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  • খেরোর খাতা

  • Creation is Eternal

    Supriya Debroy লেখকের গ্রাহক হোন
    ০৯ জুন ২০২৫ | ২২৬ বার পঠিত
  • A few days ago, in the afternoon, a whirlwind had arisen, turning everything black. A dust storm had risen. A twisted drunkenness of blackness around. In the southwest corner, an unlucky sign, a tangle of black clouds. A bright vermilion-red ring along the horizon in the western sky. The gap in the clouds melted and sparkled like a black veil, and immediately the sound of lightning struck my heart. I had moved away from the window at that moment. It had started raining in big drops, accompanied by a strong wind. The smell of wet, fresh soil filled my nose. Twenty-five minutes of violent storm with rain that looked like as if shaking the world. The rain that had been pouring down in torrents  all around then turned into small drizzles. Then the sky became very calm.  Although the  gray and ash-colored clouds were moving slowly. Occasionally, the sound of serious moans that shook my heart could be heard. In the  meantime, a few stars were peeking out from the clouds. As much as the sky tried to cover the stars, the cloud layer was being torn open again, stars tried to peek with more brightness. An indescribable joy was slowly consuming me. I was realizing that the life span of joy, of melody, was much longer than the lifetime of the disaster.
    Now, of course, the oppressive, scorching and sultry heat— but in the midst of it, there’s the shadow of the clouds and the occasional light rain, along with the sweet monsoon breeze. The sweet shadow of the clouds spread over, hiding the scorching hot wind and the scorching sun. Is this pre-monsoon shade, mixed with the rain, bringing a dot of light at the end of the pitch-black cave like a romantic dream? I am afraid. Isn't there some kind of mind-blowing deception hidden in this unexpected concealment of nature, in the shadowiness? It has been over two months. No contact with the world. I can't even tell what's going on outside. There's no TV in the room. No connection with the newspaper. I live in a small shack. The word ‘prisoner’ is probably  more accurate. On the bed-side table there are some papers lying, a pen, and a book of poetry. I flipped through a few pages. If this is called a book of poetry, even budding poets who have just started to see the lines of their moustaches would be ashamed!

    *****
    I am writing you a letter after a long time, Mother. Not on a postcard, but on a piece of  paper. Do you remember, Maa, the veranda of the post office in our small town! It was made of red surki. Now it is made of cement. The veranda still has a tiled roof, on which lies a thorny shrub with blue flowers. An old-fashioned wooden table inside by the window. We had to buy envelopes, postcards, and postage stamps by putting money through that window. We had to go inside only to send registered letter and make money orders. The post office was bustling that time with people all day long. You also used to go there often to meet Paran uncle, if you didn't receive my letter for a long time. You used to sit on a wooden bench on the veranda of the post office and wrote in small letters, 'You haven't written letters for a long time. Why? Too much pressure from studies? Are you in good health? Eat properly..' Then you used to send it to my hostel address. I remember, you got married at a very young age. Before finishing the college studies. My father, like my grandfather, used to dream for the betterment of the state, country, it’s struggling people. You only told me my grandfather, who was also a poet, died while trying to flee from the prison jail. And my father was born three months after that. They, grandmother and my father’s grandfather, entrusted you with the responsibility, so that my father would not get involved in politics. So I was born, not even a year after your marriage. You wanted to do a master's degree, but you couldn't. Of course, you had no regrets about it. My father continued his studies. And you instilled all your unfulfilled wishes and dreams in me. Not only secondary, higher secondary - I also passed the college and university exams with honors. Your dream was to become a  school teacher. You wanted my  father to be a school teacher or a college professor. But my granny did not agree. My father had already started writing inflammatory reports with political overtones. He had even sent them to  one or two newspapers. You held  father's hands and feet one night and started crying, and made him promised that he would not send any more articles to newspapers without getting read by you. You told  me all this. My grandfather's revolutionary blood flows in our blood. So granny didn't want the incident that had happened in her life to recur in your life. At granny’s insistence, my father joined a private bank. But look, what a twist of fate! With your permission, your daughter-in-law sent a few inflammatory articles written by my father to a few newspaper offices. After they were published, we were all scared. What if they took my father away from home and made him disappear! On the advice of various people in the neighborhood, I brought my father here. He spent six long months in the same bed, sitting on which I am writing you this letter. He was released when the  content of my father's article had been covered up, skillfully erased from people's minds.
    You know Maa, yesterday first time I was allowed to walk on the veranda. I saw a girl of eight or ten years old in the visitors' room, drawing pictures with crayons. Planes, fire, drones, some dead people. It was clear that she had tried to draw a picture of war. On another page, another picture. Several people standing and sitting on the street. Some police are hitting them with their sticks. There are signs of scuffle and sort of  tussle in the picture.  I told the girl, you draw very well. Did the school ask you to draw these? The girl said, no no. The school lets me draw flowers, trees, rivers, mountains. My homework is done. I am drawing these from my heart. Later I found out that she is the daughter of the nurse who looks after me during the day time. The school bus drops her here. When the nurse has her day off, they return home together.
    My father came this morning. This is the first time in two months that I was allowed to meet him. I felt a little dizzy seeing my father. My father, who always walked with his spine straight, felt a little nervous today. I came to know from my father about the tragic incident that happened in Pahelgaon. I came to know about the events of ‘Operation Sindoor’. Then my father gave me some good news. I would be released in a day or two. Then he said that after  being released, I would be able to join the post of teacher in the school. I would also get salary till December. Then if I want to keep my job, I  would have to take an exam. Seeing my bewildered gaze, he said again, "If you want to keep your job, you have to sit for the exam again. There is no other way.” After all these years, sit for the exam again! Can I be through! Corruption can happen again, isn’t it? And why again? In response to my anxious questions, my father remained silent for a while, his voice was slow, almost muffled, I could barely hear him, "I have decided to sell the land with the pond and the mango and jamun trees on the north side. I have talked to the local promoter." I was speechless, unable to speak. A few  scenes flashed before my eyes. You were coming up the stairs from the pond ghat of our house with a wet cloth in your hand. You spread your clothes on the wire hanging in the courtyard, took the copper pot from the basil platform and went down the stairs again. You wrapped the sari around your neck, poured water on the basil plant and bowed with folded hands. I saw you and granny talking, spreading a mat under the jamun tree on a scorchy heated afternoon. The image of your running, flashed on my mind, like a teenage girl in the storm of Baisakhi, holding your daughter-in-law's hand, to the mango orchard. I was shaken, when heard my father’s voice in the same tone, “I have inquired. You will be able to teach in the same school.” I got angry this time. Before I shouted and said anything, I controlled myself, “Father, this is not possible. I cannot let you do this injustice. And what will happen to other qualified teachers? You are selfishly thinking only of me!” I saw a gentle smile on the corner of my father's face, but a sad one, “Those who want to keep their jobs, there is no other way. Behind the message given by the administration, this advice was hidden. Those who have understood, well Those who have not understood yet, will also understand gradually.  Through various advisors, newspapers. Those who don't have the money, will borrow. Now, come back home with a cool head. Then we can discuss slowly. And besides, I want our grandson to get the opportunity to study under a qualified teacher. Your  mother's eternal wish is that teaching should be your profession.” I asked him, if mother knows anything about this? Father shook his head. He said, “You come home first. I will tell your mother everything.” Then father asked a strange question, “I haven't had a chance to go to the education office. You have gone there. Do they ring the bell there? Is there no one to clean the rooms or open the locks?” I looked at him with a  confused look. Did father's mind start to wander again? Father sat for a while and left. He said, “Will meet you tomorrow morning again. And will try to get you out of here tomorrow itself.” Maa, you know, it was very painful to look at my father walking down like a defeated soldier, under the pressure of an unwanted situation created by some people. Maa, have our backbones been completely shattered! Have we started  crawling like babies again! You used to tell me, when I was very small, barely learning to crawl, you would put the puffed rice on a steel plate in front of me and go to work in the kitchen. I would then turned over the plate of puffed rice with a thrash. And I would crawl and pick up the puffed rice spread on the floor with my tiny fingers one by one and try to put it in my mouth. Sometimes I would succeed, sometimes not. At this moment, I am very much reminded of the poem written by Shankho Ghosh.

