[null, null, {"document_url": "http://chichingfank.blogspot.com/2009/08/", "unformatted_src": "http://www.claudiampublications.com/images/Reflection.jpg", "src": "http://www.claudiampublications.com/images/Reflection.jpg", "formatted_filename": "Reflection"}, null, null, {"document_url": "http://chichingfank.blogspot.com/2009/08/", "unformatted_src": "//3.bp.blogspot.com/_Szbf3cUSWEg/SnRS-gpyjrI/AAAAAAAAARs/ChQOwRSQWdM/S220-s80/a.jpg", "src": "http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Szbf3cUSWEg/SnRS-gpyjrI/AAAAAAAAARs/ChQOwRSQWdM/S220-s80/a.jpg", "alt_text": "My photo", "rendered_width": 71, "rendered_height": 80}, null, null, null, null, null]


First Glimpse

On the down-slope after crossing the bridge, my rickshaw gathered its usual speed. Despite all the peak time Puja shopping, the road was relatively clear today. The rickshaw, thus, got the opportunity to accelerate its pace even more. I noticed the huge crowd at one of the openings of the bazaar and dismissed it as a simple triviality. That has been my habit for years. Years. All the LPG-less autos were also moving in full glory as everyday and stopping midway for passengers. And of course, the same sight of rickshaw-walas abusing them for taking the streets to be their baaper rasta. It is all so familiar, so predictable, so typical about this place that it has almost merged into my notion of a home. My home.

But then I saw it. Finally.
It sped along the bridge overhead… its colour light brown, almost a slithering serpent… the glassy windows shining along the orange light of a dying sun… soundless like sleep… yet, grand and overwhelming in its presence…

Before I could take it all in, my rickshaw simply crossed the over-bridge and the sight was left behind. By the time I had turned my head around, it had vanished inside the platform. Nothing of it was left but a piece of song that struck me along with the passion as I greeted the view.

নাগরীক ক্লান্তি তে তোমাকে চাই,
এক ফোঁটা শান্তি তে তোমাকে চাই,
বহুদুর হেঁটে এসে তোমাকে চাই,
এ জীবন ভালোবেসে তোমাকে চাই...
(nagorik klanti te tomake chai,
ek fonta shanti te tomake chai,
bohudur hente ese tomake chai,
e jibon bhalobese tomake chai...)

The essence of my city is inescapable. Glimpsing the newly extended metro railway along a dim-lit bridge for the first time is just one medium of feeling its pulse.

Long live, my love!
Posted by phenomenal woman at 10:10 AM 5 comments: Labels: experience


Yesterday... Tomorrow They missed me yesterday.

They remembered that I could sing. They remembered that I could fill up gaps in conversations better than either of them. They remembered that I could make silence more comfortable.
Did they remember anything more?

The rains always provide with the option of staring out of the window. Of being thoughtful without a reason. Of fiddling with little nothings just like that. Of gathering up the courage to try out music at last.
So they sang. Songs of innocence. Songs of experience. They would not let it be. They would always make an effort to replicate. They would always want to feel easy. Pleasant. They would never admit of finding the gap. The gap that had once been something like a ringing laughter. Something like a silly to-be-photographed posture. Something like a felicity lunch. Something like a relieving existence.

No. Please don’t come for her tomorrow. I know… yes, I know. A facet of meanness if you please. But I would beg of you. Don’t come for her. The crowd may not become enough of a veil. And I can’t melt before them. Them all. And you. I cannot melt before you. So don’t come to see her off. Please! Yes, begging is all I got to do. All…


But did they remember anything at all?
Posted by phenomenal woman at 9:46 AM 2 comments: Labels: soliloquy
