The Message

The Message

It had all started with that small piece of paper. Maya was taking his shirt out for washing when the folded slip of paper had flipped out of Anit’s pocket. She recognised Anit’s crabbed handwriting, but the passion and intensity etched on the tiny slip were completely alien to the man she so intimately knew for so many years. When she asked Anit about it, he just smiled and said in a dismissive tone that it was just like any of his other idle doodling, nothing else. But the worm…

Read More

Shantiniketan_Musings

Shantiniketan_Musings

২৫শে এপ্রিল, শনিবার ঝম ঝম করে গনদেবতা এক্সপ্রেস পেরিয়ে গেলো নোআদার ঢালl তুলির টানে আঁকা ছোট্টো স্টেশন l পাশে কালো ফিতের মত পিচ রাস্তা l সাদা কালো রং করা থাম গন্ডি টেনেছে তার l সার দিয়ে কৃষ্ণচূড়া দাঁড়িয়ে আছে সারা গায় গেরুয়া আবির মেখে l আর একটু পরেই শান্তিনিকেতন l হাঁফিয়ে ওঠা শহুরে জীবনের থেকে পালিয়ে যাবার ঠিকানা আমার l এক অদ্ভূত মগ্নতা টেনে নিয়ে আসে বার বার l বোধহয় নিজেকে পাবার তাগিদেই l কাল বৃষ্টি হয়েছে l আজ তাই বেশ ঠান্ডা আমেজ l দুপুর দুপুর বেরিয়ে পড়েছি  হারুর সাইকল নিয়ে….হারা…

Read More

BENARES – A Spiritual reverie

BENARES – A Spiritual reverie

23/10/2012, Tuesday, 23.10 Hrs Today is Nabami. As Bibhuti Express pulls out of Howrah Station, the lights and sounds of Durga Puja is slowly receding in the metronomic beat of the metal wheels. We are headed for Benares (Varanasi), that eternal cauldron of faith, which brews history and lets its flavour drift across the pages of time 24/10/2012, Wednesday, 21.45 Hrs Have reached Benares today morning. “Benaras is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together” –…

Read More

Mukutmanipur – A different confluence

Mukutmanipur – A different confluence

Day 1, 22.10 Hrs It started with a pell-mell run to catch the train earlier in the morning. Last mile of Santragachi station is rather difficult to reach in car. We were late. Our train, Rupashi Bangla Express, as is usual in such situations, was standing in the farthest platform. We boarded it by a whisker, breathless and sweating in the December chill. The train eased out, went past Mourigram, Andul, Sankrail and likewise. Stations in our part of the country have names that seat easy on the tongue and…

Read More

At Night’s End

At Night’s End

    “My mother is a martinet”. This was the first sentence little Aruna had thought up when she had learnt the meaning of the word ‘martinet’ in primary school. She often remembered, with a grimace, the routine torture at the dinner table. “Don’t talk while eating…..Keep your mouth closed… Don’t chomp….Keep your knees together…. Why are you taking the fork in your right hand?…..” Her mother’s shrill monotone still rang in her ears. And she’d kept at her, trying to change her in to, what Aruna felt, a china…

Read More