DU BOCHHOR

E lekha kar-o pora-r jonye noy. Nijer jonyei lekha, nijer pora-r jonye.

Kothagulo likhini kothao, kokhono. Bhebechhi anekbar. Likhbo bhabini, shudhu-i bhebechhi. Jontrona-y lekha, na hole bhabna-i thakto.

Du bochhor agey, ei din-tar du din agey baba-r songe sesh kotha hoyechhilo. Du bar. Amar priyo bondhu ekbar upodesh diyechhilen, ekbar nirdesh. Ekbar dupur duto-y, ekbar rat barota-y. Sei sesh. Ar du bochhor agey edin jeebonjudhe porasto je baba-ke haspatal theke bari boye enechhilam, tNake ami chini na.

Dupure office jachhilam. Baba-r mukh tokhon kalche, chokh gholate. Cancer sara shoreerta-ke chino-bhinno kore kheyechhe. Je lokta-r jeeboner proti adomyo akorshon chhilo, se amake bolechhilo, “Boro koshto re. Eto koshto soye bNeche thaka... e manusher bNacha noy… ar soite pari na… er cheye mrityu bhalo.” Chokher kole jol. Du joner-i. Shokto baba-r, kothin amar-o.

Baba communist chhilen. Ishwor-drohee. Asohyo jontrona-y kator hoyeo, ghor krantikale kono bimurto astitwo-key ashroy korenni. Othobo korechhilen hoy to, jani na. Office-e se din amar onek kaj chhilo. “Tumi jao, tomar deri hoye jachhe. Kaje deri kora uchit noy”, sesh upodesh shikkhoker.

Sondhyabelay office-e phone elo. Ambulance-er awaz tar por theke sohyo korte pari na. Office theke haspatal. Baba tokhon ICU-te. Rat barota-y dekhte pelam. Ami ar dada. Mukhe nol, nake nol, hate nol. Ekta pran jontrer upor puro nirbhorsheel. Mejaj tokhono soptome, “Tora eto deri kore eli keno? Ami kotokkhon toder jonye opekkha kore bose achhi… Ekhankar byabostha khub bhalo… era amake khub jotno korchhe…Tora kintu oboshyoi jogajog rakhbi, bujhli? Jogajog rakhis.” Baba-r sesh kotha. Tokhono mane bujhini, ekhono na. Bujhini sesh nirdesh. Ekdin pore dekhechhilam, cardiac monitor-er sobuj-ta sorolrekhay lal hoye jete. Mathata dan dike kat kora. Ek sister gaye-matha-y hat bulie dichhilen. Jeno nijer meye. Ekta meye-r boro shokh chhilo baba-r. Mone mone ekta meye chhilo-o. Amar bondhu, Simantini.

Chokher jol muchhe sister bolechhilen, “Amar kaj to sesh hoye gelo, apnader anumoti thakle jontrogulo khule dyiy?” Soptaho duek pore fNaka bichhana-r pash theke Rabindra Rachanabalee-r ekta khondo jhere-jhure jothasthane tule rakhchhilam. Ekta pagemark chhilo. Baba uponyas porchhilen-- Jogajog. Jani na… hoy to… jani na…

Sokol khelay korbe khela ei ami..

OF LOVE AND OTHER DEMONS...

I’m not standing in a pew in an altar. This isn’t a Sunday confessional. This is a confession, nonetheless. Sunday, too.

I guess when you are terribly smitten by a girl almost half your age, you feel like an adolescent kid just experiencing his first boyhood crush. I feel elated, stand rejuvenated. Is it love then? I don’t know… don’t know if anybody does…

But I don’t do anything. Torn between a perverse desire to let my wishes known to her and to keep mum, I rather sit idle. The Berlin Wall springs out of nowhere and stands between us— dark, foreboding, insurmountable. The pain is excruciating. It’s like taking a step towards the inexorable leap, the final nothingness. The angst eats me from within.

Yet she comes back in my sleepless dreams every night— smiling, invigorating and exuberant. That is all. That is enough for me, for the time being. That smile is an elixir.

Skeletons that I have preserved in my closet for what it seems an eternity now, perform a dance macabre, like gnomes from a cave. Of love and other demons, none can be exorcised. Asking for forgiveness is a cheap theory, for nothing can be undone.

She is somebody else’s. Or, was. She’ll be with somebody. Not me. But she’s there, out in the ethereal cyberspace.

