council Kolkata and Outset India. More than the chunk of  silver what I got was a newly earned confidence to follow 'the road less travelled'...