“Thanksgiving & Hilsa”

Story of a geek guy with Hilsa memories:-

It was probably your way of “Thanksgiving”. You had cooked two Hilsa preparations and invited me to relish the same. I was scared to accept your invitation. I was scared to invade your home with my ruffled thoughts of last summer. However, I couldn’t resist the idea of having food made by you; I couldn’t resist the idea of looking at you without any interruption. You are so irresistible!

When I reached, your captivating smile and a delicious aroma of freshly cooked mustard Hilsa welcomed me; I felt like home.

“I thought you will not come; still I hoped against hope…” She smiled at me.
“You invited me…how can I skip?” I assured trying to forget the issues called ‘past’.
“Thanks.” You led me to the dining table and I noticed a row of ornamental vines hanging happily near the balcony. A few paper-made wall hangings are trying to give the home a happy look. You are trying earnestly to act like a happy person. Sadly, I too act like, everything is okayed.
And then, the celestial moment came. You served me rice, “Sorshe Illish” (mustard hilsa) and “Illish bhapa” (steamed hilsa). I was elated with food and you, both.  The pungent green chillies and notorious mustard seeds set my taste buds on fire. I was untying the banana leaves to expose the queen of fish and you were looking at my finger movements.
“What’s it dear?”
“Nothing,” you chuckled, “you eat very slowly.”

“I am just cautious” I replied.

“Are you afraid of fish bones?” you laughed musically and I smiled like a stupid dolt.
“Let me separate the bones…”
“No, it’s okay; I’ll manage.”
You made me eat four pieces of fish. Deep inside, I felt something strong for you; I am still drunk of you just like before. Your yellow-green saree was so enticing. You are like my mom; so loving yet so pungent.
I was a bit uneasy while having the fish. I was trying not to wet my eyes with memories; I was attentive to behave normally.  

I couldn’t say, “I still love you.” But that day felt like a dawn of civilization; so new and so fresh. I consumed the food made by you. I consumed the purest form of “amrito”. I couldn’t ask for more.

She softly started, “For once I wanted to feel like I am your wife. For once, I ate after my beloved finished his meal. For once, I felt like I am living my dream.” She stopped and I looked at her teary eyes. I felt like I was alive to listen her musical voice and these words.


It’s not a past

Past (adj.)

You are not your past
you are not what you’ve gone through
you are not your past mistakes or flaws…

So do people say? Past has a poignant significant in our daily life.

A nation without an envious past is probably illiterate or dying inside.
A family without a past is hated by all.
A kingdom without a past was a kingdom of darkness.

Even devil has a past. Most of the devils were once the angels. A slave was once a king.

You must have a past; you are almost nothing without a past. You must build a bright future but never overlooking your past; your past is your second skin, it is like an invisible tattoo; no matter what you do, you can’t erase it.

Philosophy says past is nostalgia. Most of us believe past is a maze and we should concentrate in present. But truly, past is a bit of looking back to look ahead.

কোনএক একাকিনীর কথা

আমি তো আজ বেলফুলের মালা গাঁথি,

সেই মালায় সাজাই বেণী,

সেই সুবাসে করি নিজেকে উজাড়;

কখনও বা একমুঠো রঙ্গনফুল তুলে আনি

ছড়িয়ে দিই বিছানায়

একমুঠো শিউলি পেলে রেখে দিই বাটিতে

সুগন্ধে ভরে ওঠে জীবন;

আজও খোঁপা সাজাই স্বর্ণচাঁপায়, কখনও বা সূর্যমুখী,

আসবে না জানি…তবু,

তোমার চোখে নিজেকে দেখতে ভাল লাগে, খুউউব…

দোরের মুখে করতে বসি গাঁদার রঙ্গোলি,

কোনও অতিথি আসবে না জানি,

তবু কেউ আসবে ভাবতে ভালবাসি,

আসলে এসব কিছু করে নিজেকে খুঁজে পাই।

হয়তো ছিঁড়ে ফেলব বলেই লিখে ফেলি তোমাকে চিঠি,

সেই চিঠির প্রতি ছত্রে লিখি তোমার নাম,

হয়তো বা বৈষ্ণব পদাবলীর উপমা…

কেউ পড়বে না জানি, তবুও লিখতে ইচ্ছে হয় খুব,

কৈশোরপ্রেমের কথা,

উল্কাবৃষ্টির কথা,

আমার প্রথম সোনারদুল হারানো,

ঠাকুরমার দেওয়া কানবালা,

পুরীর মন্দিরের লাস্যময়ী পূজারিণী,

বিষ্ণুর দশাবতারের কথা,

অস্সিঘাটের উদাসী বাউলের কথা,

বাড়ির পুরনো তানপুরার কথা,

কোনএক সুপুরুষ শিবভক্তের কথা…

আমার বলতেও ইচ্ছে করে খুব,

যদিও শোনার কেউ নেই,

তবু দেয়ালেরও কান আছে,

এই প্রবাদ মেনে নিয়ে,

ইচ্ছে হয় বলে চলি অনর্গল

আমার প্রথম সর্ষে ইলিশ রাঁধা,

মায়ের বানানো চিতলের মুইঠ্যা,

আমার প্রথম কাজল পরা,

কোনএক সাদা পাঞ্জাবির জন্য অপেক্ষা

তার জন্য কবিতা দেখা,

এক নিঃশ্বাসে পড়ে ফেলা “ভারততীর্থ”