Nobel laureate Knut Hamsun had ‘letters of gold’, they say. If she touches my blemishes once, my life will be golden. Scars healed, I will be whole…

A SIMPLE MAN: SIMPLY EXTINCT

Bhulan’s philosophy was simple. I’ve never seen a man so happy with a glass of country liquor. Gleefully inebriated, Bhulan’s day was made from sunrise. Bushy salt-and-pepper over a craggy scalp, his smile was a treat for the angels. That’s where Bhulan is, now. From today, he’s with the angels.

The drink which kept him going spelt his bane. Not a case of liver cirrhosis or banal asphyxia. The penniless owner of a dreary tea-shop in ‘Downtown Shanty-Niketan’, Bhulan today fell victim to the brutalities of a drunk. Dazed and clobbered by the blows, the simple man got no chance to resist. Body blue with bruises, he bled white. Debangan, tall and bearded, guardian angel to Bhulan for all times, saw him reduced to ashes. Probably it was Bhulan’s destiny to die in his arms, whom he affectionately called Dada. Probably it was Debangan’s part in the former's destiny too.

Bhulan came from Bihar. He was not aware of who Rabindranath was, nor did he care. But in an odd way, Bhulan belonged to Shantiniketan much more than lots of Ashramik-s, atleast to my eyes. A man who didn’t brandish his tooth and claw for existence, Bhulan believed in the maxim of loving and being loved. Unknowingly, he was a cog in the great wheel that the coeval bard has so eloquently spoken about.

Bhulan cared for the ill-fed students of Shantiniketan. I wonder how many students over the years have been pampered by him, with a pinch of love and a grain of salt, me included. When I used to turn penniless buying books at Subarnarekha, Bhulan kept me alive. Not at his tea-shop, but at his straw-thatched, dung-reeking hut, where serenity and bonhomie loomed large. We were his lifeline, so was he. That lifeline, alas, proved futile this Thursday.       

When the call from Suchintya came through, I was shattered, to say the least. To me, Bhulan, his asthmatic wife and his sons Raja and Raju present a plethora of images. I had many a happy memories with Bhulan. Chhatu-r puri with chatni, tarka and dim bhujiya… endless hours of adda… Debangan singing… those were our days of backslapping camaraderie. Bhulan with his ready supply of cha was the cynosure of it all. That Bhulan is no more.

Going to Shantiniketan has always been a welcome relief for me. I wonder, whether I can bear to go back to my Alma Mater one more time…   

AMI BHANGAY GORA MANUSH

Copy-te bhul thakle ar keu ‘fuck you’ boley mithe-koRa-y dhomok dyay na amake. Keu boley na, ‘You could have been my son.’ Dipankar Chakrobarty, amar Dipuda kotha rakhenni.

Ek bochhor paaR holo aj. Shunyota kateni. Katbeo na. Nishuti ratey jokhon ekla baRi firi, tokhon bujhi se shunyota-r byapti. Sotyi bolte ki, baba-r mrityu-o amake etota peeRito koreni, joto-ta ahoto korechhe Dipuda-r chole jaoa. Pitriheenota-r jonye ami prostut chhilam, mitroheenota-r jonye noy.

Baba-r mrityu-r por amar bari boye ese Dipuda bole giechhilen: “You could well been have my son. Tui kono chinta koris na. Ami to achhi.” Chho mas ar chhilen. Tar por hut bolte chhut mere kothay udhao hoye giyechhen adyonto Bohemian, routine-bhanga manush-ta.

Atmonashokotar holahol chhilo amader agrojprotim projonmer shrestho ei lekhok-sangbadiker boro priyo. Chaiten, ichhemoto jeebon-gaRi chalatey, ashokto shoreer tatey say dik ba na dik. Nijeke jwaliye-puRiye sesh kore deaor je teebro mohomottota ache, ta Dipuda-ke achhonno rekhechhilo jeebonbhor. Bishwas korten Aristotle-r bhashay-- proti-ti lekha, proti-ti srijon-muhurto-key “a moment of divine insanity” boley. Sei achhonnota-y jog hoyechhilo progaRho pandityo ar progya, suromyo ar abhijat lekhonee, teebro kamona ar apar koutuhol. Ar chhilo bNachar probol basona. Asomoye, akale Dipuda-r chole jaoata sei jonyei aro beshi kore buke baje.

