Down the Dark Passages

Sometimes life seems so hopelessly unhaltered, like a speeding express train, which knows not the destination but the meaningless treading of path. If for a split second, could I stop this progress by pulling some hitherto unseen chain, if I could for an instant stand outside this whole capricious system and think steadily, I would have written down the story of my life in a long saga ornating with appropriate metaphors. But I don't have much time, I can feel. A dreadful fear is taking me in, a fear of uncertain. I am afraid that this train is going astray into dark tunnels and will never stop. So I'll write it down here, in the hope that anybody who is starting their journey will find direction early in their voyage.

I'll try to answer all the questions my conscience has asked me at several points of my life and which my rational, intelligent mind has put aside for some future time of introspection. That future has come now. I can't be very to-the-point in this as no introspection can be. At this point I am being tormented by questions, counter-questions and much more.

I am a "good boy". That's the worst part of my life so far. My parents had some dream of theirs and failed to achieve it. They put together all their dreams and thus I came to being. I was the ONE , the achiever, the winner in life. Nothing "bad" will ever touch me. My every action would be exemplerary to others. This "good boy" has guided me in every "action" all through-out my life. It has led me to do things that a good man should do, but not what I wanted to do. THERE, there I deceived the whole world, I deceived myself. This suppression of my will has been for long time, so long that I can no more hear the music of my own heart.

It is not sufficient to seek achievement, to achieve. And I have been an achiever. How did I do it? How did I become that "good" person? How did I ride this fast-running express train of success, in the first place? I have been intelligent, yes!!! What is intelligence? If the ability to adapt is the measure of inherent intelligence, I have been a genius, really. I'll elaborate on this point a little bit, as I don't see any opportunity for telling this in future.

I've tried to be a "good" son to my parents. At one point in my life, they were my only friends in life, and outside was an unknown uncertain place for me. I was introvert then, very much so. All I cared about was to please my dear ones by trying to achieve their dreams. I studied hard, with an one-eyed aim of becoming academically successful. Not that my parents forced me or anything. It was as if as a return of my existence in this world, a favour they did to me, and all my happiness after that. But it gave birth to a vice in my soul, my ego, for being the best, for being the invincible, for being the unsurpassable. It has been a companion for me, all my life. As a friend? as a disguised enemy? I don't know. Not even now, when I am writing the story of my psychological life. Actually I think friends are always disguised enemies. It's matter of perspective. But that will come later.

I've tried to be a "good" friend to my friends later in life. Now how do you become a "good" friend? I tried to be compassionate with them. I must have been, because otherwise why would they pour all their heart's content before me,if they didn't see true feeling in my eyes? There was a boy, three years junior to me in college, who used to think of me as an idol. Not simply because I was the only one who would listen patiently for hours to his deep thoughts about life, but because I was his guide in these matters. I used to tell him about mysteries of truth, ethics,life and love. He used to listen to me with indescribable awe and reverence in his foolish eyes. Yes he was a fool, unlike me, a complete idiot, who couldn't achieve anything, academic feat, friendship, love or popularity, because he failed to mould himself like others. Yet, the trust in those inane eyes was enough to
silent my voluble speech. As I knew very well that after this discussion is over this fellow would go to some lonely corner and think about that. And I? I will probably engage myself in another discussion with somebody else regarding a completely different matter. I had to be a "good" friend to him also!!!

Now I have been involved in this precarious way of life so much that I think my pragmatic existence is completely devoid of myself. It has become a collection of all the minds I have come across in my life. When I ask myself the reason behind any of my action amidst a group of people, answer seems obvious enough. But in solitude the very answer becomes as illusive as a mirage. Because there is no one to answer there. I have lived thousands of lives but haven't lived my own!!!

But my self and will is not lost. It never gets lost, simply due to natural laws. Vanquished from present reality, It has taken shelter in dreams. Yes, I am a dreamer. Not because I am prone to dreaming. That's not very unusual, actually. But in most cases, people dream of future. But I dream of past. No, I don't repent for my past, I simply dream about past. A dream so powerful that it is almost reality. A dream where my free will has taken control over my actions. I rebuild my past in my dreams . I cling to those dreams in complete defiance of the reality. I live in those dreams. This has led me to lie about trivial things and with no reason at all, with no purpose to deceive anybody. I have only tried to listen to my own heartbeat, my wishes, my dreams.

