Rhapsody on A Rainy Day

Rhapsody on A Rainy Day

                                                                                Pradyumna Khan

On waking up in a miserably dingy bed I could not perceive whether or not the dawn has arrived. I tried to turn my head towards where I threw my wrist watch on the left side but I couldn’t. Something was restraining me. It seemed that my ears were blocked by something. When I shed my trance, I realized that it was the headset which was blocking my ears and its wire, attached to the laptop, was restraining me from swinging my head. Last night I fell asleep putting the headset on while watching a movie on the laptop. I removed the stuff from the ears and the sound of moan of the sloth ceiling fan made its way there. It was cold. I was shivering. I searched for the bed sheet which I found piled and crumpled beneath my back. My feet, instead of my head, were resting on the pillow. It was an inextricably messed up position I was lying. “If it is so cold why hell did I put the fan on?” I was confused. I could find the wristwatch in the bed. That instead a copy of Eliot by Manju Jain, a diary, some pen, the T.V remote, a matchbox, and some newspapers touched my searching hand. The cellphone was not also there. I remembered I put it on charge in the dining hall because the plug point in the bedroom had been defunct for a couple of months. There was nothing I could watch the time. The glasses on the upper halves of the windows seemed to be very feebly illuminated and I guessed thereby that the night might just be over. It had been a long time since I haven’t woken up at dawn. “Let’s have a stroll”, I thought and shoved myself off from the bed. As I tried to switch the fan off it was off automatically; the power was gone. Yawning, I took the watch from the shelf and expected to find a 5 o’clock like time in the morning. With a shudder I saw a defying, steady 8.00 a.m. “What the ...” I was stunned. Why was it so dark then? My trance was gone at once. I opened the front door and saw a deceptive, dull sky instead of a bright blue one and it was raining unbelievably in the first week of November.

There was nobody on the street. The stone chips in front of the door had turned into black from grey with the touch of the raindrops. A gust of wet wind brushed my face and the bare parts of my body. I realised that it rained all through the night and the raindrops painted the floor of my dusty corridor into a dull mosaic.

It was a drab, pale morning. A depressing mist was rolling down from the ether and was pervading, as if, the entire house itself, slowly engulfing it. The sky seemed to be over-burdened with dark cloud and was coming closer every moment to sit heavy on my blank mind and make it more claustrophobic. Every nook and corner of the austere interior occupied an indifferent and unperturbed countenance. Here and there were hanging shabby towels and some hastily thrown over, worn and dirty outfits. With the morning sun having not risen, they were dripping with darkness. Patches of darkness seemed to have taken shelter in all the corners of the clumsy house. A stale smell hit my nose as I entered the littered kitchen. The maid had left her job about a week ago and the sink was full with a pile of unwashed utensils. The gas oven was wearing an oily skin. The tapestry of cobwebs from the ceiling hung loose like the locks of an insane virago and the floor of the dining hall flooded with water, leaking from the basin. Perhaps it was since two and a half weeks that the house had not been cleaned. I stared at them all and a sigh arose from the depth of my breast. It called to my mind the precarious lane of the “Kinu Goala” of Tagore – dirty, squalid, drab and monotonous. A resembling ash pit is here too, in front of the house, emitting pungent smell of the littered wastes.

The clerk named Haripada much resembles me, though he was unmarried. But he was fortunate enough to have the image of the quintessential lady in her heart to revere, to cherish and to pine for, or to wait an eternal wait for her. He used to hold her image like the Holy Grail that saved him from falling. But I am profane. I am corrupt. I have seen the deceptive sides of things. I have a wife and a daughter and my parents to love and care for and I do that solemnly. But somehow this professional, suave world has robbed me of my vitality. Now I just admit. I just take things for granted. I just let things happen. Now, I just patiently wait for some new hazards to come out of nowhere and shatter me.

