Aham Brahmasmi

এভাবেই শুরু , এভাবেই শেষ , খেলার মধ্যে খেলা কখনো ফ্রন্টফুট , কখনো ব্যাক , কখনো সাপের পেটে ঘুঁটি - সারা মাঠ জুড়ে , ঘাসের আদরে , পড়ে থাকে রোজ চার দেওয়ালে ঘেরা তোর - আমার ভালোলাগার খুনসুটি। বৃষ্টির দিনে একটু চা , আকাশে মাখা হাসি , খেলার নিয়মে মনের ভেতর ঝড়টা ঢেকে রাখি।

It’s no surprise that there are so few upright people these days, so few that have a spine of steel strong enough to hold their heads straight up. The thing is, when you’re always bending downwards to lick someone’s boots, your spine is bound to get reshaped. The straight spine first becomes curved, then it eventually disappears altogether. Simple matter of evolution. Survival of the fittest. Or, should I say, survival of the best bootlickers? “ এই   পৃথিবীর   নির্বাসনে , হারিয়ে   সকল   দিশা   বিকোয়   মাথা   জনে   জনে। আর   বিকোলে   মিলবে   কড়ি – পাবে   সব ,  কিন্তু   মাথা   সাজবে   না   আর   শিরোস্ত্রাণে। ”

What is the measure of a man, I sometimes wonder. Is it how fiercely he loves or how selflessly he lets go? Is it how he behaves with his elders, peers or someone who can do him absolutely no good? Is it how he tackles challenges or how he talks about himself? Is it how he puts mind over matter or how much of himself he can give? Is it about how much of his ego he subjugates or how many lives he touches? Is it how he treats women or how humble he is in victory? Is it how he handles power or how he stands up for his beliefs? Is it the reassurance of his being or the legacy he leaves behind? Whatever it may be, the only thing I know is that the only way I can ever measure up to my father is through height. A biological happenstance that has led to me being of the exact same height to the best man I have ever known. In every other measure, he was, is and will always be head, shoulders and an universe better than me. I only wish I could have been a better son.

From Need For Speed to need for peace, I grew up. From ABC to “Ae, BC!”, I grew up. From having people to having moments, I grew up. From Rasna with ice to a chilled beer, I grew up. From prose to poetry, I grew up. From Ankan to Arindam, I grew up. From hopeless romantic to hopeless romantic, I never grew up.

There is poetry in your eyes, but I’ve run out of parchment. There are cherries on your lips, but I’ve run out of hunger. There is elixir on your neck, but I’ve run out of maladies. There are storms in your heart, but I’ve run out of sky. There is allure in your skin, but I’ve run out of eternity.

  “ ভেবে   দেখেছো   কী ? তারারাও   যত   আলোকবর্ষ   দূরে, তারো   দূরে – তুমি   আর   আমি   যাই   ক্রমে   সরে   সরে ... ”   Sometimes I wonder what should be the true yardstick of measuring distances. I could be a kilometre away from home, an epiphany away from finding my calling, ten pages away from tears, a phone call away from a broken heart, nine feet away from the ceiling fan, a breath away from a maddening perfume, fifteen minutes away from fame, a memory away from a smile, a song away from the universe, moments away from annihilation, a billion light-years away from myself. Do philosophers understand distance better, or Math teachers? Do we measure it with tape, or memories? Does it sleep between us, or stalk our shadows? Is it our doom, or our deliverance?