Check Mate (From Life in Short and other Stories)

It was an everyday afternoon in August when Amiyo Ranjan Sen, the senior English teacher at Budhulia Boys High School, Nadia learnt to play the game of chess. It was quite late in life to learn the game. He had always been severely antagonistic towards this game. For it was beyond his comprehension of what covert pleasure or fulfillment could two people possibly find by staring expectantly at a chess board for hours. To him it was a deplorable and criminal waste of good time. But still he had to learn the game. Kanti Babu, Kanti Shekhar Dey, the Geography teacher of the same school was his old and faithful friend, also an astute Chess player. He had been after Amiyo Babu for ages to learn the game. Amiyo Babu could not refute such a persistent request coming especially from such a dear associate. Kanti Babu was an avid chess player. During the tiffin break on that day Kanti Babu taught Amiyo Babu the nuances of the game – how a pawn moves only single boxes, how the knight can dauntlessly jump two and a half squares, how the Bishop goes crosswise, well everything that Kanti Babu could have possibly taught him from his association with this game for the last fifteen years.
‘It is a brain game Amiyo. It sharpens your mind.’ Kanti Babu assured Amiyo. Although it completely escaped Amiyo Babu how such a dull and drab activity could possibly sharpen one’s mind, but in the very first game he beat Kanti Babu.
‘I guess I haven’t played my real game,’ sniggered Kanti Babu looking visibly pale. ‘What about another hand?’
However there wasn’t time for another game, it was time for the fourth period English Composition class. Amiyo Babu got up silently but the game went on swiveling in his mind. That day he couldn’t teach well. Normally Amiyo Sir’s classes are always very interesting and involving, but today it seemed insipid. This was not a regular occurrence. Even the students could feel that.
Another two games were played after the final school bell had rung and Amiyo Babu won both of them easily. At this Kanti Babu gave a defeated sneer and said, ‘I guess I have to be more focused on the defensive with you.’
In the third game Kanti Babu was exceptionally cautious and was making his moves after much contemplation. He became oblivious to everything around him; even his evening cup of tea which had been a ritual for the last 30 years was utterly forgotten. The game carried on till late evening and Bacchu Mian the gatekeeper was detained much to his anguish till late hours. In spite of all this Amiyo Babu won again and again. After the final game Kanti Babu looked visibly remorse and crestfallen. Seeing this Amiyo told his friend, ‘You seem to be quite upset Kantida?’
‘Shall we play one last round? I am sure your beginner’s luck would give in.’ was Kanti Babu’s reply. The words painfully wedged out of his lips. ‘This time I would play super defensive.’
‘Not today. I have two tuitions to do.’
‘Ahh! How much time would one game take. Come on sit’ was the irate reply.
The last game ended in a stalemate. Kanti Babu was breathing heavily by now.
Amiyo said ‘Well let’s pack up now.’
‘One more.’
‘No more. It’s quite late already.’ Amiyo was firm this time.
‘Nonsense Amiyo! It’s not late. See the corner tea shop is still open.’ There was persuasion in Kanti Babu’s tone.
Amiyo Babu gave in one more time but nothing change - his winning streak continued. The word spread shortly within the townsfolk of Budhulia about Amiyo Ranjan Sen’s amazing Chess playing capabilities. That this man is invincible in a game of Chess spread like wildfire. A title, that Amiyo Ranjan Sen had conclusively retained for the next fifteen years.
Fifteen years is a long time. During this time Amiyo Ranjan Sen lost three teeth, developed Cataract in his eyes and was duly promoted as the Assistant Head Master of the Budhulia Boy’s School from where he retired on a cloudy July afternoon. In the Letter of Appreciation that was being conferred to him it was prominently mentioned – ‘…Amiyo Ranjan Sen is an uncrowned king in the world of Chess. He created history for himself and the village Budhulia by defeating West Bengal’s champion chess player Hariram Bhaduri not once – but thrice.’
This was no lie. Hariram Bhaduri’s sister in law was a resident at Budhulia. It was completely unfortunate of him to have agreed to play Amiyo Babu out of sheer curiosity and to get a chance to ridicule this village idiot, when he had come visiting his dearest relative. He had anticipated that, like a typical practice in the rural areas, it is customary to exaggerate about any player even if he is mediocre – and this man would be no different. He judged this short, whitish and timid looking man as a puny competitor. Even when Amiyo Ranjan Sen had made his first few moves, Hari Ram had chuckled inside seeing the ignorance of his competitor on the basic opening techniques in chess that anybody who had even read a book or two about the game would know. It was obvious to Hari Ram that this man knew as much about Chess as a cat would know of Golf. As a result of which by the fifth move Hari Ram’s pawn was in a position to attack Amiyo Ranjan’s king. He even gave out an insolent chuckle as he saw this. But that smile died a flat death when he saw this timid little man overpowering him suddenly with two knights on two sides snatching victory. Hari Ram Bhaduri was completely bewildered at this loss, but the people of Budhulia who had gathered around to watch game remained conclusively nonchalant- as if it’s only natural for their Amiyo Ranjan Babu to win in chess.
