WonderLand

          Jason had come a long way when he realized he forgot to bring his snow boots. It snowed a lot last year, which he only heard of. And this year he plans to not go back to the city until next year. Even Santa may fail to arrive in time, but snow in the country arrives a lot earlier than anybody can expect. His father along with his grandparents moved to the city many years ago. Since then he hasn’t got to come to the country and see where they grew up and where his father used to do horseback-riding. His mother was an alien to his father who borrowed his heart, savored it and then left Jason to him. She surely took nothing with her, but all that she cared to leave behind was never hers to own in the first place. It could have all been a lie, if he hadn’t met her two years back, in Amsterdam coaxing a novelty guy to name his daughter (with his wife, who is a separate woman) after her. It was quite funny, because that was when he got to know her name. His father was amazed to know that anyone like her could have a name like Paris. It’s actually quite weird that Jason never felt her need or her absence. Maybe it was because there was no craving from her side as well.

          The countryside always looked beautiful in the pictures. This is the first time he is here. Well, this is the first time after he’s grown up. His father, Gary, who doesn’t like this place anymore, only told him to check if the old truck in the old garage is alright. Gary wants to sell it. So the first lock he opened was the garage’s. The truck seemed to be in an unusually good condition, given that it has not been used for 22 years. Gary is going to get a good profit out of it. That’s good. There’s a door in the back of the garage that leads into the adjacent house. But Jason chose to go inside the house through the front door. Front-door-entrance is a thing to Jason. When he switched on the lights, he found that the house is also in a very good condition, except the thick layer of dust. It now seems like a big shot to even think about staying here for two weeks. Jason is just too lazy when it comes to cleaning even if it’s his pencil sharpener. The rest of his family, which means his grandparents and Gary, however, are very neat about everything. It’s just laziness gained though practice. No genes working here. But Jason is also not okay with filth. And that is why the dust is bothering him now. Maybe, he would think about going back to the city.  

          Before anything else, he wants to look through the house where his father grew up. Checking houses and villages where your father grew up seems like a common interest throughout the world. However most of the people don’t know why they feel so eager about it. But Jason knows why. He idolizes his father, and this house bears witness to the life of that person before Paris happened to him. From the stories he heard from his granma, Gary used to be a very mischievous boy and listened to nobody. Buying a horse at the age of 14 kinda points that out. And Gary learned to ride it all by himself. He named it Arion. Arion died of a disease when Gary was 18. Arion was actually Gary’s age. And it was then Paris came into his life. Jason has seen Arion’s pictures. It had honey-colored fur and a black mane. Arion was fast. He was the only horse in the area, and Gary the only person to ever have a horse in the area. Jason could easily realize that those 4 years with Arion were Gary’s heyday. The house, for some unknown reason smells of maple syrup. Maple is not even a local tree. Jason suddenly became interested in finding the reason behind this smell. He tried to follow the smell and ended up in the dining room. But there was nothing good enough to be the source of the smell. Jason went into the kitchen. Nothing. But he found a stack of wood for the oven. Maybe those were maple wood. But moving close to the stack, he lost the smell. So he decided not to disturb the neat stack. He then started to go upstairs. It was dark at first. He couldn’t find the switch. He found one, pressed it, but in vain. He kept groping the walls in the dark. He needed to dust off the cobweb a number of times. Finally he found the right switch and the whole corridor came into light.

          All of the rooms were locked. He went into the last room of the corridor. It is Gary’s. Well, it was Gary’s. All the stuff inside is just as he had heard. There was a big bed beside the west facing window, a wardrobe, which still has Gary’s clothes, a trunk beside it, which should contain his father’s school books, a writing desk with a single sofa. Gary wasn’t a fan of books back then as opposed to his present love for thrillers. Jason is more into fantasy and war novels. Sometimes they exchange books between themselves. They both have a library in their rooms. Jason however has a larger collection. There’s no competition though. He switched on the lights and found Arion’s backseat hung up on the wall behind the headboard. Cobwebs have now made the dark leather seat look grayish. To hell with filth, Jason took down the backseat and cleaned it off of cobwebs. It has Gary and Arion’s name written on its sides. Gary. Arion. None of them are same now. The former runs a shoe-business, but does not have to worry about the latter’s iron ones. Jason took the seat, switched off the lights, closed and locked the door, and went downstairs.

