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তোমায় ভালোবেসে

  বাংলা ভাষা লিখতে জেনে হয়নি কোনো লাভ তবুও যেনো বুকের মাঝে নিশ্চুপ প্রতিবাদ আমায় তুমি বাধ্য কর ছোট্ট মেয়ের মতই তোমায় নিয়ে মাততে হবে নেইকো আমার গতি তোমায় ফেলে এগিয়ে যাবো এই জগতের মাঝে উর্দ্ধপানে চোখটি রেখে নক্ষত্রের বেগে তুমি তখন পা টি ধরে আলতো ওঠো ডেকে কিছুই করা গেলো না আর, বাংলা, তোমায় ভালোবেসে। ঘেটুফুল  ১৩ ফেব্রুয়ারি ২০২৩

Finally, on a Mac

I have finally started using MacOS, and it surely seems impressive. If I was not using Linux for a while, I would have been in awe with this, but those familiar with any polished version of Linux, take Zorin or LinuxMint, they may not be mind-blown like usual Apple fanboys. Frankly, this OS seems like another well made Linux version. They say Unix and Linux are completely different, but I have my doubts. Of course, I am not a tech nerd, rather I have very rudimentary, or at best advanced consumer-level knowledge about technology. Both the systems, in functionality and even appearance, feel very similar. Or it could be just that Linux copied MacOS, and may have influenced it back.  I am not sure if compared to Windows, MacOS is way superior, but I am getting used to it. For certain, all those talks about MacOS being more intuitive, etc. is a carefully woven marketing gimmick. Windows is as polished as MacOS, and some more. I could, of course, be biased as a long term Windows user who is

Jethu

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Jethu, as I used to call him, was fond of telling stories. Mostly, any incident from his life pinned somewhere between the 60s and 70s.   He was my Betal. He was passionate about Bengal, and had elephantine memory about places and people and could connect the two easily within a particular time -- the year, and sometimes even month, if not the date. He wanted us to know the history of Communism in Bengal, and the Congress party before that. He never admitted to me that he was a communist, but he despised the current communist crop, the entire lot that joined the party after it came to power in Bengal in the 70s. ‘Benojol’, or flood water, he used to call them. He accused them of diluting the standard of the party. I am told, not by him of course, that he left the Communist movement somewhere in the late 70s. I never asked him if he was involved with the naxalite movement, but I strongly suspect he was. He never praised or citicised 70s naxalites. Like decorated veterans, he never tal

Musings on my writing

Perhaps I owe it to this blog to let the world know that I am working on a novel in my mother tongue and that explains why I have not posted here anything for a long time. I am too busy writing, and getting busier  procrastinating .    The reason why I am posting this, though, is that I am frustrated that my novel has got stuck somewhere in the abyss from which I am not able to extricate it. I have a serious doubt now if my novel can be finished after all. But no point doubting, I will have to finish it.    What do I gain writing it? Why am I struggling so much to finish my novel after all? Well, when I was young, I had this vision of becoming a great writer, someone who will earn his living writing. That has already been fulfilled. I am a journalist, and I have to write every day. So much so that I am tired of writing, and very cunningly and suddenly, of course, I take a day off for nothing. Or, there are days, perhaps once a month, when I don’t write anything at all even when I am ve

not what it seems

  Charming faces, full of life, or wisdom … all gone, god knows where Never to return, that is for sure, or never to return in the form God knows where they disappeared…   one day, or the same day everyday, he’d sit with his back to the sun A paper in his hand, combing worthy something to read Mostly miracles   Life is not what it seems, he’d say, and death is not what you fear he knew things like that, the old man … and so he searched for reality, mostly miracles   beauty, be mine, i prayed once but the besty had her heart gone in labour, the chid survived the air turning lavender, she’s somewhere here   those sparkling eyes of little kids They reflect my death i smell their hair, they smell of me I live underneath,   I am not what they see, I am what they’d feel one day Life is not what it seem, and death is not what I fear

Nearing the end, perhaps

I started my journalism career in 2004. I had a good innings so far, got a few awards, a fellowship of IMF-World Bank. Love from readers, and quite a lot of trolling by anonymous cowards on social media, which these days is a certificate of a journalist doing his or her job properly. That innings is probably coming to an end in 2020. Coronavirus may not have killed me yet, it is very much raging everywhere around me and so far either I am lucky, or I am one of those super lucky asymptomatic 80 per cent. But I may lose my job anytime now. Even if I don’t, life and journalism won’t be the same again. This week they fired a bunch of my dear colleagues, including my boss, the resident editor of my newspaper. I have never seen a more dedicated person. We all were expecting he would succeed the paper’s editor who is retiring in October. But no, my boss had to face the ignominy of hearing his service is no longer required. What chance I have in this profession even if I survive the present

Ian, my friend

Ian and I don’t interact much these days, at least not now. There was a time when I wanted to be a writer, and I thought Ian was my gateway to the world of fame and eternity. I don’t know myself well, but as far as I do, I am not selfish. But in Ian, I initially saw profit. And so, he edited my stories and I dreamt of writing ten stories and getting them published and become an instant hit. This is partly because he himself used to think that my stories were wonderful and fresh. I pitied him really, for I knew I was not special. Not at all.   I was never sure about myself, but Ian was. He persisted when I long gave up. We started interacting on emails, I think it all started in 2005 or 2006. I was 25-26. By the time I was 28, Ian turned into a friend, and I no longer could think of him as my ladder to success. This is also the time I came to Mumbai and soon lost interest in writing. The city overwhelmed me with its daily struggle. Life was no longer comfortable and fun as it was in B