Where lost the simplest behind the legion of uncommons

সাধারন মেয়ে - রবীন্দ্রনাথ ঠাকুর

আমি অন্তঃপুরের মেয়ে,
চিনবে না আমাকে।
তোমার শেষ গল্পের বইটি পড়েছি, শরৎবাবু ,
'বাসি ফুলের মালা'।
তোমার নায়িকা এলোকেশীর মরন দশা ধরেছিল
পঁয়ত্রিশ বছর বয়সে।
পঁচিশ বছর বয়সের সংগে ছিল তার রেশারেশি---
দেখলেম তুমি মহদাশয় বটে,
জিতিয়ে দিলে তাকে।।

নিজের কথা বলি।
বয়স আমার অল্প।
একজনের মন ছুঁয়েছিল
আমার এই কাঁচা বয়সের মায়া।
তাই জেনে পুলক লাগলো আমার দেহে----
ভুলে গিয়েছিলেম অত্যন্ত সাধারণ মেয়ে আমি,
আমার মত এমন আছে হাজার হাজার মেয়ে,
অল্প বয়সের মন্ত্র তাদের যৌবনে।।

তোমাকে দোহাই দেই,
একটি সাধারন মেয়ের গল্প লেখো তুমি।
বড়ো দুঃখ তার।
তারও স্বভাবের গভীরে
অসাধারণ যদি কিছু তলিয়ে থাকে কোথাও
কেমন করে প্রমাণ করবে সে--
এমন কজন মেলে যারা তা ধরতে পারে!
কাঁচা বয়সের জাদু লাগে ওদের চোখে,
মন যায় না সত্যের খোঁজে--
আমরা বিকিয়ে যাই মরীচিকার দামে।।

কথাটা কেন উঠল তা বলি।
মনে করো, তার নাম নরেশ।
সে বলেছিল, কেউ তার চোখে পড়েনি আমার মতো।
এতবড়ো কথাটা বিশ্বাস করব যে সাহস হয় না,
না করব যে এমন জোর কই।।

একদিন সে গেল বিলেতে।
চিঠিপত্র পাই কখনো বা ।
মনে মনে ভাবি, রাম রাম, এত মেয়েও আছে সে দেশে,
এত তাদের ঠেলাঠেলি ভিড়!
আর, তারা কি সবাই অসামান্য--
এত বুদ্ধি এত উজ্জ্বলতা!
আর, তারা সবাই কি আবিষ্কার করেছে এক নরেশ সেনকে
স্বদেশে যার পরিচয় চাপা ছিল দশের মধ্যে।।

গেল মেল্‌’এর চিঠিতে লিখেছে,
লিজির সঙ্গে গিয়েছিল সমুদ্রে নাইতে
(বাংগালি কবির কবিতার ক লাইন দিয়ছে তুলে,
সেই যেখানে ঊর্বশী উঠছে সমুদ্র থেকে)
তার পরে বালির 'পরে বসল পাশাপাশি----
সামনে দুলছে নীল সমুদ্রের ঢেউ,
আকাশে ছড়ানো নির্মল সুর্যালোক।
লিজি তাকে খুব আস্তে আস্তে বললে,
‘এই সেদিন তুমি এসেছ, দুদিন পরে যাবে চ'লে---
ঝিনুকের দুটি খোলা,
মাঝখানটুকু ভরা থাক্‌
একটি নিরেট অশ্রুবিন্দু দিয়ে,
দুর্লভ, মূল্যহীন।‘
কথা বলবার কী অসামান্য ভঙ্গী!
সেই সঙ্গে নরেশ লিখেছে,
‘কথাগুলি যদি বানানো হয় দোশ কী,
কিন্তু চমৎকার--
হীরে-বসানো সোনার ফুল কি সত্য, তবুও কি সত্য নয়?’

