Sharp Bend; Go Slow: Taking notes on forgotten pasts

Ecstasy ends in the blink of an eye when you navigate the sourness of existence rather than being in the momentary glimmer. It is necessary and also significantly pointless.

My life has always been an unscathed journey of jotting annotations within meaningless scribbles on the back page of a notebook. A few months back, when I used to work at an art curating organisation, I came across a gallon of old antiques (paintings, books, manuscripts, sculptures etc to be specific) from bygone centuries. I have wondered then, what memories do these elements hold within themselves? Do they fumble syllables to escape or recollect of past once they are stacked in a dark room for further scrutiny which we also coin as 'Archiving'? 

Memories have their toll of exhaustion. Memories tire. Memories burden our heads. Momentarily we confuse the lightness of nostalgia to be our kin. However, they feed on us. Feeds upon the flesh of the left behind days distorting our hypotheses. This is something I draw out as a conclusion when the memories of the past days wrench my limbs and thoughts. As severe the grip of the past clutches my throat, the more I escape with pessimism. 

However, as the dusk rolls down with the dozing sun, I lean over the terrace railings to look down and gaze at a small patch of algae growing on the wall of an emptied abandoned house. The house used to belong to a family of four. A lot of people came to stay as tenants in that house after the owners left. Yet the intrusion of a batch of foreign beings couldn't taint the existence of those who owned the space. That's what memories do. They never let the lot go vacant. Occupancy leads themselves to one's body as a growing fetus. 

When I was 8, I went to Uttarakhand on my family vacation. Most of the hilly routes, hushed snow-capped mountains, woolly jackets, untied shoelaces, and the crackling sound of the bonfire wood have been brushed off from my memories. I do remember the earful I used to get for puking at higher altitudes for my motion sickness. I never mind them though. What made me laugh after 16 years of that trip is that I still remember the song or a few sets of songs our driver used to play in the car all through the course of our journey. His name was Vinod, a jovial man who told us how he got married recently then and showed my parents and grandparents his wedding picture which he carried in his wallet. I remember, that how he used to play those same batches of songs again and again every day on the stereo, without pausing a bit. Surprisingly we never got bored of it. To be very honest, we did take pleasure in those 'pahadi' songs.  

A few days ago, while I was going restless in my bed as I was failing miserably to sleep in the night and the dawn was about to break, I was suddenly reminded of those 'pahadi' songs long gone and lost in the sharp bend of the hilly roads of Uttarakhand. Shuddering in my memory lane, I took my phone and typed the songs describing their scenarios on the search bar on YouTube. Oh, let me mention it here, my dadu(s) were so pumped up with those songs that while returning from our trip, they bought a DVD of each of those 'pahadi' songs which contained music videos of those songs as well. They worked as a useful round of detox for our post-vacation blues back then. Surprisingly, I managed to get or successfully managed to find two of the songs from that playlist on YouTube!

Watching them after a fair good decade of highs and lows, misery and magic, loss and longing, I was struck with a gush of mountain breeze; projecting me chunks of visuals which I believed that I almost had forgotten. I do remember those sharp bends embedded in my memories like an affectionate dose of a lover's kiss. Have I ever thought I would return to those days when I was accompanied by a group of complicated yet caring beings? Or have I ever thought in my slightest moment of inhibition that most of them won't be around me anymore? Nevertheless, this time memories didn't threaten me with their sharp claws deterring me from falling behind. It held my hands as a sign of strength. Memories are a token of reminder of your days of survival. It tells you once in a while and lets you shine in glory about your mark till the end of your race. 

In the bleakest moments, I still remember the way I fell asleep in my grandfather's lap in the car soaking in the October sun rushing like a fountain on my face and fist resting on his old knees. I remember my father, nagging me and my sister to wake up early so that the three of us could take a walk around to sink ourselves in the scenic magnificence of the Garhwali aura. Those moments have gone along with the wind. I don't know where those DVDs are, nor I don't know where Vinod is. Still, the songs on his playlist kept the last strings of our handful of shared days, which I won't ever get to live again. My gratitude to him, the sharp broken roads of Uttarakhand and my deceased kin who let me live in the bubble of happiness so that their absence can continue to breathe with my trudging existence. They live as long as memories live. Memories never die. They fill in the silence when words fail. They fill in the void when love fails. They fill in the joy when life fails. 

