সাইক্লোন

সাইক্লোন

 - সপ্তর্ষি বসু

আচ্ছা , তুমি বার বার কেন আসো ?
     নতুন নাম নিয়ে , নতুন বেগে ফিরে
ভাবো আমি চিনতে পারবো না , তাই না ?

     সমুদ্রের বুকে যখন তুমি উত্তাল হয়ে ওঠো ,
         টিভি তে তোমার ছবি,
    আমি ঠিক চিনতে পারি , আসছো তুমি ।

আঘাতে প্রতিঘাতে সব ভেঙে দাও ,
   এত ব্যথা তোমার বুকে আজও ?
ঈশান কোণে মেঘ জমলেই তোমার গন্ধ ভাসে ।

তুমি বেসেছিলে ভালো , জানি আমি
 জানেনা সমাজ , মনের ভেতরে যে লুকিয়ে রেখেছি ,
তাই বুঝি এত রাগ , এত রোষ ।

ঢেউ গুলো যখন আছড়ে পড়ে পাথরে ,
   বুঝি তোমার বুকের ব্যথা, তোমার বুকের ক্ষত
    টুপ টুপ বৃষ্টি তে মিশে যায় আমার চোখের জল , তুমি জানতেও পারো না , কেউ দেখতেও পায়না ।

 শত শত পথ পেরিয়ে আবার আসছো তুমি ,
     জানি আমি
   মেঘেরা যে তোমার চিঠি আগেই এনে দিয়েছে আমায়
সাবধানে এসো , কারুর ক্ষতি না যেন হয়
রইলাম বসে তোমার ঠোঁটে আমার ঠোট ছোয়ানোর অপেক্ষায় ।

Kolkata Book Fair - Our Beloved BoiMela Memories

#BoiMela #KolkataBookFair #Boimela2020 #InternationalBookFair #KolkataInternationalBookFair

Tomorrow ( or today as it's past 12 ) is the last day of our beloved BoiMela , Kolkata International Book Fair.
    Perhaps, this is the first time that I couldn't visit even being in Kolkata.From last wednesday , down with viral fever.And though the fever has subsided now , the wreakage of severe weakness along with cold makes it impossible for me to visit tomorrow.
      Story books had always been a special person in my life.As if a close friend filing up the gap of loneliness.As a child ,I use to live in quite a humble govt.quarters .One thing which was visible almost every corner was books.My parents specially my mother  had been a voracious reader.I still remember as early as in class 5, I had started reading Rabindranath & russian literature.
      2 books which had a long lasting impact on my then fertile mind   was - (1) ইস্পাত ( How the steel was tempered) by Nikolai Ostrovsky    (2) মা ( The Mother ) by Maxim Gorky .
      I still remember with a faint smile on my face that my dear mother was not quite pleased watching me reading the above books and felt I might get into politics which was least looked into from a middle class family.
       Though I had read non-fictions but the real enjoyment I use to get then and now is in fiction.The exploration of human mind and the depth and absurdity of thoughts can be truly enjoyed in the best fiction writing.
     What more can one want or seek if he or she is given a pletora of best fiction works - Ranging from Tagore , Camus , Naipaul , Amitava ghose, Murakami, Mo Yan , Tan Twan Eng , and more and more.
        Almost like being on a vacation of the best of the best imaginations.
     My relation to kolkata book fair goes long back to my childhood days when we weren't in kolkata.Probably my Uncle carrying a book for me and my greatest delight and curiosity to finish it off first.
     Back to my BE College days wherein the BoiMela happen to be on the Maidan ground .
The smell of books , aha !
Back then the boimela hasn't turned into a gastronomic experience yet , it was more about books and the love of art.
    And then 2012 happened !
     To be honest ,I never dreamt to be a writer leave apart publishing my novel.In fact ,I started writing quite late during my Onsite days in London.
    The plenty of idle time you generally have after office outside of boozing, shopping , visiting new places and doing things which you had never thought in your hometown , there's still a vast room of loneliness which I tried to fillup by writing giberish.
  Like anything and everything.Life in Engg college , after college , Software Industry .
Etc , etc & etc.
Of Love, loathings & longings.
  And somehow in due course of time , those writings slowly transformed into a book.
  And whats more , it got published.
     Times of India stall , hall 1 , stall no. 5 .
       The very D-day when your book gets launched and what can be a better place than our Kolkata Book Fair , our Beloved BoiMela.
    So we all went.It was kind of a family get together.Me being the most nervous sort.
   Quite logically , in my entire life of utter mediocracy  till then , this was ' The Moment '. Wherein you get at least a little bit transformed from NoOne to a better NoOne.
  Whom someone might recognize.
     People started coming in.The TOI guys managing the stall smiled and welcomed me warmly.I whimmed inside the stall like a nervous deer.
    Amlan , my dear friend and my wife had already taken up the valiant act to introduce me to anyone and everyone whoever came to TOI stall.Generous people surrendered to their persuation and few even bought my book.
   Next thing , the book signing session followed.
    In all that excitement time flew devoiding Einstein's theory of relativity and it was almost the day was about to be over.
     How can you leave the boimela without having the slightest gastronomic experience.
So fish Kabiraji and frys followed.
   And so the love.

