আমি পড়তে ভুলে গেছি, এমনটাই মনে হয় আজকাল। নাকের ডগায় চশমা থাকে বটে,তবে সেটা বেশি কাজে লাগে ফোন খুলে হাবি জাবি করতে। আচ্ছা আমি কী দেখতেও ভুলে যাচ্ছি, তা নইলে আমার মন ..ছবিতে ,কথাতে ভরে থাকে না কেনো ? আমি কি সত্যি ” ঘুমায় যেন চিত্র পটে আঁকা ” একজন হয়ে উঠছি ? এত গুলো প্রশ্নের যখন উত্তর খুঁজছি নিজের ভিতর, ঠিক এমনি সময় হাতে এলো এই বইটা, ‘মংপুতে রবীন্দ্রনাথ ‘। মৈত্রেয়ী দেবীর ‘ন হন্যতে ‘ সেই কবে মনে দাগ কেটেছিল, আজও সেই দাগ মোছেনি । ঋজু হয়ে উঠে বসলাম, এই বই আমায় পড়তেই হবে। এত দিন পড়ি নি , সেটাই দুঃখ ।
“ছাই হয়ে গিয়ে তবু বাকি যা রহিবে আপনার কথা সে তো কহিবেই কহিবে ।”
My words are knocking at my door, And I am not ready to hear. My words are waiting on a cold floor, And I am numbed with fear. My words await like a lover forlorn, Aah, for the love of my words, I am torn.
I remember closing the door on your face, Not with a loud thud, but with gentle grace. Like one hides after losing the race, I wanted to hide in an agonizing space. You once attempted to hold me back, But I had vanished in my ink-blue black.
Why should I bring you inside ? What is there for you to see ? The same stories of broken pride, Chasing the ego and no place to hide. The opium laced hours of mundane , Crossing the borders of sane-insane. A few broken images of the bygone day , Effortlessly piling upon my today. With no ray of light lighting up tomorrow, Yesterday’s happiness drowning in sorrow .
Why should I bring you inside ? What is there for you to see ? Smiles and laughter I once had spread , Those books together, we once had read. The pages are torn, flying around the room, The air is dismal, laden with gloom. Unopened pages are crying in vain, They look at me, but with disdain. Memories are fading, without any fanfare, And I sit in silence, within these walls of despair.
Why should I bring you inside ? What is there for you to see ? There is no novella to tell or bard to mourn, There is a numbing silence, to which I have sworn. The stories we had once weaved together, The dreams made of wings as light as feather, They have flown away from my mind, Not to come back, and no one to remind. All grand and lofty words sublime , Have been buried in the ruins of time.
Why do you still stand at my door, My long forgotten words candor. Words with power, to build and destroy, To lure and win is your age old ploy. You unfurl stories from my heart, You hold me tight and tear me apart. My thoughts had frozen like winter snow, Your sunshine awakens with a tender glow.
My words are knocking at my door, Alas, I will make you wait no more. Like a diver from the depths of sea , Bringing the pearl and setting it free, My words you pull me from my reverie, Like a shameless lovers’ ecstasy.
It all started with this one small wish of mine, wanting to sit on that inviting chair, ‘The Chair’ in the garden and day dream. In my dream came knocking a sleepy town in the south of France where all doors were closed. I called the town, the town of ‘Closed Doors’. I kept peeping through each door to see a little more. In that state of reverie Trisha and her ‘Filter Coffee’ spilled all over my mind. And now they want to hear the story till the end! But where is the end and how far from my reach I wonder. Trisha was travelling alone and on a magical sun-set evening in a serene beach side cafe, she had met an attentive and interesting man.Yes, their friendship happened very naturally, without any effort, and they also exchanged numbers with the intention of catching up some day somewhere. It was not a “you are my latte” kind of friendship ! Coffee lovers can vouch that competing with coffee love is not too easy. Trisha must have reached back home by now and tucked away the memory of that warm evening in her magic box neatly tied with a silver ribbon. Unlike Trisha I don’t travel alone, I travel with my people, with my words, and most of all with my readers.
Words turned into sentences and sentences into paragraphs and slowly my mind started waking up and giving each line a meaning, an image, a picture , almost like a reel. The words within became a reality more real than the one around.
I borrowed the book for two nights and days. I knew I couldn’t finish reading it in that time. I read slow, as slow as a tortoise peeping out of its shell ! The book was a thriller and I left the story unfinished. Every story that I start does not reach its end. I learn to live with the unfinished tales of life. I learn that every sun set does not become a poem or every lark flying is not completely free. I returned home with an unfinished book on my mind and an unquenchable thirst for more and more words. A good friend came to rescue, she suggested that I dive into the world of “The Heart Asks Pleasure First”. And yes I am now slowly drowning my senses into…heart asks pleasure first !
Words chase me no matter where I go, or is it the other way round- I keep chasing words no matter where I go. So here I was in a hotel lobby taking in its interesting decor when I saw the bookshelf. An open bookshelf, leaning against a pillar, almost hidden from view, standing silently extending a wordless welcome to the curious travellers. I approached it tenderly, scared to ruffle the sleeping pages of the books within. My fingers ran gently over the ribs of the books till they touched “I’M TRAVELLING ALONE”. I gingerly took the book in my hand and started reading.
sangeeta chakladar 