    *****
    My eyes were a little tired in the afternoon and   went to sleep for a while. The letter I had written  was on the table. Where did it go? I searched the whole room, under the bed, under the table, but I couldn't find it. I went outside and asked the nurse. She couldn't say anything. A little later, the doctor-in-charge came in, and I asked him.  He replied in a serious voice, '”You can't be released from the mental hospital at this moment. It seems that you are not completely recovered yet. Don’t worry, nothing to break  down. We are always by your side. We need to do a few more tests. Only then we will know if your brain is stable. After seeing the report, the committee will decide.”
    I slowly went and stood by the window. In the morning, I saw that a couple of birds had built a nest on a branch of the Flame (Krishnachura) tree. There must have been a light rain with a slight storm in the afternoon. The nest had collapsed. Is destruction stronger than creation in this world today! At that moment, I caught sight of a few mounds of earth near the base of the tree. Wet with rainwater. A piece of broken wet soil lies next to it. A few small white insects are moving around. A termite mound. What a beautiful place to live, made by these white insects. How many creatures like termites are spineless— spiders, ants, earthworms, snails and so many. What a wonderful creation by them to maintain their existence on this earth, even after going through countless disasters. Even standing in this oscillation of life, I firmly believe that creation will prevail one day. Destruction cannot be permanent, it is temporary. The life span and power of creation are much greater than destruction. Creation is born by overcoming disasters. I could see those couple of birds are now bringing small branches in their beaks, with new enthusiasm. The nest that they will have to build again, for their existence, for their survival.

    ****
     
    পুনঃপ্রকাশ সম্পর্কিত নীতিঃ এই লেখাটি ছাপা, ডিজিটাল, দৃশ্য, শ্রাব্য, বা অন্য যেকোনো মাধ্যমে আংশিক বা সম্পূর্ণ ভাবে প্রতিলিপিকরণ বা অন্যত্র প্রকাশের জন্য গুরুচণ্ডা৯র অনুমতি বাধ্যতামূলক। লেখক চাইলে অন্যত্র প্রকাশ করতে পারেন, সেক্ষেত্রে গুরুচণ্ডা৯র উল্লেখ প্রত্যাশিত।
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গুরুচণ্ডা৯-র সম্পাদিত বিভাগের যে কোনো লেখা অথবা লেখার অংশবিশেষ অন্যত্র প্রকাশ করার আগে গুরুচণ্ডা৯-র লিখিত অনুমতি নেওয়া আবশ্যক। অসম্পাদিত বিভাগের লেখা প্রকাশের সময় গুরুতে প্রকাশের উল্লেখ আমরা পারস্পরিক সৌজন্যের প্রকাশ হিসেবে অনুরোধ করি। যোগাযোগ করুন, লেখা পাঠান এই ঠিকানায় : guruchandali@gmail.com ।


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