I wish...

I only really want to sleep and do nothing else for the rest of my life. It will be an everlasting slumber, deep, black, without any dreams, completely oblivious of the outside world, a meteor crashing by my window would not be able to bring me back. Is it death I am talking about, or rather is it not death that gives oneself such sublime opportunity? No, let it not be death, because death in its turn brings not only the pleasure of a cold, sound sleep, it brings cries and whispers (ah.. Bergman). Agreed, death brings smiles too, death brings joy, death brings freedom. We don't know what death brings to the dead, maybe nothing; and nothing was precisely what he waited for his whole life - to feel nothing, to eat nothing, to go to nowhere, to talk to none, to earn no money, to bear to responsibility, to do.. nothing. In a strange way death satisfies the dead man, just like I satisfy my former lover, by never calling her up, never dropping a letter, never caring to know where she is. The freedom of nothing.

But really, I did not mean to talk about death, I really hate it. Biologically, it's nothing but a machine breaking down, permanently, beyond repair. But the parts are reusable, my eyes light up little Rimpi's life, my kidney saves Mrs. D'Souza, my bones are a regular anatomy class display. Oh! you haven't donated your body? Well, then it will mingle into ground, the bacterias and the fungus will have a grand feast. The young green plants will drink me up. My hands will become flowers, my eyes will form the leaves, my heart (oh! tender heart) won't make anything better than a slice of dry bark.

But still, I do not wish death, it's a very chemical manifestation of my wishes. And I have always been a fierce protester against chemical sciences, right from the school days when they broke their back (and mine too) trying to implant the knowledge into me. But sleep, on the other hand is a nice, cozy, psychological solution. It will be well accepted I am sure; my mother will only make a slight fuss about my late rising, my friends will pour in hordes of missed calls ... ah how I love picturising the scene, me sleeping unceasingly, profoundly happy, my phone ringing on and on.. sms-s pouring in every five minutes... my boss calling up all my colleagues everyday only to know that I haven't come to office even today, because I slept too much again... slowly people will start forgetting me. There will be lesser and lesser talks about it everyday. Nobody will mention my name while planning a movie-out. The headlines will hit the television screens, the lives of people around me will take an U-turn, empires would crumble, wars would start and end, environmentalists will keep on updating the count-down for a total collapse. People will talk and chat and work and marry and die. People would think if they are happy or sad or good-humoured or aggressive or loving or greedy or a mixture of all of it.

But I will simply not wake up. Because, really, I can't care less.

Umberto Eco and the universe of books

In his famous book "The Name of The Rose", Mr Eco told us that the books talk to each other. Practically the whole novel was an celebration of this fact. The books, indeed talk to each other in a silent way, one book referring another, and that referring another ten on his turn, as if there exist a big white universe of them, you can start with any one and if you care to remember the references you will surely land on a bunch of them and then on a bigger bunch. Moreover the fun is that no two books will have the similar essence. I can start reading a rocking Sandipan Chatterjee story, where the hero quotes from "The Outsider", voila! I landed on an Algerian novel, and I really don't understand why the hero is so moody, so I look up the encyclopedia which says that this is a very "Existential" novel inspired by the philosophy popularized by Sartre. I can take up a book by Sartre and try to understand why there so much fuss about it. I am sure that will lead me to other philosophers, Aristottle, Plato, Socrates, Nietsze to name a few. In a different root it will also take me to early 19th century europe, to the politics, to the art revolutions, to the scientific expeditions, to you-never-know-where.

But really I do not look forward being such a learned man, so I will probably leave the trail and start reading the next story from my recently bought second-hand Sandipan Chatterjee collection, and again he picks up and throws a line from a Tagore song straight on my face. Next, as you rightly guessed, I am unloading the 16 volume Tagore Collection from my handsome book-case hitherto untouched by any living man. More I read Tagore, more I curse my luck, because there are again so many references of Old Sanskrit Literature, Kalidasa, Upanishad, Ramayana, Mahabharata, Baul songs, folk culture, Charyapaad, Baishnav Padabali, Shakespere, Keats and all the romantic english poets that it will probably take my whole life to go through them without considering the fact how many other books I have to read to resolve the references hidden in those.

Really Mr Eco was so correct, I can almost see his passionate ramblings on the labyrinths of his library, frantically jumping through the novels to plays, plays to newspaper articles, from articles to magazines, then to thrillers, then aircraft manuals, engineering science books, mathmatics books, Geometry, biography of Euclid, History of middle ages .... the list is never ending. This love and passion to read anything and everything, categorically, with utmost interest has made him such a unique writer. Most of the time he doesn't bother to build up a realistic plot, neither does he care to reach a "proper" climax. He happily hops around the immense printed media around him and that produces a 400 page book quite easily. For the reader, well, if he loves the circle of knowledge, it's a paradise for him.