   
As I look back painfully of missing this year 's boimela , I will be deeply waiting for it the next year.
     And the year next !

The BEST HALEEM Joints all over India

It’s the time of the year when People ask ‘ Haleem Khaye ? ’ or ‘ where do I get the best Haleem’ .

So we have made a List PAN INDIA.

For people living in India , check out the top ‪‎haleem Joints this Ramazan.

KOLKATA

     DELHI

BANGALORE

MUMBAI

INDORE

GURGAON

HYDERABAD

CHENNAI

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MY NAME IS UNKNOWN

MY NAME IS UNKNOWN

-        Saptarshi Basu

My name is unknown,

My City lives within me.

My colour changes with time,

At times it’s red, at times it’s green.

My name is unknown,

My City lives within me.

The Sunday’s last Metro is melancholic,

Like going away from someone,

The drone, the humming, the automatic voice

Unclear in the noise,

Like mother calling at a distance,

Like lover saying goodbye.

My name is unknown,

My city lives within me.

I smell of fish in the morning,

I smell of sweat at night.

My name is unknown,

My City lives within me.

My hands get raised to forehead,

Distractedly sitting in a bus,

To an unknown God.

The man sleeping on my shoulder,

Reminds me of my grandfather,

Or a long lost friend.

My name is unknown,

My city lives within me.

I am not someone,

I am unknown,

Like other unknowns in my city,

We smile at each other,

We had hardly known.

I hear Tagore’s songs,

Mixed with dust and mist.

My name is unknown,

My City lives within me.

About the Poet:

His second Novel , AUTUMN IN MY HEART published by Vitasta Publishing with Times group (Times of India) launched in november'11 has already created a lot of stir due on causes of broken heart and homosexuality.

 Saptarshi Basu does motivational speaking and was invited from Jaipur Engineering College and Research Centre (JECRC) to address their Annual National Tech-Fest Renaissance -March, 2012.He was also invited as a guest poet to international Poetry festival at Guntur, India.

 He had subsequently travelled and lived in London, Toronto, San Francisco, Dubai till he came back to Kolkata, his hometown.

Saptarshi Basu also does screenplay writing for movies and writes columns for some online magazines like Asiacha- an international journal, museindia and others .

His children’s fiction ‘ The Zoo-break Adventures’ has been taken up by a renowned international animation company to be made into an animated series.

A FAREWELL TO FAGS

Roll Sound, Camera, Action!

    Slowly behind the camera the giant of a man and his tall frame emerges, erect and slim. A frail cigarette dangling on his lips. You look into his face and recognise him instantly, the enigmatic versatile genius, Satyajit Ray. Magical images of Pather Panchali (song of the road) and Apu trilogy shapes up in that cloudy smoke coming out from his cigarette.

We leave those beautiful memories behind and come to more recent times. Perhaps at one of the most happening Malls in Kolkata. A new Feluda movie had viralled on the theatres. Prodosh Chandra Mitra or our beloved Feluda, the charismatic private detective is in deep thoughts .Another iconic creation by the great man talked above .As the mystery slowly unfolds in his rich brain, he smokes his beloved Charminar. And after a series of Charminar done, the villain is undone, audience overwhelmed.