Here are the links (tap on the names) to those two songs which I found on YouTube:

1. Pahar Chuti Ge: This is a song about a little boy leaving his hometown behind and taking on a journey to the city to work in a roadside hotel as a service boy to make ends meet for his family. The song projects child labour and also one's agony of ending ties with the comfort of childhood innocence.

2. Meri Pitro ki Basayi: The song is a lament of Garhwal and its lost glory and culture as the singer recalls the greatness of his forefathers and the river of Uttarakhand. 

Note: These are my observations which I have deciphered from the videos. Any other surmise is heartily welcome. 

Shrestha :')

 

The Journey of Indian Postcards

The Indian Postcard (Image Source: UX Planet)

The journey and the history of Indian Postcards are long and intricately connected with the evolution of the Indian Postal service. Though the communication services in India have their roots connected with the system of exchanging state messages through pigeons in the earlier days the present postal system is framed in the structure after the Colonial age came into existence in India on 31 March 1774. In the year 1837, the postal services developed a system, as the British government arranged for the distribution of mail State monopoly designed carriages, and made the service open to the general public accordingly. Because of this, the Indian Postal Service has become a public utility organisation. Hence, the Indian Post organisation that we know today was recognised as a separate institute in 1854.

British India King Edward VII Quarter Anna Post Card (Image Source: Amazon)

One-and-a-half Anna U.P.U. Postcard Sea Post Office (Image Source: Collector Bazaar)

The concept of postcards did not exist at the time when the first postal stamp that belonged to India was first issued on 1 October 1854. The concept of the postcard was conceived by Dr. Emanuel Hermann, the Austrian Economist who is known as one of the inventors of international postal cards. He coined the concept in 1869 when he stated that postcards are the cheapest means of communication. On 1 July 1879, the first postcards were issued in India. The designing and printing were done by Messrs Thomas De La Rue & CO. from London. The cards then were issued and circulated under two denominations, the ‘one-and-a-half Anna’ card for the countries that were associated with the Universal Postal Union and the ‘quarter Anna’ card which was used domestically.

Postcards were first printed in medium light buff or straw cards. The quarter Anna postcards used to have an “East India Post Card” inscription on them. It had the diademed head of Queen Victoria and the ‘coat-of-arms’ of Great Britain in the middle. The foreign postcard had the inscription of ‘Universal Postal Union’ in French and English on the top line. Both these postcards carried the message “the address only to be written on the side” on the diametric.

In the course of its long history, the postcard has gone through a great deal of evolvement. The word 'East' was removed and finalised with 'India Post Card' in 1899. In 1911, several new postcards were issued specially for official usage by the provincial and Central Governments to celebrate the coronation of King George V. Right after the Independence of India the first postcard was issued on 7 December 1949 with a new stamp design of Trimurti (three supreme trinities of Hindu religion i.e., Brahma, Vishnu, and Maheshwara). The price of the local delivery postcard has got cheaper and has a brown base colour with a stamp of Konark Horse sculpture by 1950. As a token to mark the centenary of Mahatma Gandhi, a series of three postcards portraying Gandhiji while spinning, Gandhiji at the Sabarmati Ashram, and Gandhiji’s bust frame on 2 October 1969. 

In the fast-paced world of evolution and technological upliftment, postal services have faded a lot and are going behind the archival curtains. Still, it holds massive popularity and enjoys an immense number on the global postal exchange which nearly counts up to 2100 million and shares a fraternity among countries around the globe.

References:

1. https://www.americananthropologist.org/multimodal-postcards/lepcha#:~:text=The%20first%20postcard%20in%20India,East%20India%20Company%20in%201764.