Boi dakchhey boi

Boimela ghurey elam ei robbar. Boimela jemon hoi ar ki, onek boi, olpo khabar, prochur dhulo. Footpath bash diye ghera, bus-er uporey sada kagojey sata "Boimela Jaibey". Boimelay theme song "Boi dakchhey boi" - ta ar boltey, boi boikei dakey manush-key ar dakey koi. Theme country Scotland-er pellay stall - british library-r boitey poripurno, ektio bikrir jonno noi, minute pachek-er besi daraley urdi-pora darowan khediye boley "samney, samney". Latin America r stall-ey Castro-Che-Marquez er poster chhoto-baro sada-kalo, ojotner molatey sirnokay du-ekti bangla boi "Latin Americar biplob" - jatiyo. Germany-Sweden -er stall o tothoibocho .. tobu erai amader boimelar sompod, anorjatik bolar rasta-ta to erai korey dilo.

Oxford bookstore, Starmark, International, Chakraborty Chaterjee royechhey protibarer motoi, sudrissyo boi er posra niye, jhokjhokey print er boigulo kenar jonno net-savy dero haat nispis korey. Pora-ta onno prosongo, osob prosno korben na doya korey. Penguin er stall ey dhukey sottikarer mon bhorlo, ei bohu prachin prokasona songosthati ajo soman gorimar sathey ujjwal,lekhak-er talikati jemon sombhrom jagay, prochhod, prokasonar maan-o temni uchu, money achhey jiboney prothom Penguin-Black Classics-ey Dostoevsky-r "Crime and Punishment" kenar kotha, ajo molater chhobita chokhey bhasey. Tobey onnyannyo bar jeno Penguin er stall ta arektu baro hoto, aro onek rokom boi, soru pocket books pawa jeto, segulo ebar khujey pelam na.

Er bairey boimela-r sottor sotangso dokan bivinno bangla prokasona songosthar. Ebong proti-barer moto ebaro aro ekbar onubhob korlaam kothay porey achhi amra. Ojotner badhai, kaj-cholti prochhod ar molin pristha "rekhechhe bangali korey". Dey's -er proti amar chirokaal-er ekta pichhutaan kobitar boi-er jonno, tadero jeno bhanga haat - notun kono prokashito boi chokhey elo na.

Deb-sahityo-kutir ey dhokar proyojon bodh korini, karon bhitorer drisyo-ti bodol hobar kono lokkhon dekhini goto pach bochhorey. Ananda obosyoi er modhye ujwal byatikrom - bina dwidhay boltey pari ei ekti matro publication bangla boi-er jonno gorbo kortey sekhay. Jokhon afsosher songey dekhi Manik Bandyopadhay, Tarashankar, Jibonanondo -r boiyer chehara-gulo kutir-silper porjay peroyni ajo, tokhon prarthona kori Ananda kobey ei copyright gulo kinbey jatey ekso bochhor porey holeo amra enader joggo somman-tuku ditey pari; enara je Dickens-Tolstoy-Keats er cheye kono ongsey kom non ebong ei sompodguli obohelar holud molatey noi, chamrar badhai-tey sonar joley prokaash kora uchit se bodh amader kobey hobey ke janey. Jani er uttorey sobcheye baro jukti publishing house gulor hoto-doridro obostha, bangla boi-er bikri din din komtey thaka, bangla boi-er theke manusher mukh firiye newa. Kintu akrishto hobar moto notun lekha ba purono classic gulor bornomoy packaging na holey e obostha bodlanor kono lokkhon dekhi na.

Er sathey ar ekta dorkari jinis holo prochar, notun ki sara jagano uponyas berolo banglay tar khobor amra pray kichhui pai na. Ebochhorer Academy-puroshkaar, Bonkim-puroshkar ba Rabindra-puroshkaar kara pelen ta niye ek column er besi khobor beroyna kothao. Ami sedin onek bhebe chinteo money kortey parlaam na, notun kon bangali lekhok-kobi-ouponyasik sara jagano ki likhechhen goto du-ek bochhorey, sahityo-mohol er bairey ei khobor gulo procharito na holey keboli purano-r chokrei ghurey mortey hobey amader ar banglar publisher-der dirghoswas-ey dhulo urbey anorjatik boimelay.

Tobey amader ei ekmatro aj-obdi-jibito ohonkaar-ti ebar ektu jaiga peyechhey haat-pa chhoriye bosar. Duson ebong utsaho duyer modhye hoito seshmesh ekta samonjossyo ana gelo, matha-dhaka hall, koyekti porichhonno bathroom amader metho mela-key sohorer mukh dekhalo, kintu aro onek poth ekhono chola baki ar jabar agey doya korey tiffin box ta bhulben na karon boimelar khabar-ta ... just khawa jay na!