sure, there is hope in this world. everywhere, in almost all nooks and crooks of the world. it's always overflowing. i have seen it slither in between one anxious exhale, side glances and the questioning look of patience between us. i waited in front of this house for long enough to never question it's abundance. i still feel it somewhere deep down fighting teeth and nail on the remains of a burning coal. hope. you feel it's warmth, its sickening greed to always persist no matter what.
there's enough hope in the world, just not for all of us.
হেরে গেলাম আজ। সৌম্যনীলদার মুখের থেকে হাসি কেড়ে নিয়েছি আমি। যদিও, এটা আমার বড্ড বেয়াদপি! এতটা অধিকার বা ক্ষমতা কোনো কালেই থাকার কথা না আমার। তবে, এই যে বিরাট এক অট্টালিকার ছাদে গলায় ফাঁস দিয়ে ঘুরছি, এটা কি যথেষ্ট নয়? সৌম্যনীল দা, তুমি কি সত্যি বলতে সত্যিই এতটা লজ্জা পাও? কখনও মনে হয় না...? মনে হয় না স্বপ্ন দেখা কি ছেলেবেলার কাজ নয়? আজকে প্রশ্ন তুলতে পারো, বলতে পারো আমায় যে আমি পাপী, যে নিজেকে বিসর্জন দেওয়া পাপ। আমি মেনে নেবো। কিন্তু তুমি? তুমি তো সমুদ্রে নামলে না... একবার যদি বলতে নাম ধরে ডেকে, "প্রিয়, ওদিকে যেতে আমার বড় ভয়, তুমি একটু থাকো?" তুমিও তো আর কম সত্যবাদী নয়... আমি তো শুধু চেয়ে থাকলাম তবু তুমি তো...
your eyes gaze upon the salt of the ocean, stars in the eyes, tectonic plates moving beneath your feet and i am the only one constant looking at you. the burning pyre. my feet. your loving hands around them. the burning pyre. are you trying all alone?
সৌম্যনীল দা, কবে যেন বেশ, একদিন পৃথিবী হাতে দিয়ে, তুমি বললে, "ভালোবাসাবাসি হবে না, রাজ্যটা তো করতে পারবি তো?" এক পায়ে হাঁটু ভেঙে নিচু হয়ে বললে, "বল, পারবি তো?"
আমি সেই আদিম যুগের ভাঙা দরজার মুখপানে চেয়ে ছিলাম: রাজত্ব চাইনি, শুধু কাঠগড়ায় না তুললেই পারতে। the kingdom patriarch lights his pipe everytime he sees me, eyes dizzy with foam, nose spotted with age, pointed at the corridor to say, "যাও, বেরিয়ে যাও!"
আমি খুশি থাকলে লিখতে পারিনা, জানো? আমি হেরো ফকির হতে পারি, হেরো লেখক নই। কষ্ট বাড়লে লিখুনি পাল্টায়, লাইনের পরিধি বেড়ে যায়। এক নিশ্বাসে পুরোটা বলতে কেমন যেন আটকায়। আমি তোমার চোখের তলার কাজলের কথা লিখতে চেয়েও লিখতে পারলাম না। ওই যে কেমন স্টাইল মেরে লাজুক চোখে কানের পাশের চুলটা সরিয়ে ঠোঁট টিপে হাসো... তুমিই বলো, আমি কি আদৌ লিখতে পারবো?
you ask me again, "you don't have to love me but can't you stay?" i lied. you could never ask such question. your curiousity is only vibrant when I close my eyes. I imagined it. that is all I do. when have i not wanted to stay? melancholy has drooped my cheeks, old age has invaded the corners of my eyes, for everything has changed yet i couldn't belong anywhere. আতশকাঁচ। বড্ড ভঙ্গুর।
আজও সেই দরজার সামনে দাঁড়িয়ে আছি, জানো? হাত তুলে ঠক-ঠক করার সাহস নেই। পিতৃমুখ আমার চোখে-চোখ রেখেও কথা বলেন না। তোমার বাড়ির রাস্তা ছেড়ে দিয়েছি গো, সৌম্যনীল দা... আর আসব না।
(with) translation:
sure, there is hope in this world. everywhere, in almost all nooks and crooks of the world. it's always overflowing. i have seen it slither in between one anxious exhale, side glances and the questioning look of patience between us. i waited in front of this house for long enough to never question it's abundance. i still feel it somewhere deep down fighting teeth and nail on the remains of a burning coal. hope. you feel it's warmth, its sickening greed to always persist no matter what.