2. https://www.outlookindia.com/outlooktraveller/explore/story/70266/a-brief-history-of-postcards-in-india

3. https://istampgallery.com/centenary-of-post-card/

4. https://www.business-standard.com/article/pti-stories/book-traces-history-of-picture-postcards-in-india-119070100722_1.html

Public Libraries: A slow death of fathomable romantics

It is eight in the morning. As far as one’s vision can travel, an older man lingered around the sight where he left behind his newspaper on the park’s bench like a tedious habit and has moved forward with his daily life. Life is like that only. It starts at a precedent hour of the day and simmers like a burning candle at night. It straddles back and forth like a porch swing, which apparently looks like a usual swing. Nobody cares to ride it. One is relieved enough to sit on them and stay quiet for some time. They look around and watch the twilight blink on the empty roads. Some days are sweeter than mangoes, whereas other days are like stale chapattis. The days are scorching now. Summer breezes are rare and reading has been my only escape these days. Getting the bug of reading from my maternal grandma and elder sister, I have been reading for some years now. As a reference to that a few days back, I came across a concerning tweet that said books are expensive and public libraries are extinct. Well, factually, it is true. According to the Census 2011 India, it is proved that the literacy development of a country is based on investing in the betterment of the culture, arts, and libraries of those countries. In India, literacy development has been on a constant rise since 1951, but public libraries have always been a matter of neglect. The primary reason is plenty of unwillingness from the government, both central and state. Those states which are actively involved in the overall upgradation of their literacy rate pay more attention to spending for public libraries. According to the statistical data of IndiaStat, 2012, states including Tamil Nadu and Karnataka have more libraries than states like Bihar. According to an article in IndiaSpend, "In today’s information age, libraries in many countries are exploring, along with traditional library services, a range of activities such as hosting of events, digital services, engagement with the public especially with neglected communities that need support, and creating a knowledge economy that can give access to education.

For libraries in India to serve broader functions, investments in public libraries should be increased, while also making concerted efforts to systematically improve the functioning and services provided by  libraries."

It is a different argument that which state shows more enthusiasm in seeking central funds, but the main question that arises here is, what causes this unmatched situation. In the 21st century, it is too obvious to agree that literacy has increased a decent amount at least in the last 20 to 30 years. Then why do public libraries are facing this continuous threat of extinction? Recently, I finished my internship as a journalist at The Statesman newspaper. During one of those days, I wrote a story on the depleting condition of Kolkata’s one of the earliest public libraries, Chaitanya Public Library. After talking with the core committee members of the library and seeing the dire situation of the books stacked up there, I was shocked. The present hazardous sight of books has reflected the contemporary mindset of people and their less involvement with books. That library was a forsaken source of gems from all over the world. Quoting from my article, “At present, the library has nearly more than a lakh of books including the earliest copies of Neel Darpan by Dinobondhu Mitra, Padmavati by Michael Madhusudan Dutta and the third edition of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. It also has around 27,000 periodicals.” Then after all these, what leads to this downfall? Blaming social media is one of the key excuses people usually come up with as a defense these days where they lodge it as the root cause of every problem occurring in society. Partially it does have amplified the problem of downfall, but it is not the sole reason. From my perspective, the lack of motivation is the root cause of the gradual decline in the reading habit of the masses and the slow death of public libraries in this millennial era. I believe motivation comes from our families and educational institutions, which aren’t being gentle to everybody now. Reading should not be a rigorous and competitive process, but it should also come out as a space of relief. Books should not be a weapon to combat but should be a hand in need. Reading is gentle; libraries should be a space of ecstasy.

Public libraries used to be a portrayal canvas in the earlier days, which people used to take as a go-to place. Like schools, offices, public discussions, and doctor check-ups, visiting the library was a compulsion or a habit. From Indian cinemas to literature, the library plays an important role. Whether a secret meeting spot, a hiding place from the world, building up a world of their solace, or stealing glances from behind the books, libraries had an impactful importance. Time has passed and priorities have changed. Modernism does have given us plenty to select from, but somehow amid everything, we have lost our zeal to chew everything at once. Less is always more. Now the question is where will our libraries go? Will they accept this untimely demise out of the blue? Sadly, someday it will be, if not immediately. 

I have started to write down this with a scenario that consists of an older man forgetting his newspaper on the park bench. I have seen plenty of lonely people straddling around like that man. But some people like him have comforted themselves by visiting libraries to deal with their pain and those library visitors have passed on their habit to the next generation. What I am trying to say is, libraries are not just a place to read, but it is a place solely attached somewhere as a part of our lives we are ignorant about. It is a place where people learn self-discovery by themselves through reading and acknowledge the aftermath of silence. Reading needs to be encouraged whether libraries survive or not in the future.