Hari Ram’s trip to his sister in laws house was further marred when the news of this match was published in the local newspaper – ‘West Bengal’s champion chessman loses at the hand of Budhulia Boy’s school’s veteran English teacher Amiyo Ranjan Sen. It is worth mentioning that Amiyo Babu has never lost a single chess match in the last 10 years.’
It was really incredible that Amiyo Babu had remained unbeaten in Chess for all those years. People used to come from far and away across the country to play him. Once the secretary of the Chess Federation of Bengal brought in a European player to play Amiyo Babu. It was the biggest thing that could have happened at Budhulia an insignificant village in Nadia district. The whole village had crammed in at the venue. People who understood nothing about chess had also come to witness this spectacular incident. The school was adjourned after the first break.
The secretary of the Chess Federation came up to Amiyo Babu and quietly breathed in his ears, ‘Be very careful with this player. He is an eminent player from Belgium.’
‘Yes Sir. I am always careful when I play.’ Replied Amiyo Babu.
‘Don’t rush your moves Amiyo Babu, Ok.’ quipped the secretary.
Amiyo Babu nodded diligently in confirmation.
‘Try the Giuoco Piano trap with him. I hope you know the Giuoco Piano trap?’ said the secretary.
‘No sir. I do not.’ Mentioned Amiyo Babu very calmly.
The secretary scowled at him hearing this. His scowl deepened when he saw Amiyo Babu return a PK-4 move with a R4. ‘What the hell are you doing? Are you experimenting with this man? What was this move?’ coughed the secretary in complete disgust.
Even the Belgian muttered something softly. The secretary’s face had blemished by now and he sputtered,’ Oh! It is such an insult to my name that I tried to show this Belgian grandmaster an untrained rural talent.’
Three games were played, one was a stalemate and Amiyo Babu won two other. The secretary was bewildered.
‘Why don’t you come to play at Calcutta?’
‘I have tuitions. Besides I am constantly ailing. Asthma you know.’ smiled Amiyo Babu.
‘No. No. Please do come over Amiyo Babu’ cajoled the secretary.
‘I am a poor man Sir. I cant afford the expenses.’
‘How can you be a poor man Amiyo Babu?’ The secretary was almost hugging him now.
So it was but natural that on that cloudy July afternoon during his farewell speech, Amiyo Babu’s prowess in chess kept coming back as his laurels. Before the symposium was to end the chairman of the meeting who was also the secretary of the school’s governing body and a local MLA, Bholanath Borgi announced boisterously that as an extension of respect towards Mr. Amiyo Ranjan Sen, the glory of Budhulia he had taken a special step. He declared that he would donate a cheque of fifteen thousand rupees to the school fund to be given to anybody who could beat Amiyo Babu, else the money would be absorbed by the school.
The announcement was received amidst tumultuous applause. The Head Master showed the audience the cheque that was handed over to him. Nobody could have imagined that Bholanath Borgi could pull such a dramatic stunt like that.
The next month the monsoons intensified and this had considerably aggravated Amiyo Babu’s asthma. He felt severe bouts of breathlessness. He tried breathing very hard but only succeeded in taking meagre gasps. His jugular veins started swelling up due to this effort. Even in this state he sat down to play which would probably be his last game of chess. This time he was playing to lose. Today he would play and lose to his old friend, colleague and teacher in chess Kanti Babu. Kanti Babu would win the Fifteen Thousand prize money which can then be used for his treatment and also to buy some warm clothing for the approaching winters. Amiyo Babu hardly had any warm clothing. It took a lot of effort to get Kanti Babu to agree to this scheme of things. It didn’t really matter to Amiyo Babu then if he lost.
The match was scheduled to take place inside the school library. Kanti Babu was playing the aggressive mode. A big crowd of curious onlookers had gathered to see this match. As the match progressed Amiyo Sen’s condition started deteriorating. He lost his castle in a wrong move. Next his Knight was pinned. A mild buzzing rose in the room. Amiyo Babu observed that tears were pouring out of Kanti Babu’s eyes. The invincible Chess king of 15 years was going to lose his crown. Kanti Babu looked pale and his hands shook while he made his moves.
‘Amiyo Babu’s condition doesn’t look good at all. observed Radha Churn De, the village homeopath doctor.
‘It’s nothing. It is all Amiyo’s cunning ploy. You would see the tables turning soon.’ Replied Kanti Babu.
‘Are you crying Kantida?’ whispered Amiyo Babu in a strained voice.
‘No, no, something in my eyes I guess.’ Kanti Babu started wiping his eyes in a palliative manner as if to take out that imaginary something from his eyes.
Was there an aphotic trace of smile that appeared on Amiyo Babu’s lips? He challenged Kanti Babu’s king with his knight. Kanti Babu moved his king one square. Second check was with his pawn. Kanti Babu’s king shifted one more square. It was as if from an imperceptible corner of the board Amiyo Babu produced his castle.
‘Oh God!’ yawped Radha Churn De in complete surprise. A
miyo Babu advanced his castle in front of his pawn and whispered ‘Check Mate.’
Amiyo Ranjan Sen couldn’t lose his final game of chess even with all that effort. The pride of Budhulia, the uncrowned king of chess died a pauper and without treatment on 10th September, 1981. It was a Wednesday. Two days of mourning was announced at Budhulia Boys High School after his death.