There is something uncanny about this house. It seems to be mysteriously sterile and dumb. It is not even nostalgic. It cannot make me reminisce of any good memory. When I look at the T.V or the shelves or the refrigerator, they do not speak to me. Even the empty spaces are so pitifully prosaic. When I shut my eyes, I cannot see my wife strolling there or suddenly embracing me from behind. I cannot hear her sweet frolics or even her fiery invectives if I try to eavesdrop, even in my dream. The house is utilitarian, but unlike the old one, it is awfully boring.

I know this cold day will end. But the night, which will follow this, will be colder. It will slowly inject senility into my veins and nausea will pervade my creative faculty. Once again shall I be intoxicated. Once again the kitchen sink will be replete of staleness. Once again shall I sleep with my earplugs on.

Dawn will surely come. And even if the sun disperses the mist, the day will remain drab. This rhapsody then will be my only refuge.

Singular Existense

                                         Singular Existense

Dawn of a new day dies away

Among thousand disdainful frawns.

Unfaithful sun turns the face from the squalid me.

Ennui piles on my spent lot.

Mirror never decieves.

The nascent woken-up shudders

Watching the insomniac countenance after the last night's sleep.

Monotonous legs drag the disgusted corpse --

Toilet shower flushes the feelings away.

Solitude the claustrophobia creates.

Distance devours the endeavour.

Endeavour lacks vitality therefore;

Despicable seems the divinity.

Here I am, the lonely man

Deprived of my loved ones.

Degenerated are my blessed thoughts

Which used to be mine once.

Night in a beer can settles in

Like the intimidated dogs of the street.

The fragile container ejaculates.

The amorous bed refutes my singular existence.

Off I sleep into sleeplessness...

Immaculate Ineffability

                                                                                          (On 16^th August, to my first born little daughter)

The call descended from the second floor

The device of conveying good news shrieked back to life again.

A divine seed flourished in the heaven.

In her the heaven I saw.

Ineffability worn I escalated up.

And there she was –

The most immaculate thing I ever saw.

A tiny bundle of ecstasy,

A brave newborn in a crude old earth,

Beholding the hostilities that

The world has yet to offer her.

This fluctuating world

Had bereaved me in grief

Rejuvenated me in joy.

Confounded had I been,

Amazed, irked and embarrassed,

Angry and anguished, wretched

And guilty and remorseful.

Repentance sauntered sometimes too.

But what name shall give

To the feeling you installed in me?

All the Olympian athletes, accomplished and acclaimed

Cannot surpass my pride.

Living was I as if wallowing in midstream.

I have seen the lighthouse now.

Teaching: Is it Merely a Profession?

Teaching: Is It Merely a Profession?

A Card on Teachers' Day

Whether or not teaching is merely a profession rests, to a great extent, on the annotation of the word ‘profession’. There lies an ambiguity between job and profession. A job is a job which teaching of course is and in these days, it is a lucrative one for the teachers are paid handsomely. But the word ‘profession’ demands professionalism. Here many will say that what is wrong in administering professionalism in teaching in so far as it enhances the output? But it is not only a student’s learning outcome that a teacher expects for his objective is to inculcate values in him, to make him a proper, sociable human being. And for that, he himself has to interiorize the job in his life because if a student idolizes anyone except his parents, it is his teacher. So, a teacher has to become an example by himself unlike the other professions. Those are confined. But teaching is not an end in itself. It is a profession beyond. In earlier decades, there were so many teachers who dedicated their whole lives for teaching. These days too, examples are not far to seek. They may not be highlighted but that does not affect it in any way or other. That teaching is something that surpasses mere profession is proved by the fact that still films like TARE ZAMEEN PAR is being made. So, if professionalism is a mask and your real life is your real skin, then, in case of teaching, your mask becomes your real skin for it is a life which has to be lived out thoroughly.

CONFESSIONS OF AN INSPIRED BIKER

CONFESSIONS OF AN INSPIRED BIKER

It had not been long since I owned a bike. At that time, holiday to me was chatting with my friends and family and doing some silly frolics. Three things brought a paradigm shift in my world of squandering time.