there's enough hope in the world, just not for all of us.
lost, today. i stole the smile from Soumyanil-da’s face. and that is my arrogance. i never had such right, never such power. yet here i am, swinging from the noose on the roof of this vast house—tell me, is this not enough? Soumyanil-da, do you truly feel such shame? do you not ever think… do you not ever think that dreaming is not only for children? today you may accuse me, call me sinner, say that giving oneself up is sin. i will accept it. but you? you never stepped into the sea… if just once you had called me by name, said—“beloved, i am afraid to go yonder, stay for me a little”? you, too, were no less truthful… and i only stood and stared, while you—
your eyes gaze upon the salt of the ocean, stars in the eyes, tectonic plates moving beneath your feet and i am the only one constant looking at you. the burning pyre. my feet. your loving hands around them. the burning pyre. are you trying all alone?
Soumyanil-da, once, it seems, you placed the whole world in my hands and said: “there will be no love, but you can rule the kingdom, can’t you?” bent on one knee, you lowered yourself, whispering, “tell me—can you?”
i was only staring at the broken doors of some ancient age: i did not want a kingdom, only that you would not summon me to the dock. the patriarch of the house lights his pipe whenever he sees me—eyes fogged with froth, nose blotched with age, pointing down the corridor: “go, get out!”
i cannot write when i am happy—you know this? i can be a failed fakir, but never a failed writer. when sorrow swells, the writing warps, the lines stretch, spill. to speak all of it in one breath, it clogs in my throat. i wanted to write of the kohl beneath your eyes, but i could not. the way you tilt your head, brush the hair from your ear, shy, your lips tightening into a smile… tell me, could i ever write it true?
you ask me again, "you don't have to love me but can't you stay?" i lied. you could never ask such question. your curiousity is only vibrant when I close my eyes. I imagined it. that is all I do. when have i not wanted to stay? melancholy has drooped my cheeks, old age has invaded the corners of my eyes, for everything has changed yet i couldn't belong anywhere. magnifying glass. so fragile.
even now, i stand before that door. yet i cannot lift my hand to knock. the patriarch’s face meets my eyes, but will not speak. i have abandoned the road to your house, Soumyanil-da. i will not return.
photo caption: and in those small half-broken stories, i am not longer there.
This read like an alternate pov/ ending to a story (the tapes may also have been complicit in placing that thought in my head), or musings from when you place yourself in the stories you've just consumed (if either of that is the case I would love to know what piece of media drove this).
It's so beautifully meloncholic but feels evasive in a way, in my head it's almost like a couple of montages lined up.
I love how suffocation is constant throughout the piece, like suffocation from the smoke of burning coal and the pyre and the pipe, and the suffocation from unwarranted expectations, love and feelings of disappointments and everything, and the literal suffocation from hanging!!
I may be totally off, but I think it does convey a sense of suffocation and it is almost like the lump in your throat does not let you get it all out, as if you don't want the reader to be complicit in whatever it is that bothers you, by recounting everything. (Again, I may be projecting or be totally off but yea. i would love to know how you intended it.)
Reading your pieces is always, always so nice and I love the Bengali posts so much, i really do wish I knew to read it in its original form.
i love how vague it is almost evading all kinda efforts at understanding, or maybe it’s just my limited understanding of Bangla rhetoric that’s leaving kinda confused about your relationships. whatever it may be, it’s desperate and quiet like all desi households preach themselves to be. i like how you yearn for affection in almost all your pieces and your subject insists otherwise lol. it’s nice to read on of yours always, wish i knew Bangla