বুঝিতেই পারছ
একটা তুলনার সংকেত ওর চিঠিতে একটা অদৃশ্য কাঁটার মতো
আমার বুকের কাছে বিধিয়ে দিয়ে জানায়--
আমি অত্যন্ত সাধারন মেয়ে।
মূল্যবানকে পুরো মূল্য চুকিয়ে দেই
এমন ধন নেই আমার হাতে।
ওগো, না হয় তাই হল,
না হয় ঋনীই রইলেম চিরজীবন।।

পায়ে পড়ি তোমার, একটা গল্প লেখো তুমি শরৎবাবু,
নিতান্ত সাধারন মেয়ের গল্প--
যে দূর্ভাগিনীকে দূরের থেকে পাল্লা দিতে হয়
অন্তত পাঁচ-সাতজন অসামান্যার সঙ্গে--
অর্থাৎ সপ্তরথিনীর মার।
বুঝে নিয়েছি আমার কপাল ভেঙ্গেছে,
হার হয়েছে আমার।
কিন্তু, তুমি যার কথা লিখবে
তাকে জিতিয়ে দিয়ো আমার হয়ে--
পড়তে পড়তে বুক যেন ওঠে ফুলে।
ফুলচন্দন পড়ুক তোমার কলমের মুখে।।

তাকে নাম দিয়ো মালতী
ওই নামটা আমার ।
ধরা পড়বার ভয় নেই।
এমন অনেক মালতী আছে বাংলাদেশে,
তারা সবাই সামান্য মেয়ে,
তারা ফরাসি জর্মান জানে না ,
কাঁদতে জানে।।

কী করে জিতিয়ে দেবে?
উচ্চ তোমার মন, তোমার লেখনী মহীয়সী।
তুমি হয়তো ওকে নিয়ে যাবে ত্যাগের পথে
দুঃখের চরমে, শকুন্তলার মত।
দয়া করো আমাকে।
নেমে এস আমার সমতলে।
বিছানায় শুয়ে শুয়ে রাত্রির অন্ধকারে
দেবতার কাছে যে অসম্ভব বর মাগি
সে বর আমি পাব না,
কিন্তু পায় যেন তোমার নায়িকা।
রাখো-না কেন নরেশকে সাত বছর লন্ডনে,
বারে বারে ফেল করুক তার পরীক্ষায়,
আদরে থাক আপন উপাসিকামন্ডলীতে।

ইতিমধ্যে মালতী পাশ করুক এম.এ.
কলকাতা বিশ্ববিদ্যালয়ে,
গণিতে প্রথম হোক তোমার কলমের এক আঁচড়ে।
কিন্তু, ওই খানেই যদি থামো
তোমার সাহিত্যসম্রাট নামে পড়বে কলংক।
আমার দশা যাই হোক,
খাটো কোরো না তোমার কল্পনা--
তুমি তো কৃপন নও বিধাতার মতো।

মেয়েটাকে দাও পাঠিয়ে য়ুরোপে।
সেখানে যারা জ্ঞানি, যারা বিদ্বান, যারা বীর,
যারা কবি, যারা শিল্পী, যারা রাজা,
দল বেঁধে আসুক ওর চার দিকে।
জ্যোতির্বিদের মতো আবিষ্কার করুক ওকে---
শুধু বিদুষী ব’লে নয়, নারী ব’লে;
ওর মধ্যে যে বিশ্ববিজয়ী জাদু আছে
ধরা পড়ুক তার রহস্য--মূঢ়ের দেশে নয়--
যে দেশে আছে সমজদার, আছে দরদি,
আছে ইংরেজ, জর্মন, ফরাসি।

মালতীর সম্মানের জন্য সভা ডাকা হোক-না--
বড় বড় নামজাদার সভা।
মনে করা যাক সেখানে বর্ষণ হচ্ছে মুষুলধারে চাটুবাক্য,
মাঝখান দিয়ে সে চলেছে অবহেলায়
ঢেউয়ের উপর দিয়ে যেন পালের নৌকা।
ওর চোখ দেখে ওরা করছে কানাকানি--
সবাই বলছে, ভারতবর্ষের সজল মেঘ আর উজ্জ্বল রৌদ্র
মিলেছে ওর মোহিনী দৃষ্টিতে।
(এইখানে জানান্তিকে বলে রাখি,
সৃষ্টিকর্তার প্রাসাদ সত্যই আছে আমার চোখে।
বলতে হল নিজের মুখেই--
এখনো কোনো য়ুরোপীয় রসজ্ঞের
সাক্ষাৎ ঘটে নি কপালে।।)
নরেশ এসে দাঁড়াক সেই কোনে,
আর তার সেই অসামান্য মেয়ের দল।।