Unfortunately, the present generation isn't accustomed to the impactfulness of libraries and they are not receiving it either from their seniors anyway. Many of us who are admirers of books aren’t privileged with these local libraries. And now it is too late to have one. The tattered condition of libraries is too fragile to bring them back to life. Libraries are dying and so is its mere surviving fathomable romanticism.  Yet some public libraries are trying to stay despite their slow death. May they live a bit longer. Reading can not be compromised. You may find your essence of life whether from  Natyashastra or Mills and Boons or Communist Manifesto to Holy scriptures, and life will come around and sit beside you at least for once. Visit a library if you ever get a chance. It won't survive much longer now, so it should at least deserve a chance to keep up with its final days with some pride and happiness. May they live a few days more.

Pictures courtesy: Whisper of the Heart, Tamasha (Pinterest)

Red is the colour of........

Moments are departing into a puff of dusty afternoon. I'm standing in the kitchen, watching aimlessly into the boiling bowl placed over the gas-oven fire. There's water in the bowl, spitting bubbles up and down vigorously. I dropped two shelled eggs into the water gently and waited for nobody. 

Water, water everywhere... bubbling water on the gas, dripping water from the sink tap, nasty scented feculent water falling from the ridge roof somewhere in the neighbourhood, condensed spiral marks of water beneath the glass jug placed on my bedside table... and a pool of blood covered all around the floor in the living room. I'm wondering outside, brooding over something vague, humming prayers incorporating into a set of nursery rhymes. My fingers are dancing around the edges of the kitchen slab lazily. Suddenly they stopped. I bring them close to my nose, sniffed them, and they still do have the stale smell of dried up bloodstains. I thought about scrubbing it again with another layer of foam infused with lime and jasmine. Weird juxtapose it is. But I leave it right there as it is. I lifted the knife, still beaming with warm blood. I strolled back to the living room, to the spot of the blood puddle. 

I dragged myself to the red pool. I was feeling lighter than the clouds. I sat down. I could feel my life beaming down silently. I am looking at my lover's corpse grunting in pain; coming out, due to his slit neck. I gripped my knife more tightly and squashed it further inside his throat way harder, to see him wince a little violently. His eyes were blurting out as if it is going to explode and fester out like a handful of minced coconut. Was he trying to grab me and smash my face into dust? I stand up on my knees, lowered my panties, did him as well, lifted myself and thrust. I kept thrusting up and down. Kept doing that vigorously for a  while then saw him dead. I bent over his cold blood-soaked terror-filled face and gazed at him for some time. Then I bite his lower lip and left him to shrink into a muddle of nothingness. I wandered around the house motionlessly. I kept reminiscing about our days spent on the beaches during late autumn. I remember running my fingers through his hair which used to stick together for the ocean water and sunburns on his face along with sand over his shoulder and breath. They enticed me to rock bottom.

Well, I could have resisted myself from killing him and let him splatter like an ant into the mud. I could have. But I didn't desire it to if I must say. It was getting cold outside. I went to bathe and forgot to clean the lounge and get rid of him. I came out and went to the kitchen. I was roasting a chicken with thyme, garlic, butter, herbs and spices in the oven for a while now. I switched on my stereo system and played the song "I'd rather go blind" and kept humming along with the tune. It might start to snow outside as it is windy now. I looked around to find my former lover's corpse in the lounge. He wasn't there now. It was all spotless now. The oven made a chime and I looked for my oven gloves to take out our dinner. I take the tray of chicken and put it atop the table. My lover was reclining a little distant from the dining area. Smiling. Blood was dripping from his neck on the floor. He asked me to light up candles around the house. I told him to hang himself from the ceiling so that I can see him die again..... It started to snow outside. Gushes of wind along with dead tree branches kept striking the windowpane hard. I sighed out and turned around to see my lover's corpse hanging like a pendulum from the vault. The smile was still there like an aftertaste of chardonnay. The howling of the snowy winds creeps the neighbourhood like a graveyard. Suddenly I heard someone was walking upstairs. I climbed above and find my lover walking alone in the corridor as if he was looking for something. "Well," I thought "it's an old habit of his to look for his belongings cause he always kept them losing, like the way he lose me.." Suddenly he stopped after realising my presence there and turned around to ask me, "Why are you holding me back? You obsessive bitch!? Leave me. Let me go. Kill me! Kill me! You fucking cunt. Kill...." I rushed towards him and smashed his head with a hammer I picked up while I climbed up here. He grunts and trembled like a paralysed puppy for some time. Then he remained there like a fallen angel with feathers of a raven. I stroked my fingers through his hair. My favourite.