         He forgot to switch off the corridor lights, so he went back up again only to find a door labeled Jason. He had totally forgotten about this. Gary had primarily thought of raising Jason there, so he was preparing his room. But Jason heard that he couldn’t do much and left the country forever. Gary doesn’t remember what he had put inside the room and his grandparents also know not more than that. He put the key in and turned. The door opened without noise. He switched on the light and found only one piece of furniture there. A bookshelf. As large as the one he has back home. He walked closer to it. There’s a metal label on the middle shelf, which read WonderLand. It might be the brand name. Apart from the shelf, there was nothing more. Memories were to be made in this room, but it never happened. He closed and locked the door, and went downstairs after switching off the lights. Jason left the house with Arion’s backseat and a name for his bookshelf. 

Being Starstruck

I can go and ask if Sky's lonely. I can go and ask if she needs company. I can accompany her and talk to her. We can laugh at the same jokes. We can skip the same sort of stories.

We'll ask questions,

The answers will be as vast as dear Sky is,

We'll dance on the emotions

That skip our heart in a heartbeat.

I wonder, can there be any exception? I care not. I care for that smile; the smile that shines upon the stars. I heard about a lad, who wishes to sell shade. I wonder if I can buy some shine & add to her smile...

She says, now stars are the part

Of the world below,

Where they burn through hearts,

And pay bounty to all hollow,

I say, shine and shade are two colors of the same art,

A trail of wonders that'd never go mellow.

I can daringly say, her beauty is unparalleled. For, if it weren't so, why, I'lln't be starstruck everytime!

To The King

Today I lay down my crown,

But know this, I am no king.

The real King is the one

Whose one hand holds a zither,

Close to his heart

His heart the source of his muse;

And whose other hand rises high

When tricky notes take place

And his voice lifts souls

That lie in faraway lands & across.

The real King is the one

Who worships a swan riding goddess -

She be who holds a veena across her bosom

Plucking the strings with a cosmic radiance;

She be who holds up her hand

In a gesture of eternal blessing;

She be who gives knowledge

As a song which was born from our voices.

The real King is the one

Whose name is now known far across -

Let me say, the Milky Way,

Because music resided in the strings

Long before they were tied, then plucked,

And once they were so -

The whole of Cosmos listened to it

In a quiet broken only by an applause.

I may rule no kingdom,

But I humble my honor unto the King.