আর, তার পরে?
তারপরে আমার নটেশাকটি মুড়োল।
স্বপ্ন আমার ফুরোল।
হায় রে সামান্য মেয়ে,
হায় রে বিধাতার শক্তির অপব্যয়।।

PS: Thanks to S. for reminding me of this extraordinary rendering of a very common story of a very ordinary girl. A wonderful poem "Common girl" by Rabindranath Tagore. A translation by Amit Kumar Dutta.

khwab

I just thought of an awesome plan for myself. It requires an awful lot of $$$money$$$ ... which is of course okay since most awesome plans require an awesome wallet.

When I will have a lot of money (which I plan to gather by taking up a side job of private tution), I will build a chateau on top of Mount Everest, or Mount Kanchenjunga if Everest turns out to some kind of World Heritage Site. I need internet access (any decent broadband will do) ... this needs a separate action plan comprising of a hefty investment and fight with customer care for installation at high altitude. With a huge stock of pen and paper to invent theorems and a binocular to watch clouds, life will simply be cool up there.

It will be my personal Manderley. Guests will not be allowed. Except in Feb and March- these are the months nightmares go live - and guests will be allowed to pay handsome amount to experience horror.

I fixed his computer (before he moved to the White side)

2005, IAP - I am the one who was doing what he used to do best ... eat!

IEEE Computer Society
Undergraduate Teaching Awards

2011 Recipient: Benjamin J' Hescott

For making computer science accessible to a broad spectrum of students through his energy, enthusiasm, and dedication to teaching.

first saw with daveyc

A great support. A friend in need. Demure, yet dainty.
Charming. What would I do without it?

My Kindle and last 6 months

sick, tired an sleepless with no one else to shine for

The remote of my TV accidentally got pressed to a news channel which was, at that moment, covering recent budget announcements in India and how it is going to make hotels, upscale restuarants and medical tests expensive. For a paltry 300 odd seconds, I got teleported to some years ago when I lived on news about politics, economics, science and technology. But after 5 minutes of watching TV news after ... after years ... my recent reluctance to curious interests took over. I turned the TV off, dimmed the light and retired to tedious analysis of entropy for Boolean circuits.

It has been years since I have watched the news, read the newspaper, listened to a Bengali song or watched an Indian movie. I don't even know if Slashdot exists anymore. Or which is the next Apple-killer on the blogosphere? I have focussed solely on the easy cycle of work-eat-sleep and that's how I am still standing in my shoes.

Recently, someone tried to talk me into the India's cricket cup World Cup performance. I think had India lost or something the day before. Me, I don't even know who are on the team India payroll for the last dozen quarters. I painfully looked at his enthusiasm and whispered, “Good luck”.

When I find myself in times of trouble,
mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom,
let it be... (Let It Be - by The Beatles)

Price of A/C hotels is going to increase by such and such. Why do I care? Let it be - it's such a life-saver.

I will write at some point how work is a great medication. It's lousy and irksome. But take it with spoonful of thou-shall-not-think, and it works magic.

PS: The title is a from a nice song by the The Cardigans.

If I be the Antagonist

Success vs. Failure	Huge vs. Tiny	Craft vs. Destruction
Bound vs. Liberated
Purpose vs. Futility	Love vs. Despair	Death vs.  Eternity

Maybe there is no protagonist in real life!

A few poems of Emily Dickinson
(stanzas of poems are merged together)

HE ate and drank the precious words,  
His spirit grew robust;  
He knew no more that he was poor,  
Nor that his frame was dust.  
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings  
Was but a book. What liberty  
A loosened spirit brings!