Turosko theke firey Dipuda amake shuniyechhilen Dolmabahce ar Sultanahmet Prasad-er kotha. Swad peyechhilam badam-mithai baklava-r. Ar ashwash peyechhilam—“Toke niye jabo er porer bar. Ekdike Rumelia, anyo dike Anatolia-- Bosphorus-e ki mithe haowa rey!”

Amar ar Bosphorus jaoa hobey na. Ichhe-o nei. Haowa-r mithe swad ke chenabe amake? Hothat haowa-y bhese asa dhon to thNai niyechhen sei haowa-tei.

Rabindranath-er ekta pongkti boRo priyo chhilo Dipuda-r. Ta diyei sesh kori ei epitaph:

“Asa jaoar pother dharey gaan geye mor ketechhe din, jabar belay debo kare…” 

THE KING IS BACK. LONG LIVE THE KING

A year back, I fought a bet with my friend and colleague Rajarshi that Roger Federer is destined for doom. That he won’t add another Slam to his record bag of 16. Gleefully inebriated though we were, I was pretty confident in my (re)doubtable contention.

I also wrote a note in Facebook dismantling the maestro from his helm of glory, a piece that was liked and criticized with equal gusto.

A year from then, I’m mortally embarassed. But never in my life, I’ve been so happy to lose a bet and retract a statement at the same time. Now’s the time to do it, bowing in submission. The King demands it. Impertinence on the part of lesser mortals must be admonished in the royal curia of Roger Federer’s court. I could do no less.

It’s only possible for greats like the Swiss to rewrite history. He has done it many times. But winning this year’s Wimbledon Championship and legitimizing his legendary status has been an absolute master act, an experience out of the world.

There are several reasons behind such a hyperbole. Simply because of the awe-inspiring game that everybody present on the Sunday Centre Court marvelled at. But there is more to it. Over the past couple of years, even in his hallowed ‘backyard’, Fed Express has been derailed by bigger, meaner guys like Berdych and Tsonga, physically not matching up with the untrammelled power and severe groundstrokes that the two unleashed. Those unbelievable mishits, those faulty volleys, the rusty first serve became almost a ground reality. His fault lines widened over the artistry and wizardry almost imperceptibly over the past year. His demeanor shouted frustration; his racket was no more a friend but an unreliable spy. These fissures frightened lovers of sublime tennis while encouraging the belief in lesser players like Tsonga (albeit, nemesis Nadal and Djokovich belongs to a different league) that beating Federer is no longer so impertinent. More so, when a great falls from his grace and loses two matches from two sets up in a single year, you get to be worried and alarmed. At least, I was.

This year, however was different. Roger came charging in, making no ado about the fact that he badly wants the championship this year. Apart from his sudden hiccup against journeyman Julien Benneteau in which he scared us all, he has looked supremely confident and poised. More importantly, the killer instinct which was waning in his game has come back with aplomb. Roger made the circuit understand, not only he’s still a force to reckon with, but is the phenom that he was. He was as aggressive like a battle-scarred old wolf, only masquerading under a calm facade, something he has superbly done all through his career. Both Djokovich and Murray got a taste of it. Watching Federer was always a religious experience. That divinity after a lull is suddenly back.  

The main change has been in psyche, of course. If any sportsman has mastered the art of body language, it is Federer. His proud bearing and immaculate presentation have intimidated hundreds of opponents over the years. After certain periods of hunched shoulders, the lordly and apparently dispassionate figure again had his head held high. He believed he could. And he did. The handsome man of 30 (he would be 31 on August 8) looked almost young, suddenly exuberant beyond time. And that was simply remarkable.

What next? If unputdownable is his keystone, then impossible is the word absent in Federer lexicon. His one achievement is still lacking nonetheless. To conquer the Parisian red clay by overcoming a Spanish matador with bulging pectorals, Senor Rafael Nadal in head-to-head combat. The task seems daunting. But when it comes to Mr. Roger Federer, sky is the limit.

In recent months, Roger is half-a-step slower to the ball. No doubt, his infallibility has been reduced to mere excellence by the ravages of time. That is the Rule of the Game. Federer must wonder if he can continue to absorb as much punishment as he once did, to his spirit as well as a body unused to intermittent failings. Roger, however, still has his chances. His sport is more suited to the comeback. In tennis there is no point of no return, literally. As in boxing, there is hope until the last blow is swung. Federer has done it many times. More recently, on sublime Sunday.