A Strange Story

“Good Afternoon Sir, may I interest you to an incredible story?” The words came from my side as an awkward surprise from a bystander at Howrah station. A complete stranger. It was an otherwise pleasant face. A 40 something gentleman, maybe even at the rear end of forty with shoulder length hair - greying delicately at the sides. He had a broad capacious forehead, a salient nose, thin lips, overall quite a prominent looking gentleman. But still it is not every day you get invited by strange men at bus stops or railway stations to hear stories. I was visibly perturbed. Might even say I was a bit irate too. It had been a longish August day and due to the monsoons and incessant rain I had missed my scheduled local back home. As I looked at him with amazement written all over my face, without wavering a bit he wanted to know if I was waiting for a train. I said yes and out of sheer politeness asked if he was also waiting for the same train.

The gentleman replied that he was not going anywhere, but had come to receive his wife who was travelling back to Calcutta. There was a pleasant geniality about his overall countenance. ‘She is coming from Lalgola and the train is running two hours behind schedule because of water logging on the tracks. I didn’t feel like returning home. It would be a waste of time to go and come back again. So I decided to wait.’ A situation quite common if you have stayed at West Bengal.

That was all that I knew of him. On the basis of this sparse familiarity when someone says ‘Would you like to listen to an interesting story?’ it becomes quite daunting. I am not one of those who like to listen to interesting stories from strangers. Besides I have often noticed that self-proclaimed interesting stories are rarely interesting at the end.

I remained silent. I hoped that the gentleman would be wise enough to understand my dissent from my silence; else I would have to listen to his story. There was nowhere else to shift in that crowded platform.

As it was in this case the gentleman in question was definitely not wise. He took out his “Paaner Dibey” (Box containing Betel leaves and other paraphernalia, quite popular till 90s in Bengal) and fixing himself a Paan started his story.