---

'Twas such a little — little boat
That toddled down the bay!
'Twas such a gallant — gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
'Twas such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the Coast —
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!

---

SUCCESS is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.

---

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible.
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

---

IF I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Warm Virtual Memories

Ever held a coffee cup with both hands ? Nestled comfortably in my palm, with brimful of hot charming beverage filling its soul, its felt so warm, no nice, the oh-so good feeling took over my senses.

Not the kind of paper cup Starbucks or ERC offers, but real coffee-mugs. It's gotta be white, and ceramic. And then the feeling is just like warm sweet engrossing virtual memories.

It is slightly cold outside. Just had my breakfast with toast topped with thick butter, coupla boiled eggs and microwaved tomatoes garnished with dried dill. Eyes are set firm on the open page of "Rebecca" which was then narrating the thoughts of a young shy naive girl. She has been just proposed marriage by Max De Winter, current owner of the most amazing villa Menderley.

The movie is a good thriller but the book, so far at least, has scored pretty high as a romantic novel. But the crowdpuller has to be the numerous virtual memories the she creates in her mind and the way she narrates them.

Take for instance the curious thoughts interplaying her mind - it all happened so quick and unexpected for her - soon after she accepted the proposal. She is happy. Should be very happy. She spins the wheel of imagination as her man breaks the news of their engagement to her employer, from whom he is literally taking her away.

The walls of the suite were thick, I could hear no hum of voices. I wondered what he was saying to her, how he phrased his words. Perhaps he said, 'I fell in love with her, you know, the very first time we met. We've been seeing one another every day.' And she in answer, 'Why, Mr de Winter, it's quite the most romantic thing I've ever heard.' Romantic, that was the word I had tried to remember coming up in the lift. Yes, of course. Romantic. That was what people would say. It was all very sudden and romantic. They suddenly decided to get married and there it was. Such an adventure. I smiled to myself as I hugged my knees on the window seat, thinking how wonderful it was, how happy I was going to be. I was to marry the man I loved. I was to be Mrs de Winter.

But then follows another chain of thoughts... she was in love, but was he too? Max De Winter was married before, a famous marriage that recently ended after the untimely death of his even more famous wife Rebecca.

It would have been better, after all, more natural surely to have gone into the sitting-room hand in hand, laughing, smiling at one another and for him to say 'We're going to be married, we're very much in love.' In love. He had not said anything yet about being in love. No time perhaps. It was all so hurried at the breakfast table. Marmalade, and coffee, and that tangerine. No time. The tangerine was very bitter. No, he had not said anything about being in love. Just that we would be married. Short and definite, very original. Original proposals were much better. More genuine. Not like other people. Not like younger men who talked nonsense probably, not meaning half they said. Not like younger men being very incoherent, very passionate, swearing impossibilities. Not like him the first time, asking Rebecca... I must not think of that. Put it away. A thought forbidden, prompted by demons. Get thee behind me, Satan. I must never think about that, never, never, never. He loves me, he wants to show me Manderley.

Had she been little more young or little more matured, she would have knitted the whole nine yards of "does he". Instead the bubbly lass drowns herself in her own thoughts and creates a warm lovely wall of romantic wall across her, allowing nothing to stay between her and her love, in an uncomplicated direct way.