Suddenly I heard somebody was at the door knocking. I rushed down. My lover was again not to be seen there anymore.

I opened the door to welcome my lover who was out of town. He greeted me with a smirk and a peek on my cheek. He used to bring flowers and candles once. Now he bought a packet of condoms and smell of adultery. He forced himself inside blabbering rubbish as usual, maybe complemented the dinner by its smell coming from the kitchen. I remained standing at the threshold for a while. Then I turned around. Asked him, "what was his favourite colour?" out of the blue. He was not surprised and fumbled out saying "red.." while stuffing the bits of chicken into his mouth I have cooked. I dragged myself towards him. Maybe tonight is the night honey. I will paint you red and with affections. I love you, darling. Now you should sleep forever. Forever.

-Shrestha Mukherjee. 🌻

October: The Season of Existence 🍁

Tell me, have you seen me cry? Tell me, have you seen me take a humble round out of sheer happiness? Tell me, have you seen me disappear every other day like a crumble of smoke puffing out of the chimney attached to that fireplace that might have warmed up with flames a century ago? Tell me, what exactly have you seen?

Just the very yesterday, I sniffed a rotting smell from the other side of a closed door. It was a stale gruelling smell of death. It was unbearable. A few days passed away like that. I got myself familiar and adjusted with that decomposing whiff. It somehow started to get into the domestic flow. A few days went in that way like an accepted discomfort. But then that day, we found a stray cat, whom I used to call "Lennon" laid there all dead and frozen. I couldn't get a glimpse of his lifeless face but saw some flies rushed out of the room, unnoticed.

So tell me what have you seen? Is it always too conditional to consume whatever is there in front of our sight? Can't we happen to look right over what is not there? Once, a few years back, I was travelling somewhere on a train. It was a chilly night in December. The compartment was hollow with a hushed hue of snoring and blues. I was lying on my seat all tired and awake. The earphones of my iPod were stuck in my ears but all could hear was the hurled sound of railway tracks lining below me, moving me, carrying me, taking me to an unknown destination. But was I even there? At that moment? In that sleep stricken train bogie? Where was I hanging then? Where am I hanging now? Why do I only see myself in the past moments, where I wasn't actually alone? Tell me, have you seen me anywhere? Was I there with you yesterday? If I wasn't then where was I? And who was that embodied entity of mine with you in the past moments?

October. Octobers summoned such striking curiosity. The curiosity of entity. I am curious to know about the fall I never happened to see on my own. But I was there. My existence was there in the conjunction of living and unconsciousness. I see myself walking on the damp road of late October piled up with dead maple leaves. I saw myself walking through a fairly dense forest where I might come across a small cottage showing its presence of liveliness with an entwined chain of dimming bulbs and wrath of reeks hovering above the ridge. I saw myself knitting tiny woollen covers for my cats who usually spend their days chasing insects or dozing on the sofa kept aside at the late hour of the afternoon. Tell me, Can you see me there? Well... Maybe not. But you can see yourself on the verge of late autumn, sitting all alone by the shutted window counting the visible stars, reading your favourite poetry 5th time that day, stuffing warm succulent meatballs induced in a spicy broth, looking for your scarf of bad habits, lifting yourself from the struggles you are growing through, living the day and leaving behind yesterday. 

So tell me.... Could you see yourself now? Did you find it? Is that you? If not... then don't frazzle up. It might be just another nightmare. Or... It might just be another bad, brooding, lifeless October. A season of fall 🍁...