‘I am sure you find this awkward and even a bit disconcerting at my request when suddenly a complete stranger coerces you to listen to his story. It must be. But you know the trouble is that today is very exclusive day for me and on a day like this I can’t but help myself from telling this ironic story to someone – anyone. So if I have your attention I would start.’ There was an almost uncanny enchantment in his persuasion.

‘Sure.’

‘Would you like to have one?’ He said beamingly offering me one of his Paan.

‘No Thank you.’ I curtly replied.

‘Please try one these are special leaves. I am sure you would like it.’ He said again with earnestness.

‘Do you also offer Paan along with your stories on special days like this?’ I couldn’t but hide my annoyance.

He started laughing. There was a childlike innocence in his gait. Here was this late fortyish man, quite attractive I must add dressed impeccably in white Dhoti and Punbabi (Kurta) who has braved the Calcutta monsoons to receive his wife trying his best to tell me a story – an interesting story. I gave in.  

‘It was almost 20 years back. I was studying chemistry honors at Presidency College. It is dark in here so you probably cannot see me well, but I must say that I am quite impressive in my appearance. 20 years back I looked like a prince. Not only that even my friends at college had nick named me - The Prince. But the funny thing is that I had hardly any impact amongst the women students at the college. I don’t know if you have noticed or not – women are rarely attracted to a man’s features. Women can see everything about a man – save his looks. So while I was at college I did not have the good fortune to befriend women or have them come up and talk to me. Even I, being quite shy could never approach them either. There was a significant reason for that – I stammered. I couldn’t utter a simple sentence without halting a zillion times just like the State Buses on a busy Dharmatalla Street.’

I interrupted him at this point. ‘I don’t see any stammering in you now. You are talking quite placidly.’

‘Ah! My wobble was cured after my marriage. But it was quite formidable before I got married. I had been through various kinds of treatments. From Alleopathy, Homeopathy to putting marbles in my mouth while talking, even wearing various rings and talismans – I had tried it all. Anyways coming back to the story at college my pass subject was Mathematics. There was a certain girl in my pass course who had besotted me beyond comparison. I used to choke every time she was in front of me. What a face, delicate like a Renoir painting. Her hair long and fell over her waist like river. Her gait was like Viennese concert. Her eyes were the most endearing part of her feature like shells – beautiful and exquisite and always smiling as if alluring you. Have you ever fallen in love sir?’

‘No sir.’ I remarked.

‘Well in that case you would probably not understand my state of mind those days. The first day I saw her, a feverish craving had come over me. I couldn’t sleep the whole night. My throat was getting perched. I probably had finished a few gallon of water that night. The whole night in my trance I sauntered the college corridors in my mind.’

‘In a week we had two pass lectures those days. It was unbearably painful. What was wrong in having a pass lecture every day? Two lectures a week meant two times fifty minutes – just hundred minutes. Hundred minutes of looking at her would pass by a flint of an eye. Besides the girl in question would often bunk lectures and spend time at the canteen with her friends. There had been times when she missed back to back lectures for two weeks in a row. Those days, I almost wanted to terminate this pain of longing once and for all by jumping from the terrace and end this miserable existence. You were lucky you had never fallen in love so you would not understand the torment that this kind of passion ushers in.’

‘You didn’t mention her name. What was her name?’ I said getting a bit interested now.

‘Her name was Mouri. Well that was what everybody called her. Those days I didn’t know that. Not just her name, I was equally ignorant about everything about her. Where she stayed? Which department she belonged to? All I knew was that she had Mathematics as her Pass course and that she came to college in a Black Ambassador car WMA 8912.’

‘You had never enquired about her?’ I asked in surprise.

‘No I never did. For I was always occupied with a phobia that if I go exploring about her, I may get to know things like – she is already in love with someone else which would finish me. You would know my state if I tell you one incident – one day after the lectures were over I saw her talking to another boy from the class. They seemed quite engrossed in their conversation. They were laughing together. A shiver took over me at this sight. I felt nauseated. That day I didn’t attend any more lectures but returned home. Shortly I had very high fever and delirium.’