I picked up the book. I caught my foot in the flex of the bedside lamp, and stumbled, the book falling from my hands on to the floor. It fell open, at the title-page. 'Max from Rebecca.' She was dead, and one must not have thoughts about the dead. They slept in peace, the grass blew over their graves. How alive was her writing though, how full of force. Those curious, sloping letters. The blob of ink. Done yesterday. It was just as if it had been written yesterday. I took my nail scissors from the dressing-case and cut the page, looking over my shoulder like a criminal. I cut the page right out of the book. I left no jagged edges, and the book looked white and clean when the page was gone. A new book, that had not been touched. I tore the page up in many little fragments and threw them into the waste-paper basket. Then I went and sat on the window seat again. But I kept thinking of the torn scraps in the basket, and after a moment I had to get up and look in the basket once more. Even now the ink stood up on the fragments thick and black, the writing was not destroyed. I took a box of matches and set fire to the fragments. The flame had a lovely light, staining the paper, curling the edges, making the slanting writing impossible to distinguish. The fragments fluttered to grey ashes. The letter R was the last to go, it twisted in the flame, it curled outwards for a moment, becoming larger than ever. Then it crumpled too; the flame destroyed it. It was not ashes even, it was feathery dust... I went and washed my hands in the basin. I felt better, much better. I had the clean new feeling that one has when the calendar is hung on the wall at the beginning of the year. January the 1st. I was aware of the same freshness, the same gay confidence. The door opened and he came into the room.

If the novel ends up having any resemblance to the movie then, this is just the beginning of many other attempts. The past of Menderley would become present with her arrival, treading on her husband's shoes. Memory is just like that - for some, it just refuses to fade away. Still...

It was all a very warm feeling. There was chill in the air. The sun was just out, and sneaked in from behind the half-drawn curtains to deliver morning greetings. South-Indian coffee made in Italian mocha does not taste original, but not fake either. A little while ago she had hugged her knees sitting at the window. Not smart enough to be silly, I hugged my coffee mug. And it felt very nice. Very warm. Very fulfilling.

Ad Haiti

In the long vertical list of catchy news titles, Google News chose to display this one at the top "Haitians Cry in Letters: 'Please — Do Something!'" (NYTimes, Sep 19, 2010). Supposedly a computer program chose the exact placement of this article, nevertheless, I paid attention and went ahead with the click. The same Google News has been telling me for more than 6 months that most countries who had pledged aid to Haiti (for the Jan 2010 earthquake) has failed to deliver. Reports trickle in that the situation as of now is no better than what it was 1 month after the earthquake. Priorities are strange in "least developed countries".

I evoked a mixed burst of emotions as I read the article - NYTimes kept showing a clickable ad about luxury travel offers side by side. I wished that the ad servers displayed more consistent ads. This isn't something totally out of the blue ... keyword "Haiti" does not necessarily mean a vacation travel destination. Sentiment analysis is already a niche area of R&D for CS/Linguists.

midoonestam / I know

Been continuously listening to "Midoonestam" by Soroush Malekpour for the last several "days". It is still playing on a loop in my music player - non stop. Sounds very much like a good Ghazal - but without words to destroy the resonance satiating my Atman.

Even after a lot of searching, I am still ignorant-yet-curious about what Midoonestam actually means (as far as I could gather, its a Farsi word).

You might like it. Youtube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NexqAIeY4-A

Edit: My esteemed ex-colleague helped me confirm it's meaning - "I Knew". Thanks, Ilir.

Ominous Dark Spot

AP: "Everything seemed to be going downhill," said Sveden, of Brewster. "I seemed to be tired a lot more. I didn't want to do too much. My appetite was diminishing."

I feel the same too.

AP: "There was a lot of inflammation there and I thought, OK, there's a tumor at the bottom of this," said Spillane, who went in with a scope. But the more Spillane probed at the encrusted mass, the clearer it became that it was no tumor. "It was pretty grungy, but it looked like a pea," Spillane said. "I sent it to the pathologist. They said it was a vegetable."

I am not making fun of Sveden or his sad situtation, please make no mistake. I am saying that most of the things that happen to us are consequences of something we do, something someone else does. And then there are coincidences - and notwithstanding hard work and perseverence, one has to agree that a stronger force can wipe out everything for good or bad.

That is my take - all that happens, happens due to consequences and coincidences. Just to show how much surprise life has in store for us, here is another similar report.

AP: "In 2009, a Russian surgeon said he found a tiny fir tree in someone's lung and suggested the patient could have inhaled a seed. Experts said at the time that a fir seed could not germinate in the lung because it needs sunlight."

(From a news article by The Associated Press: Docs discover pea sprouting in Mass. man's lung)