জানালা

দুইদিন আগেই পূর্ণিমা চলে গেছে, তবু আকাশের চাঁদটা যেন তার রূপ আরও বেশ কয়েকদিন ধরে রাখতে চায়। মনে হয়, ভুলে গেছে, সে নিজেই দায়বদ্ধ। এদিকে নতুন আবাস পেয়ে ব্যাঙরাও বুঝি নতুন নতুন সুর উদ্ভাবন করে গেয়ে চলেছে রাত-দিন - হয়তো এ শুধু সঙ্গীকে পাওয়ার গান নয়। আমাদের সাথে থাকতে থাকতে ওরাও বুঝি মৃত্যু-ধাতু সংগীত গাইতে শিখে গেছে। কে তা জানে।... টেবিলের পাশে খাট, খাটের পাশে বড় একটা সেকেলে জানালা। খিড়কি দিয়ে দেখলেও, দুপাল্লা খুলে দেখলেও, ওপাশের দৃশ্যটা অচেনাই মনে হয়। একসময় যেখানে ছিল একশ বছর পুরোনো দালানকোঠা, যার দেয়ালের চুন-সুড়কির পরতের পেছনে লুকিয়ে থাকা ইটগুলো আজও বুঝি কত গল্প বলতো - কিন্তু সব আজ উধাও। জানালা দিয়ে তাকালে শুধু ধূধূ প্রান্তর চোখে পড়ে। না, এখানে মোটা-চিকন কোনো কেউই পড়ে নি। যা হয়েছে উন্নয়নের জন্য হয়েছে। আমার বাড়িটাও এই উন্নতিতে সাহায্য করেছে। তার এক পাশ ছিঁড়ে নিয়েছে তারা। সেই ধ্বংসস্তুপ, থুক্কু, ভগ্নস্তুপের ধূলাগুলি সারাদিন বেয়াদবের মতো ঘুরে বেড়ায়। আর রাতে এসে দেখি আমার টেবিলের ওপর সব ঘাঁটি গেড়েছে। ফু, লাঠি- লাত্থি, ঝাটা-কম্বল - যা দিয়ে পারি ওদের তাড়িয়ে বিদায় করি। ভাবি জানালাটা বন্ধ করে রাখব, কিন্তু সেক্ষেত্রে লোকসান আমারই। এত গরম পড়েছে। ঘরে একটু বাতাস না ঢুকলে, কেমন লাগে! কাঠফাটা রোদে কাঁঠালও পেকে যাচ্ছে, তাই বলে আমার মাথা ফাটে নি কিংবা অন্যকিছু, আমি বলতে চাই যে এত গরম সহ্য হয় না। বছরের অর্ধেকটা যদি শহরটা বরফে ধাকা থাকতো, কী যে মজা হতো! এটা আলাদা বিষয়, তখন ঠান্ডাকে গালাগাল করে হা- হুতাশ করে মরতাম। তবে বরফ পড়লে হয়তো বা তখন আর জানালা খুলতে পারতাম না। একশ বছরের বেশি ধরে কত কি না সহ্য করেছে, এখন বরফ সইতে পারবে কি না, তা বোধ হয় কেবল জানালারই জানা আছে। আক্ষেপ হয়, জানালাও যদি কথা বলতো। দৃশ্যটা কেমন হতো তাই ভেবেই তো কুল পাই না। কোনো কিছু হওয়া-না হওয়ার পেছনেও কারণ আছে। জানালা যে কথা বলে না, এর মধ্যেও কারণ আছে। আসল কথা হলো, সেই কারণের খোঁজ আমি কখনও রাখি নি, আগামীতেও রাখব না। কারণ, ভবিষ্যতে এই জানালাটাই থাকবে না। এর কারণ? ওই যে, উন্নয়ন। ভালো ও খারাপ, সহোদর তো বটেই, বোধ করি তারা সহোধরও হবে। আশ্চর্য কাকে বলে, তা আমি ভুলতে বসেছি। এদিকে যখন আকাশের চাঁদটা একটু অতিরিক্ত সুন্দর লাগছে, রাস্তার পাশে ব্যাঙগুলো না জানি কোন ভাষায় কি বলছে, মাঝেমধ্যে মশকীরা এসেও চুমু দিয়ে যায়, মাঝরাত পেরিয়ে সেহরির সময়ও বুঝি এগিয়ে এলো, আর আমি একা বসে আছি বিছানাতে, হাতে খোলা কলমের নিচে রশিটানা খাতা আর সামনে পর্দাহীন নির্লজ্জের মতো খোলা রয়েছে জানালা। 

Song Of The River

She is not the violent of her types,

But her violence is a beauty,

To me

and many other eyes.

She has her heart

spilled over the shores,

She is a goddess,

she is a part of the lores.

When she shines her gaze

up towards the heavens,

Stars swell in her lushness,

their hearts she so leavens.

You can see her smiling,

with her earthen vest so vast.

Time runs as if anew,

an era lost in her lust.

When she was young,

there was coy in her trance.

She ran down along mountains,

there was joy in her stance.

Now they seek to bind her

with iron, that her element can erode

And reap business from her bosom.

Her chest too smitten to goad.

Many have kept their quiet,

But some have drawn their words.

Call it a war, and the tunes are ready,

Unleashing her wrath, the river will again breathe steady.