‘Very strange.’ I remarked.

‘Yes, strange indeed. Two years went by like this. Academically I had degraded considerably. Then one day I did something crazy. I walked up to her chauffer and procured her address. Then I wrote her an anonymous letter. I don’t recollect exactly what I had written in that letter – but its subject matter was that I wanted to marry her. She must give her consent at my behest. Till she agrees I would sit on a hunger strike in front of her house indefinitely. Well those days hunger strikes were quite in vogue. So are you finding my narrative interesting?’

‘Yes I do. Then what happened. You sent her the letter by post?’ I quipped.

‘No I took the letter myself to the address given. It was an old house somewhere at Ballygunje. The house had a big iron gate that opened into a garden before the house started. I gave the letter to the gatekeeper telling him that there is a lady in this house – who goes to college – this letter was meant for her. The gatekeeper obediently took the letter and went inside. Shortly he was back and informed me that he had given the letter to the “Didi” but she said that she doesn’t know me. I told him that she was right. She doesn’t know me. But I know her and that was enough.’

‘Saying this I took my position outside the gate as per my corresponded intentions. You can well understand that it was complete insanity. Actually I had lost the capacity to think. All logic had temporarily abandoned me. Everything seemed futile in front of my passionate fervor. Anyways I stood in front of the gate from 9 in the morning till 4 in the afternoon without much happening save the first floor curtains squinting at intervals or some annoyed faces gazing at times from the balcony. At about 5 PM an angry gentleman came out towards me and said “Enough of this madness. Go home now.” I replied even more firmly that I shall not move.’

‘We would then have to call the police. They would take you away came the offended retort.

‘In my insane obsession I told him to ahead.’

‘You rascal, couldn’t you find some other place for your hooliganism.’ He spat out.

‘Please don’t use abusive. I am not being profane here. I replied. The man turned back in fury and went inside. Then it started raining. It was one of those torrential thundershowers as if the sky had also been rabid by the tempest that had possessed me. I stood there getting drenched without much ado. Nothing would have affected me then. But I could make out that I was shivering and slowly coming down with temperature. I was out in the sun the whole day and now this sudden change of climate had taken its toll on my body. But a frenzied recklessness had taken over me. Nothing else mattered. My body was slowly succumbing to fatigue and hunger but I was unmoved. I was getting fainting spells, but I stood. By this time a curious crowd of people had gathered around me asking me what the matter was. Why am I standing there getting drenched? I told them to mind their own business and that I was a run away from an insane asylum.’

‘I guess the news of this queer incident was also relayed from her house to friends and relatives of the family by telephone as I saw around 3 cars enter her house through the gates. The passengers of those cars casted a gaze of utter disgust towards me and entered the house.’

‘It was 9 PM by now. The rain didn’t show any signs to stop. My body was burning with fever. My legs felt weak and I couldn’t stand any more. So I squatted next to the gates. The gatekeeper came and whispered in my ears that the Sahib is calling the police, but Didi is not agreeing. She is crying at your state. So do not move from your stance. Now that was inspiring.’

‘Once it struck 11 PM at a nearby house, I saw the portico lights light up. The girl came out of her living quarters. Behind her trailed out almost everybody who stayed in that house but no one crossed the porch. The girl came up to me and said “Why are you doing this madness?” I was shocked. For this was not the girl from my Mathematics Pass course lectures. This was somebody else, whom I had never seen before now. The chauffeur of the black Ambassador had given me a wrong address, probably intentionally.’

‘The girl spoke very tenderly to me and implored me to come inside and eat something. I tried to get up and tell her that this all is a very big mistake. You are not the woman who had besotted all this insanity. You are someone else. But looking at her affectionate eyes I couldn’t. For before this no women had ever looked at me with such fondness.’