-Shrestha Mukherjee :)

হলুদ ম্যাট্রেস।। 🌻

বিপদ যে আসলে কি তা যারা নতুন সিনথেটিক ম্যাট্রেসে শোয়েনি তারা কখনো বুঝবেনা। অবশ্যই এই ধারণা আমার তখন ছিল যখন আমি ক্লাস সেভেনে পড়তাম। তারপরে সে কত দিন পেরিয়ে গেলো। কত বার নাকানি চোবানী খেলাম, কত অলিগলি পথ পেরোলাম, কত সিঁড়ি বেয়ে উঠলাম নামলাম.. তা আর মনেও নেই। তবে সেই অক্টোবর এর ভোর আজও আমার মনে থাকবে। দিনটা ছিল মহালয়া। আগের দিনের তুমুল বৃষ্টির দুপুরে বাবা দোকান থেকে আমাদের বিছানায় পাতার জন্যে ইয়া বড় একটি হলুদ রঙের ম্যাট্রেস কিনে এনেছিল। তার সেই চোখ ধাঁধানো রঙ দেখে কি যে তাজ্জব বনে গেছিলাম.. মনে মনে বার কতক ডিগবাজি খেয়ে নিয়েছিলাম। যাক তো সেই আনন্দ বেশি খন টেকেনি। রাত নেমে আসতে নতুন ম্যাট্রেসে গা গড়িয়ে শুয়ে পড়লাম আনন্দ মাখা ঘুম দেব বলে। কিন্তু ওই আনন্দ স্বভাবতই একটি ধারণা ছাড়া যে কিছুই না তা সেই ম্যাট্রেসে শুয়ে বুঝেছিলাম। সিনথেটিক হওয়ার দরুন বিছানার চাদর তাতে কিছুতেই থাকলোনা। শেষে তা তুলে দিয়ে ঘুমোনোর চেষ্টা করা হয়েছিল। তাতেও ফল লবডঙ্কা। শুলেই মনে হচ্ছিল এই বুঝি গড়িয়ে গেলাম। ম্যাট্রেসটির খসখসে surface হওয়ায় গোটা গায়ে অস্বস্তির একেবারে ইয়ে আরকি। নাহ! তবে বাবা মা তাতেও ঘুমিয়ে গেছিলো। ঘুমালাম না আমি। ঘুমোলোনা দিদি। মুখ হাড়ি করে সারা রাত না ঘুমোতে পারার দুরুদুরু বিরক্তি পেটের ভেতর চেপে টিভিতে প্রোগ্রাম দেখেছিলাম সেই বার।