The Dark Of the Barks

      They come in all sizes - large and small, tiny and tall. But nobody cowers under the shade of the other. For, they all live in order to live. The bigger ones, however, possess a majestic elegance around their bark and along their infinite branches. The branches might be countable. But the ones that sleep in the nodes waiting to be cut awaken are countless. As if they have sucked in possibilities from the ground and rolled it through their tissues to let it loose every time they run short of one. An endless stock of possibilities running through the sap that flourishes them.

      They can live for years surpassing the soul that might have planted them. But the oldest ones alive now were not planted by anyone. They found themselves breaking the soil and reaching for the sun all by themselves. Not that they need any help in breaking soils and extracting life from it. The soil we consider as dirt, the soil we consider as a mode of art, the soil we scorch to harden history, the soil we bury our loss into, the soil we dig to surface the past, the soil which is of no use to us, unless we need it direly. But to them, the soil is their soul. The soil flows through their vessels and quench the thirst of every leaf. And when they wither away, the soil lives in them as dried ghosts of memory that would remind us of forgiveness if they could speak, at least once.

      They have been here when we were not. They had seen the sun before we did. As a matter of fact, they are the only ones to taste the sun. We humans may know what the sun is composed of, what it'd feel if we fall into it - possibly a fate worse than falling into a black hole. They know how the sun rays feel. We may have a distant idea, but they are the ones who can feel the rays filling their cellular cavities. They can pour the sun into their soul, but still not burn up. The sun only intensifies their green, but never tans them. The sun can love them, and they can rejoice in it. The sun loves them and they selfishly grow in it.

      And they love water. They drink the water that’s buried deep into the grounds. They drink the water that we waste in a prosaic way. They waste water too, but only to get it back. Very economical they are. The clouds floating in the dry sky are indebted to them. Because much of their reserves are filled with the water escaping the pores lining the leaves. And so every time it rains, we can see them to grow brighter in their shade of green. Like the woman who lost her beauty only to age. Like the man who lost his strength only to age. But beauty and strength come hand in hand. Like the drops of rain that only reaches their soul through dirt. 

Docile and omnipotent at its own stable door

They are not the rulers of the sky. They don’t have thrones etched with gold. They don’t have crowns glinting with numerous jewels. But they are the lords, who sail on their own wings. They have eyes that can see miles ahead. Their necks are not lined with laces, but with feathers. Or sometimes just bare.

They don’t have castles made of stone and aluminum. They don’t have forts with canals snaking around it. They build their homes with twigs. Each twig is gathered separately and with care. And with those twigs they set up their haven up high in the furthest branch of a tree. In these havens, they lay eggs and hatch them with warmth plucked from their bosom. The small beaks breaking out from the eggs twit and twit, until filled with food. The small wings grow as the tree grows and withers. The small wings slowly befriend the wind, which will career them as long as they live. The wind is their friend. Their only friend. Even the mother who nourished and flourished them leaves them one day. But the wind remains. The wind remains when the sun is shining brightly. The wind remains when the sun is made to hide behind tones of cloud. The wind remains when the clouds give up their burden and hail down pouring whole of their hearts. The wind remains even when the wind forgets their friendship and becomes pregnant with animosity. The wind always remains. They grow up with the forever young wind and one day die, but not without flapping their wings not once, but twice.

They are born with wings which humans dream of. Their lives are as momentary as the hum of a humming bird. Their independence is the sky multiplied by the span of their wings. It is the wings, which sheltered them when they couldn’t fly. And it is the wings, whose feathers shed and grow back just like the swerve through firths and bosks. Physically they are all bones and muscles and blood. They spread their wings as an artist who spreads his/her colors across the mind of their admirers and make them wander in wonder. Their wings carry their lives and make them fly over lands and seas and deserts and ice. It is their wings which cut through the wind and take them to places unknown and well-known. It is with the wings that they bind their first bond with the wind. It is the wings that may not fulfill the function of a human hand, but gives them superiority in the notion of self-independence. These winged-lords are the master of the wind, which no soul can tame.

They live a life as burdened as any animal, but still as light as a feather. They live a life on an edge as sharp as a talon, but still as vagrant as the crows’ calls. They live a life as vibrant as the chirping of a restless bird, but still as well-steered as the south of a magnet is to the north of another.

They live free in this death-bound world.