‘I was so weak that I could barely walk. Noticing this she gave me her hand for support and asked me to hold it. Everyone who stood at the porch was looking at us with stiff disbelief. The girl stretched out her hand at me completely oblivious to her family and disdaining their resentful gaze. It was not humanly possible for any man to reject this gesture of profound love that she expressed at that moment by holding my hand. I held her hand. I have been holding her hand since the last 20 years. But sometimes I feel this uncanny restlessness. I feel an incredible desire to tell my wife about this incredible miscue. But I fail. Then I look for some stranger like you to tell my story. I tell my story to strangers as I know this wouldn’t ever reach my wife’s ears. Well I need to go now. My train is here.’

Saying this he got up abruptly and without as much looking back at me he walked towards the platform. In a distance I could see the glaring light of the engine tracing itself inside the station. The train was indeed there. 

      

 Deepanjan Banerjee

Dubai: 16/06/16

কাল ভোররাতে আমার মৃত্যূ দেখলাম

কাল ভোররাতে আমার মৃত্যূ দেখলাম
না পাওয়া প্রেম, অষাড় ভোগের জানালা দিয়ে দেখা মৃত্যূ।
আমার খুব কাছের বন্ধুরা সোল্লাসে স্লোগান দিছছিল
শালা গেছে বাঁচা গেছে।
হিয়েরোগ্লাফিক্সে লেখা এপিটাফটা আঠা দিয়ে জোড়া...
পুরনো প্রেমিকারা নালার কালো জলের মত তলপেট খুলে হাসছিল
পাড়ার বন্ধুরা আজ অফিস কেটে মলএ বারগার খেতে যাবে
তাদের তিনমণি বউদের নিয়ে…যারা এক সময় আমার খাটের তলায়
বহু দুশ্চিন্তার প্রহর কাটিয়েছে...ঈর্ষা করেছে একে অপরকে
তারাই পাছা দুলিয়ে বলবে
সখী এবার স্পষ্ঠ কথা দিয়ে কষ্ট পাওয়ার দিন শেষ।
কবিতা দিয়ে আর প্রতিশোধ নিতে ও পারবেনা।
ফুলের মধ্যে শিঊলি ই আজ ফুটবে...তবে দেরীতে।
লাল ঘরে ঘরে এখন কমলা আলো
দূর থেকে দেখতে পেলাম কাঁটা বেধাঁনো আমার নগ্ন মৃতদেহ
একলা শিশুর মত নিশ্চিন্তে ঘুমোচ্ছে...কিচ্ছু যায় আসে না তার
দূরে মুখ লুকিয়ে কাঁদছিল একটি মেয়ে যাকে ৩০ টাকায় কিনেছিলাম
শুধু বিদায় নেওয়া হল না।
আমি এক অন্ধকার থেকে আর এক অন্ধকার এ মুখ লুকোলাম।

ধর্মের কল আজ ও কি বাতাসে নড়ছে?

ঋণ

চাপকান পড়া তাগড়া কাবুলীর মত তোমার ঋণ
আমায় তাড়া করে বেড়াচ্ছে ঝিনি।
দেওয়ালে টাঙানো তোমার ছবিগুলো ক্রুর হাঁসি হেসে বলছে...
আমার হাত ছাড়িয়ে কোথায় পালাবে তুমি?
বড়বাজার, ক্যানিঙ স্ট্রিট, চিনে পল্লির অলিগলি দিয়ে
পালিয়েও তোমার ঋণ এড়াতে পারছিনা।
আঊট্রাম ঘাটের জাহাজগুলোও মুখ ফিরিয়ে নিয়েছে আমার থেকে,
বাইপাস মুখেরওপর সার্চলাইট ফেলে বলছে......”ঋণ শোধ কর”

নীরবতার কাছে শব্দ ঋণী
অন্ধকারের কাছে আলো ঋণী
পাপের কাছে পুণ্য ঋণী
কালোর কাছে সাদা ঋণী
মৃত্যুর কাছে জীবন ঋণী
মোটা মাড়োয়ারীর কাছে গোটা কলকাতা ঋণী
আরও কতজনার কাছে কে কে যে ঋণী তার হিসেব মিলবেনা।
প্রথম শীতের মোলায়েম এই রাত যে আমায় কাঁটা চাঁমচ দিয়ে
ছিঁড়ে খাচ্ছে তোমার বুকের ঊষ্ণতার অভাবে.........
এই অভাবের ঋণ কে মেটাবে ঝিনি?