যাক তো তারপরে পেরিয়ে গেলো কত বছর। বড় রা মানতে না চাইলেও আমরাও দেখতে দেখতে একটা গোটা যুগ যে কাটিয়ে ফেললাম তা ভেবেও আশ্চর্য্য লাগে। এই মাঝের এত বছরের ওঠা পড়া, পাহাড়ি পথ পেরিয়ে মোমো নামক খাদ্যটির সমতলে নেমে আসা, বিজ্ঞাপন এর নাম "reels" হয়ে যাওয়া, নোটবুক ছেড়ে নোটপ্যাড ধরা, উনিভার্সিটি কে শুধু মাত্র নিজের দুহাতের মুঠো দিয়ে চেনা, মৃত্যুকে বারবার দেখা, কিছু সত্যি কথা বলতে গিয়েও আত্মসম্মানের কাছে off-side খেয়ে ঘরে বসে চোখের জল ফেলা, একা হয়ে যাওয়া, মুখোশ এর ওপর আরেকটি কৃত্তিম মুখোশ চাপানো.. সব হলো। দায়িত্ব নিয়েই হলো। তবে সেদিন হঠাৎ আবার ম্যাট্রেসটার দিকে চোখ যেতে মনে পড়ে গেলো সেই রাতে ঘুমাতে না পারার দুঃখ। সেই দিনের পর বছরের পর বছর যে না ঘুমিয়ে কাটাচ্ছি, তাতে দুঃখ নেই। তবে সেই রাতে ঘুমোতে না পারার দুঃখ তা যে আসলে কোথায় এসে লেগেছে তা এত বছরেও বুঝিনি। সময় পাল্টেছে। বছর এগিয়েছে অনেক। নিজের জীবনের পথে চলার সময় গড়িয়ে গেছি লক্ষ বার, কিন্তু সেই ম্যাট্রেসটি আমাকে আজ আর গড়িয়ে ফেলেনা। সেই হলুদ ম্যাট্রেসটার ওপর আজ চেপেছে ধুলো, তুলোর তোষক, মন খারাপ, আনন্দ, ভাঙা ঘর, পুরোনো এলবাম, মাংসের ঝোল, আদি ঢাকেশ্বরীর শাড়ির প্যাকেট, ছোটবেলার হারানোর তালগাছের ছবি যেটা মুড়ে যাওয়ায় সোজা করতে সেখানে কোনো একদিন নিজে রেখে নিজেই ভুলে গেছি... এত কিছুর ভার নিয়ে সে নিজেও আজ বড় ক্লান্ত। তার সাথে সেই যে অভিমান পালা চলত আমার, তা যে কবেই বেমালুম ভুলে গেলাম আমরা.. নিজেরাই সে খবর রাখিনি। আবারও একটা পূজো চলে এলো, আবারও সেই বিরক্তি মাখানো মন খারাপ। আবারও রাতে ঘুম না আসা। আবারও হেরে গিয়ে বেলা অব্দি ঘুম দেওয়া। এই সবের মধ্যে হলুদ রঙের এই ম্যাট্রেস টাও বুড়ো হয়ে গেলো। পেনশনের জন্যে হাকাহাকি করলো বলে...। হয়তো আগের মতো আর ফিরে যেতে পারবোনা ঘুম না হওয়ার দুঃখের দিনে, তবে গ্রীষ্মের দুপুরে বাড়িতে থাকা বড় ঠান্ডা জলের ট্যাংকের মধ্যে হাত ডুবিয়ে রাখার মতোন আনন্দ এখনো খান কতক তোলা আছে। সে গুলো করায় গন্ডায় অসুল না করে আমি যাচ্ছিনা। আমি পালায়িনী। আমি পালাচ্ছিনা। এখুনি না। 

- Shrestha Mukherjee, October, 2021 :)

Why isn't my 'Present' speaking anymore?

There is always this fine line between living and dying, and that line is called our Present. Once I heard a faint voice whispered into my ears which coherently spoke about some stories of Yesterday Supper time. But I could not compose those words because I was merged into this vast eternity of blue glistening sky above me which was living at that moment. Most of the time I had always let these moments slip away out of my fists but that day I could not resist myself to dive into that immense airspace. Yes, I may have felt the hushed existence of someone standing behind that door at my back, waiting for me to turn around, but something that day stopped me. That day I comprehended that when we turn back towards the days that we had already left behind on the crevices of unbearable suffering, let us go back to those past moments that beckoned us and showed us the traps of nostalgias, are those days that we made us owned by our memories. We are owned. We pushed ourselves to be owned by our memories. We got nowhere else to go and thus are left with the choice of being stocked by the cage of our immortal corpses. We are forced to be locked up within our consent. Similarly, there are days when you desired to be breathing heavily by standing on the edgiest summit of your determined destination but in reality, you found yourself to be sitting on your claustrophobic bed breathing heavily and holding yourself to be calmed down by the emotional breakdown that might occur any moment and will wash out your existence forever from this Universe. Your days ahead, your sunshine sparkling on the daisies of your dream field may be pretending as the mirage of the forthcoming dictatorial future that would chain you up like a slaughtered creature and you may never live like before again.... 

Why are we peeking into our past? Why are we worrying and losing ourselves every single parting moment in the fear of tomorrow? Who is there any way? In the past? We aren't even there anymore! In the future? We haven't even taken birth yet! You are not there. Not "anymore", not " yet". You are "Here!". You were always "Here". You are living. You are breathing here. You are witnessing the honey melting out of the honeycomb, you are witnessing the shivery yawns and pukings of your dear beloved little kittens, you are drinking cool lemonade out from your shinny glasses, you are missing someone you never have met in your life, you are missing someone who was there with you Yesterday, you are letting yourself gliding out from your fears, you are living now. You are alive. You are so much alive. You are 'Here'. You always were. 🌾

Indira (Shrestha) :)

Image source: Pinterest.