Bengal is the land of intellectuals. It always was. And when intellectuals are there, how can smokes be far. Creativity and intellectuality had been embodied magnificently in those slim paper rolls. Girls love you with that slim thing dangling from the end of your mouth. And slowly it had turned into a domestic fashion. Every second person you see on the road, at office, at restaurants, at bars does smoke –even if he or she is distantly related to creativity. Emaciated people, obese people, rich people, poor people, CPM, Trinamool have one thing in common- they all smoke here, in Bengal.

 I don’t exactly remember when I joined the smoking club. Perhaps, quite young. Perhaps, quite attracted by those angelic intellectuals. How united they all looked with their fags. Those dreamy television scenes! Looked as though my Hero was completely incomplete without it. I was too excited to start. I gladly condemned my father who had been a non-smoker all throughout his life. An exception doesn’t make a rule, I told myself. And then I smoked into glory. The glory of opaque clouds. I coughed, I cursed. But I continued.

Slowly as I entered my college-hood days, I felt deeply happy. For almost everyone was like minded. In one thing atleast.United in their choice of smoking. United in agreement that this was the unique solution to all our adolescent problems. From Neruda lovers to TeniDa lovers. From the canteen boy to electronics Engg first boy. From professors to latrine cleaners. Almost everyone. Except a few gym-goers and frantically athletic ones. We sidelined them, calling that body isn’t everything. You need to activate your drooping brain cells with that grey cloud. Girls appreciated. They felt it was manly. To smoke, I mean. We felt it was manly. To make them feel it, I mean. ‘Counter’ was the catchword. As Navy Cut-s through our still fresh lungs, we kept on enjoying. Movies magically portrayed them. The best of the brains were always shown smoking on the idiot box. Slowly, the rule became an addiction. And Addiction became necessity. Till things started falling out of place.

    I, who once had won a medal in 600- metre race during Stone Age, was panting like a dog after running less than 50 metre. My friends were not far behind. So, I felt whatever happens, happens to all. A few lungs disease, a few breathing problems, a few fallouts here and there. Hardly noticeable though, because by now almost every noticeable person smoked.

I read it somewhere ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger’. We were not killed by God’s grace by now .We were definitely stronger. We believed that we are intellectuals. Creative human beings. Who smoked.  But hardly created anything. Surprisingly, our beloved Anup Da who sold country liquor also thought the same. That he was a creative person, while sending rings of smoke in the air. We trusted him.

But slowly as years passed by and we ripened, our reverie looked painfully over. Roktim was detected with lung cancer, Sujit with severe gastritis problems. All credited to our beloved friend for long. Roktim left smoking but little life was left with him. Sujit still suffers from the prolonged drought of gastric ulcer. He had even left his favourite mutton Biriyani and now engages himself only in boiled vegetables. Still, we were unfazed. And also the world around us. We continued our dedicated devotion to our slim friend. Who went up in smoke with a kiss and fire.

Girls changed. I mean their vision about smoking. Now, as they softly tread into our lives as wives, the once manly thing became polluting. Corroding. Disturbing. Unhealthy. And thousand other dictums. We were surprised, how contradictory! Domestic skirmishes continued. Till some old fighters of the smoke gave up their lighters.

I tried many a times unsuccessfully to quit. Once and for all!  It pains to see that even with the growing consciousness about cancer and other tobacco related diseases, every second or third person you meet during your day, still smokes. And what’s more painful, the young minds are continuously attracted to the whims of the silent killer. Truly, it’s a silent killer. Since you never know that with each fag and each puff, it’s killing you day in and day out. Office pressures, exam pressures will always be there. And even with thousand fags you can’t use your grey cells more. Nicotine is better an insecticide than to make a permanent abode in your head. Movies will keep on continuing showing your favourite hero smoking on screen. Your favourite writer thinking deeply on his easy chair with a fag in his hand. Your favourite rock star emerging from the ethereal smoky clouds. Imitate their good habits, enjoy their brilliance, cultivate their creativity.

But do say farewell to fags!