গার্গী

কাল স্বপ্ন দেখলাম
যে তুমি মারা গেছো।
মারা গেছো এক অচেনা অজানা দেশে
এমন একটা শহর যা সমস্ত চেনা শহরের থেকে আলাদা, বিচিত্র।...
তারা তোমার মৃতদেহ একটা খোলা কবরে
শুইয়ে রেখেছে।
এক নির্জন স্থানে যার আশেপাশে শুধুই নিস্তব্ধতা।
যাতে তুমি মরণোত্তোর স্বাতন্ত্র্য উপভোগ করতে পার......যা তুমি সারা জীবন চেয়েছ।
তাই কাল রাতে তোমায় সেখানেই রেখে দিয়ে এলাম, একা, অসাড়
র্নিলিপ্ত নক্ষত্রমণ্ডলীর তলায়। অনন্তকালের জন্য।
গার্গী
তোমায় আর মনে রাখবনা,
তুমি হয়ত আমার প্রথম প্রেমিকার থেকেও সুন্দর ছিলে
কিন্তু আজ সময় তোমার প্রতি উদাসীন...
কারণ ভালবাসার অমরত্ব তুমি পাওনি।।

২৫এ ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৩

ধর্মদ্রোহী

ঝিনি
তোমার চোখ দুটো আমায় রাজদ্রোহী করেছিল একদিন বিকেলে
রাজ ঐশ্বর্যের আশা দেখিয়েছিল ওই চোখদুটো...
যা পৃথিবী ভুলে গেছে বহুকাল।
ধ্বংসের ভয় ছিলনা সেদিন। ছিল শুধু প্রত্যাশার আকুতি,
বির্ধমি প্রেমের সাক্ষরতা ছিল তোমার চাহনিতে
অলস ভাবে টেনে নিয়ে গিয়েছিল এক যাদুকরের গুহায়
সেখান থেকে শহর দেখা যায়না, গঙ্গার জলে মৎস্য কন্যারা জলকেলি করে
ব্রিগেডে কবি সম্মেলন হয়।
গভীর, গহন সেই চোখে শরতের মেঘ ওড়না হয়ে ভাসে
রাত হটাৎ থেমে যায়, বাতাসে বেজে ওঠে মল্লহারের সূর
আর সেই নিশ্তব্ধতা চিরে তোমার চোখ আদেশ দিয়েছিলো
আমায় পাপ করতে...পাপ করেওছিলাম,
কারন তোমার চোখে দেখেছিলাম বিশ্বাসের আগুন
যেখান থেকে আমার অনুভূতিগুলো একে একে ফিনিক্সের মত জন্ম নিচ্ছে।
তুমি আমার কাছে রাত্রি চেয়েছিলে
আমার যৌনতা জ্বালিয়ে তোমার জন্য রাত্রি এনে দিয়েছিলাম
ঠিক এইখানে যেখান ওরা সভ্যতাকে খুন করেছিল।
সেদিন মত্ত্ব হয়ে তোমার চোখে
দেখেছিলাম প্রেম, আত্মাহুতি, কলঙ্ক্‌......সুগটিত, উচ্ছল, উদ্দাম
যা ভবিষ্যতের অন্ধকার চিরে ধিকিধিকি করে জ্বলে।
তোমার চোখে হয়ত সেদিন আমি পুরহিত বা পাপী ছিলাম
আজ সেই ছোখেই আমি ধর্মদ্রোহী হয়ে গেলাম?

১৬ই ডিসেম্বর, ২০১৩

তুমি জান যে তুমি অপূর্বসুন্দরী
কি ভাবে জানলে?
যে ভাবে সব নারী জানে,
পুরুষের চোখের দর্পণে
নিজের প্রতিফলন দেখে।
...