প্রতিমার থেকেও মণ্ডপসজ্জা দেখে বেশি উৎফুল্ল হওয়া

দোলের দিনের উদ্দাম নৃত্য…

আমার দেখাতেও ইচ্ছে করে খুউউব,

আমি যা দেখি তাই,

যা দেখে আমি উদ্বেলিত হয়ে উঠি,

বাবুঘাটের সূর্যাস্ত,

পরেশনাথ মন্দিরের কারুকার্য,

ভিক্টরিয়ার উদাসীন পরী,

শোভাবাজার রাজবাড়ি…

ইমামবাড়ার সূর্যঘড়ি

ইচ্ছেকরেই নেড়েচেড়ে দেখি,

আমার বানানো গালিচা,

দেওয়ালে ঝোলানো ছবি,

নখের নকশায় আঁকা আজটেক চিত্রকলা   

তবুও দিনের শেষে একাকী থেকে যাই,

আর কিছু হই বা না হই, নিজকাব্যের নায়িকা হই !!

A tale of white mischiefs

One starts his day with a glass of milk

One offers white flowers to the white goddess Saraswati

One pours pure milk on Lord Shiva

One loves to observe people from a white Porsche

One thinks himself a king and rides on a white horse

One still searches a white unicorn

One broke boy shows himself busy with a white smartphone

One loves to forget daily struggles sleeping on a white bed

One imagines figures in white clouds

One still saves a white feather for his love

One goes to celebrate “White nights festival” in Russia

One waits for the white pigeon to forward letters

One relishes on white sauce pasta

One ignites the taste buds with coconut milk

One finds heaven in white cheesecake

One tries to understand the politics of White House

One tries to understand the significance of being ‘white’

One hates to wear white being a widow

One never minds to keep a white elephant

One fails to recognize white feathered friends!!

ig: joyee_sorceress
Pic courtesy: Pinterest


The shade of yellow

The afternoon was sunny. We fought with words and slayed each other with the swords of hatred and love. And you left never looking back, never giving a fig. Your yellow dress slowly mingled with other people walking in the busy street. I stood there, alone, motionless, broken and upset. I looked at the street lights, the crowd and felt the boisterous noises surrounding me. I found myself standing before a very famous café and people inside might be engaged either in small talks or heavy conversations. They might be enjoying their cappuccino or espresso. The lights inside the cafe were pale yellow. That very shade of yellow carries a color of frustration. I lit up a cigarette.

By chance, my eyes caught a couple inside the café; they were too adorable, intensely engrossed in each other, sipping the cold coffee from the same long glass. I felt bad…for myself, for my girlfriend and for our love.

Evening is the time when you are bound to be alone or sad. I tried to control myself, stop my tears, tried to look at other girls walking in stilettos and hotpants. I tried to avert myself from her thoughts. I lit up another cigarette. The smoldering fire was trying to calm me down. I remembered how many counters we shared. Again my eyes rolled into the cafe. The lights inside were still dim but slightly brighter than earlier due to the upcoming darkness. And finally it darkened. I decided to have something from the cafe and walked inside. The sweet creamy pastry seemed insipid to me and the milky coffee didn’t give me any charm. I ordered a cupcake. It came in a white dish; the cake topped with a little chocolate ball and a little candy floss. Surprisingly I enjoyed it like girls do. I enjoyed the cupcake as if she was with me. Slowly, the thought separation walked out of my head and I only thought of the still fresh memories. I remembered how much she loved the cupcakes.

I looked at the streets. A child was selling roses. Another child was busy selling balloons to a child sitting inside a car. I packed a box of cakes and went outside. The busy city walks around, rides bikes and cars never showing some love to the street children.

When I distributed the cakes among children I saw the café lights glowing in brightest shade of yellow.


Everyone pretends to be happy

Everyone pretends to be happy

Everyone says ‘I’m fine’

Everyone shows he/she is happy with job, salary, fiancé

Everyone says he/she is in the same page with lovers, friends, family

Everyone gives effort to be beautiful

Everyone spends time and money to be fair

Everyone keeps the smile curve on face


No one is happy with his/her life

No one is watching the sunny sky

No one is okay with parents or lovers

Everyone is complaining about his/her life

Everyone is broken, sad, sceptic

No one is trying to break the false façade

No one is showing the real self

No one is confiding

No one can go with the idea of being poor

No one can tolerate the idea of being obsolete or oddball

This is the society we live in. we always perform like actors. We forget to be the real one.