But every good thing comes to an end. That’s why I have a nagging thought at the back of my mind. Often, greats brimming with self-confidence tend to overstep the gear. I’m sure, the perfect time to call it quits is somewhere wired in Roger’s brain. Will he choose to go with a bang like Pete Sampras did? Or his exit will be inglorious, like a pummeled Boris Becker or a tired Andre Agassi? In this form, Roger doesn’t have to give it a thought right now. But eventually, he’ll be forced to. ‘Time, please’ is the call of the umpire after each changeover. When will it apply to Federer, the man who has walked on air throughout the modern era of tennis?

The Swiss is often perceived as so good he does not have to fight, which is wholly inaccurate. There is calm in his soul that disguises his scars. But injury and battle-fatigue has dented his body. We will discover in the months to come if the hurt goes deeper.

Federer came to Wimbledon this year as the man hoping to put his feet in Pistol Pete's shoes. He has done it and walked out from the grassy glades, basking in sunshine and eternal glory. For the time being, let him enjoy just what he has achieved.

Statistically, Roger Federer is the greatest Grand Slam champion of all times. But records or no records, the husband to Lady Mirka Vavrinek and a proud father to twin daughters, the handsome hunk from the Alps will surely go down in history as the finest player ever to have graced the court. He’s just once-in-a-lifetime athlete. Once the wizard is gone, we will never see the likes of him again. That is why Roger Federer remains and will remain as the numero uno of modern tennis. Phenomenal and legendary.          

London : Roger Federer of Switzerland celebrates winning the men's singles final against Andy Murray of Britain at the All England Lawn Tennis Championships at Wimbledon, England, Sunday, July 8, 2012. AP/PTI(AP7_8_2012_000157B) Press Trust of India

London : Roger Federer of Switzerland celebrates with the trophy after winning the men's singles final against Andy Murray of Britain at the All England Lawn Tennis Championships at Wimbledon, England, Sunday, July 8, 2012. AP/PTI(AP7_8_2012_000158B) Press Trust of India

THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING

He was pristine. Watching him has been a religious experience. That is not to be. Not any more.



Roger Federer is still a force to reckon with. But his indomitable aura is gone, the myth of his invincibility fallen apart. With intermittent sparks of brilliance, the Swiss Maestro is now just another pro on the turf. His decline is obvious, his demise from the scene to follow suit.



Only Roger Federer and Tiger Woods among great athletes of modern times have had the aura to survive slumps and still be regarded as dangerous until they are scraped off the canvas. That, sadly, is no longer true in either case.



As Federer left US open, his back, right leg and heart aching, his head bowed, he must wonder if he can continue to absorb as much punishment as he once did, to his spirit as well as a body unused to such failings. He was a god reduced, a humbled champion, and he has not been so despondent after a defeat in a very long time. He struggled and failed to hide his inner torment.



He is still hungry. "I vow to come back next year," he said, defiantly. But isn’t he angry too? Angry at himself for being mortal and angry at suggestions he is not as great as he has been for nearly a decade. But defeat sent him tumbling to third in the world, a position of relative ordinariness he has not experienced since 2003. And Federer has to admit, he is no longer the great that he once was. That is the truth which still eludes the greatest tennis player of all times. Extremely difficult to admit, though, even to himself. Equally painful is to watch him reduced to a mere mortal.





“Just a flick of the wrist!”, “Majestic!” Those hyperboles are from the yesteryears. Ground reality is 69 unforced errors in the semifinal against Novak Djokovic. Luke Jensen in the commentary box kept groaning at those unbelievable mishits, those faulty volleys, the rusty first serve. He betrayed fault lines that have widened almost imperceptibly over the past year or so. His demeanour shouted frustration; his racket was not a friend but an unreliable spy. These fissures will concern lovers of sublime tennis while encouraging the belief in lesser players like Berdych or Djokovic (albeit, nemesis Nadal belongs to a different league) that beating Federer is no longer so impertinent.



Roger, however, still has his chances. Federer's sport is more suited to the comeback. In tennis there is no point of no return, literally. As in boxing, there is hope until the last blow is swung. Federer has done it many times.



The Swiss is often perceived as so good he does not have to fight, which is wholly inaccurate. There is calm in his soul that disguises his determination. But injury has dented his body; we will discover in the months to come if the hurt goes deeper.