দেখ, তুমি অপূর্বসুন্দরী,
আজ থেকে আমার প্রত্যেকটা রাত্রি, প্রত্যেকটা অনুভূতি
তোমার খানসামা, খিতমতগার, তোমার দাস।

Do you know
How much hunger stays concealed in a loaf of bread
How many dreams die captive inside a prison wall.
How much pain lies alone while dying in a hospital bed
How many seas does it take to make a raindrop ...
How many skies die along with a bird
How many kisses does a woman conceal in her lips
How much light does blindness rob
How much more would she keep me out of her self
What difference would writing poetry do in these troubled times.

Translated by Deepanjan Banerjee from Nabarun Bhattacharya's poem!

Palestine

Palestine
Every night your moon comes up
In a helmet.
Every morning your sun shows up ...
In a bullet proof jacket.

Your Gazan stars shiver silently in anticipation of gore
Your morning dew is visibly dry with distress.
Napalm filled clouds patrol your alleys
Instead of children.
Rivers of blood decay as corpse on your beds.
The scavenger birds screech in sheer delight
As the scream of an eagle squadron splits your horizon
Eagle bombers come laying embers in your space.
But all is quiet. There’s no panic.
Death and destruction has made all this commonplace.
Flame and Ice taste the same to your children
Only tombestones now separate your life and death.
I see you have built new pyramids out of
Human skull.
And a blind Sphinx stands in guard over them.

Every night
I dream of a radiant white rose.
I dream of a cherubic blue sky of democracy
I dream of labour’s rejoice
In communal festivity under this sun...
I dream of a content evening
That melts into a night of mellow slumber

But there is no trace of it anywhere
No sign nor symbol designs the preface to my dreams.
Only numerous scavengers feasting on my dreams every night.

A wish (Sharjah 2014)

He is your window now, perhaps you can see heaven
Through that window
Perhaps you are flying...
I wish for nothing higher dearest
Just kiss my madness once more
Then go to him
I shall stand here naked with my shallow bones.

Zero Hour (A few lines on my dark side)
Come Gargee, Come my friend, come see my cubic existence.
Gargee would you call it living? Would you call it mortality?...
Or is it my final game of chess
Between the dying and the dead?
I have phony page 3 smoke that glides through my scalded heart. Every Evening.
I have a banker’s blood that denies the existence to my heart.
I have sat crouched like a dog at the reprobate feet of this world
To find the bitch in it.
Like a roach I have walked side by side with other roaches in this city,
Like a mosquito I have flown alongside other malignant mosquitoes of the parish.
In genuine darkness I have dived longingly inside a woman
Just to find that I never did have any living quarters there.

I have gone to placid theatres in my Coca Cola dreams
Dressed like that queer columnist.
I have blown away the scenes of deceit like a weak candle.
I have no animated camphor in my sweat Gargee
That would enrage me.
What would you call this Gargee?
I have tried to crucify myself in my insignificant bedroom
I have tried to understand the suffering of Christ.
I have wanted to bloom like a flower in your landscaped garden
To see if I could fall in love with you.
I have wiped off my inheritance and hierarchy like the 6 pm sweat of a rickshaw puller
I had sadly fallen asleep at my grave instead of dying for you.
Gargee this is how I had lived with you.
Just like stray kids swimming underwater at Dhakuria lakes.
Just like a pervert begging for a life lying next to a couple nauseatingly making love at midnight.
I have four walls that have lost time and dignity.
Its worn out rabid existence is still so dear to me.
I have a dead tree carrying the memory of a long ago dead spring.
I have people calling me unforgiving names.
I have a bundle of your letters partly devoured by a team of right wing termites.
I have a curse that makes me that makes me unyielding.
I have that final possession that I have tonight put at stake at your alter
For that personal zero hour with you.
I didn’t want to tell this to you Gargee.
But my winters are slowly getting colder.
I have a covetous thirst that parches me every night that I have never felt before.
I have a rodent smeared darkness in my saline quarters.
I have a mind stained with sin and death.
For I have lost my memories at a cheap Dharmatalla bar.
I have the sound of accusing sirens when I pray or when I kill women.
I have two hands that like strangers rarely follow my commands.
Rarely do I feel that they are mine.
I have eyes that like invalids stare at their actions like a Venetian Crystal
Waiting for that zero hour with you.