1.       My purchase of a brawny Pulsar 150.

2.       My subscription to the BIKE INDIA magazine.

3.       My posting to Purulia.

It is very much essential to have a bike of your own to be a biker. Previously I used to ride my Dad’s one which gave me neither comfort nor the urge to ride more. The P150 with its sexy black look, thundering growl and quick torque titillated me all the time to ravish the roads. I got keen on biking.

Being keen, I wanted to have some study on the bikes and the bikers. I subscribed to the BIKE INDIA journal which proved to be immensely helpful. Actually, it initiated me to a new horizon that can only be seen by an ardent biker. I learned from it that biking isn’t only about commuting; nor is it about flaunting your dashing machine. It is to enjoy the rough gust of wind on your face, heat on your body and raindrops on the visor of your helmet. It is about taming the adverse conditions, exploring the godforsaken kingdoms and unleashing the utmost power of freedom. I understood that it is never about the destination but about the journey itself. I got keener.

Thirdly, my posting to Purulia let me have the chance to practise what I imbibed. Nowhere, except here, in West Bengal can the long stretches of open roads be found amidst the bare, deserted, pristine lands. On the contrary to the thickly populated other parts of Bengal, it is, as if, a slice of virgin province of Arizona. The biker inside me could never have aroused hadn’t I lived in here – in Purulia. The landscape is hard here. Sun shines at an average of 50⁰ C temperatures. But beneath its hardness, its simplicity indulges. The heat, though sapping, ignites to set in for a new trip. And thus, among the worldwide brotherhood of bikers, a baby was born.

After that, it was hard to stop me on an idle day from biking. Multifarious roads and spots were awaiting me. They waved at me and I nodded to them in response. Often, I do not have a fixed idea of where I am going. Instead of a fixed destination I often pick a direction and ride. I stop where I wish to, feast my eyes on the open vistas and ride forth again or return. Hence, the trips are sometimes long and sometimes short. But the outcome is always the same – a sort of rejuvenation.

In this way, I visited the nearby Asansol, Jamshedpur, Bokaro, Ranchi, Bankura, the hills of Panchet, Jaichandipahar, and Ayodhya and the innumerable spots in between. And it is those very insignificant places which left deeper impression on my heart. Each ride enhanced my repertoire. I learned more miles to munch at a stretch; I learned to overcome fatigue on the saddle. I learned how to dodge the defence of a whirlwind in an open domain, I learned how not to be tempted by some dull and stupid urchins who tries to be posers and pace-setters on road. Highway is a tricky place and you need to be always careful.

Being a biker has taught me one other great philosophy of life. Not only did it impart the lesson of enjoying loneliness to me but also instilled the habit to be solitary, even in a dingy place, for some time being. It makes room for interiorization. Sitting on saddle is like being existential to me. I can feel my very insignificance in this greater go of the world. The open road in front each time reminds me of “miles to go before I sleep.” A narrow save always implicates the razor’s edge that we are walking on in life. And the rev of my buddy still protests, as though, by saying, “And I think to myself/ what a wonderful world!” when I look with his eyes, ecstasy dawns upon me. Reaching well over 100 kmph never remains only dry digits for me. It becomes synonymous to having the wings of liberation on which I can soar and surpass this dreary world of dystopia and detrimental desolation.

I often try my wife to convince and squeeze her in my track. In fact, we made our own customized honeymoon instead of a traditional one and those were all road trips in and around Purulia. Later on, when we did make a planned one to Goa, I could not fight shy of a bike there too and hired an Avenger cruiser and rode to our hearts’ content.

But as I said, biking teaching me to swallow the dregs of loneliness, I get irked very often to take a pillion, even it is my wife. Thereby and to quench by riding thirst I have sometimes shirked from my duties of a husband which I deeply regret and this article I dedicate to all my falls from my duties to my family as an expiation. But I do not regret that I wanted to ride because riding to me is a religion and to double cross it is a blasphemy.