The self-hatred is slowly consuming me. Whenever, someone wants to put his/her trust in me, I am alarmed, I am afraid of myself. I am disgusted with my identity. Some days back, I broke a mirror. It reflected myself in such a shameless manner, I lost control. I wish I really could kill my reflection like that mirror. I wish I could jump out of this train, out of this never-ending journey. I wish I could stand quiet on my feet for sometime outside this world, full of people like me, disguised and masqueraded. Do they go through the mental turmoil I am going through? How to throw away these masks and put an end to this drama? I tried to stop it the hard way. I tried to forget the past and start afresh. I tried to live a life of my own.

That brings us to the end of the story, ultimate defeat of the invincible!!! For once the "good one" tried to be truthful to himself in the present and search for himself in the midst of false personalities. But is there any present without the past? I tried to change the present, but my past wouldn't let me go. It would come in front of me and say, in the disguise of people around me who thought of me very highly once and now hates me for being truthful,that I am a liar, untrustworthy liar!!!! But I tried, really tried to be trustworthy, believe me. But wasn't given a chance by this world.

So here I am. In this express train of my life, running through dark passage ways, nobody knows where. It is likely that in some more time I will consumed by this everlasting darkness so much that I won't be able to contact you. So this is my last letter to you, the men of conscience. My last advice, Don't try to be what you should be. Rather try to be what YOU want to be!!!

Adieus.

morichika

aaj theke bohujug age
kono dhusor morupothe
jekhane batase nirjonotar ghran
ar balir stup
chhure dey ghono trishnar bidrup
kono bismrito otite
dariye chhilam ami
sudirgho pother klantike
buke niye....

hathat puber kone
ekkhani morudyan
bidhatar ashirbaad hoye
dekha dilo dure
potonger moto nirbodh
anonde chhute gechhi
oi onabil ahwane
duhate dhorte cheyechhi
anondo, alibabar moto...

jogoter sob kichhur moto
nisthur khusite
amar haat dutoy dana bedhechhe
oporisor shunyota
morichika kobe jeno more gechhe....

tarpor,
hajar bochhor dhore
morupothe bose achhi ami
ek morichikar protikkhay....

The eye of the Storm

Never did I think that miracles happen
I had my head held high in foolish defiance
Inane attempts to bind my world in threads
of feeble logic, and I was so satisfied
And the peace was impeccable...

Eerie nights and sudden pain often
used to whisper in my ears
conspiracies begged to be unveiled
But I, buried them in my sands of satisfaction
in my own hands, I killed them
millions of times....

I was unalarmed when that night
you crept to my door and knocked
The feeble you and confident me
I thought.
But never could see the storm
in those dark innocent eyes
you brought for me as a present
I opened the door and let you in.

You touched my soul where
The dreams were buried
You kissed the wounds where
conscience had left its last sign
My palace of rational pleasure
fell down...

I knew not where to go
But I wasn't feeling pain
All my dreams were
unchained again
My feet stumbled
when you held my hand
feeble me and confident you
I thought...

Amidst the remnant of my past
where life and love were to re-form
I opened my eyes with fear and zeal
To stare at the eye of the storm!!!

onadrito

ekmutho rod er bismoye
ami bromhander shokti chusechhi
nirbhik alosye
teji laal ghorar pithe
nirdoy chabuk er chumbon
taja khoto hoye cheye achhe
sobhyotar dike
amar sadher nogorir daalpala
kete khat almari rokomari
khelnar aromborh dekhe
aami obak hoye gechhi
ar ratri ke ma bhebe
shoishob ke chhuye dekhechhi

aaj purono shunyota
ghrinabhore diye gechhe bhore
adhunik chintar dalaal era
manush er kanna store store
akash chhuye highrise er khope
dana bedhechhe chapa upekkhay
nirlojjo haater chhurir dogay
bibek bedhe aaj-kal-
porshur britha kolahole
hathat purono besuro sur
mone pore jay....

The Journey Begins

There is no truth.

Suddenness of incidences vaguely leave impressions on mind.

I was reading a storybook. I was seating beside a window. The curtain was drawn back and the world outside was glistening in the mid-april sun. Yes, I was
reading a book. I don't remember the title or the authors name. I think it was about love. And life. The language was lucid and the words knew their way to the
readers heart. I was reading slowly. Like taking a warm cup of coffee in a chilly winter morning. I wasn't reading to finish it, I was reading to detain the end. That
is one distinction between love and knowledge.

The story went on. climbed mountains and swam rivers and digged deep in mines to bring me the evidence of true love. Somewhere in the future, someone was
waiting to say the exact same things to me. "Love exists, I'll prove it to you!!" was what she'll tell me. And she will prove it in a language of pain. And the story
will go on.

I was convinced that it is the truth. Love is truth. But what is love? I looked around, at my room, at the mirror, outside the room into the streets.
Couldn't find anything similar to the story I just read. But the story seemed true enough and the things could have happened to me. But it didn't, at least at that time.
I decided to search for it thoroughly enough.

The book was lying open on the windowsill. The wind came. The pages skipped in the wind, settled, again skipped and the story went on. It'll not stop at the geometric
boundary of the book. Another book will come, then another. movies will come one after another. Poetry, cult literature, masterpieces and award-winners. knowledge
will engross my mind and a placid mist will veil the truth, if there were any.

But then I'll discover, may be in a coffee shop, or a train compartment or in some other place. The place is not really important. And neither is time. The ultimate truth
is that there is no truth. Life is accumulation of impressions. The grim world of pain and disbelief comes from our extreme strongrootedness in this world, our immense
attachment to everything.

Why do we live then?

It's like a movie. Completely fictitious. Still in itself it has a "reality" attached to it. It claims authenticity and claims it in a convincing fashion so that for the time being we assume
it is real. Rather we want to assume it's reality. That's why we watch movies, isn't it? It's same with life, I thought, because the illusions come one after another like bubbles and
foolishly claim permanence and in the next instant the bubble isn't there.

But we must realize that our "rationality" is also a part of that illusion. The harder we try to disentangle ourselves from the "reality" the more we get intertwined with illusion. Because that conscious effort is also connected to my "self" which is completely fictitious.

To live or to leave? whether to stop this grand movie show at once or to play our parts as a puppet? First point is what the criterion is. No rational gain can guide us to the answer even if there is an answer. Life it seems is like a game which continues until the player quits. To stop is to take the easier option, kneeling before the whims of unknown. But to keep on playing, weathering all pain,grief and despair,gives sense of victory out of which manifests sense of love!!!

The Night

The night was asleep. The roads all seemed to whisper among themselves. A feeling of deep down conspiracy filled the void all around.
Often you have this uncanniness in a magic show or a political lecture. You can feel something behind the curtains but an attempt to
catch it threatens to subvert the existence. And hence this passive compromise between carrying on the journey and venomous but silent
waves.

The night was asleep. Street lights painted the roads in yellow solitude. But somebody was crying, rather weeping trying hard not to be heard.
Why do people cry even when they don't seek attention? What is the purpose of all these secret mourning? Why tears often find victims in
unlikely places? Why? And is it really someone weeping or my wandering mind playing tricks again? To love or to leave?

But someone really is crying. I think from the other side of the big market. The market, the exuberant painter of human lives at daytime, sleeping
like shadows of mountains over forests, caress of waves over stones. Yes other side of the market. A moan now, soft moan coming from there.
People live there. But are they really people? They are not like us. They are subhuman. Everybody says so. I never knew what makes one that way,
but people do say and believing them gives you peace.

But subhuman creatures do cry. Crying is something common between all creatures. It is laughing which is a human prerogative. So the subliminal
creatures are free to cry. The word "freedom" gives a shudder in the back. Like an unsatisfied apparition it haunts the mind. When the chain is of solid metal
it is easy to break free. But what if you can not see the chain or feel it? How do you know that you are chained or not? Again that uncanniness of sudden
realization paralyzes mind.

The grown-ups are wise. They seem to know all the answers. That tiny bit of smile hanging from the corners of their eyes say so. They know
everything. Perhaps wisdom accumulates with time and graying hairs. And surprisingly, their answers are short, really short, like "try not to think about
these" and "try to know why balloons float in the air, instead". The cruel torment of the soul is not a disease they are infected by, it seems. "Thinking
too much makes the thinking vague" is what they say.

Who is crying? The sound is distinct in this dry winter night. May be some foolish dream has broken somewhere, some inane expectation got trodden
by cruel life, cruel but wise and pragmatic. Life would have been much simpler without dreams and desires. Desire is the mother of despair and pain.
Why do we have to cry? Why? And there was the sound of music from some nearby house, may be television or a radio. The enthralling world of laughter
and the sharp mockery of the disdainful scream.

Yes, scream it is. Now it is more distinct than ever. Severing the stillness of the winter night, the cruel nonchalance of the nocturnal earth,it presented
itself. No pretense, nothing. Bare, naked existence of these subhuman species. suddenly streetlights went dark and hot tears wiped my face. A different sphere
of tangled emotion took me in. My shadows grew until the world became very small and the silent lament of the night audible.