Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 6
July 20, 2024
‘Creative delight: Rain in Calcutta’
This morning, at nine,
I walked the rain drenched paths
swanked by lush green grass,
over which varied tall trees
sheltered a multitude
of gallant flowers and plants.
The eastern sun, in gearing to display
it’s spleandour and might,
over the torrential rain and lightning
that dazzled the night -
it peeked at me rhythmically
through branches astride,
as a Chhau dancer showcasing his art -
decked in a brilliant Gold ensemble,
grabbing my awakening mind’s eye.
White birds with sure yellow feet, hopped over puddle-drowned grass - shoving their yellow beaks into crevice and cracks, of fallen tree trunks floating as rafts.
Yet around these sights and
sounds of chirping that abound,
morning walkers rushed past -
indifferent to nature’s practiced dance,
oblivious to a painting
with words or an easel and brush -
forming in my minds eye
of it’s own accord.
It’s a new day, that’s washed clean now of yesterday’s dusty thought tracks - awaiting my pristine mind to collate numerous vivid slides - to form a kaleidoscope of creative delight.
— Shuvashree Chowdhury/ book Fragments
Photo courtesy, reputed Bangladeshi portrait photographer, Jannatul Mawa.
#poetry #poetrycommunity #rainydays #photographer #authorlife
July 16, 2024
‘Across Borders’: my debut book’s launch.
On receiving the blessings, with having the opportunity to read from my debut book, in October 2013, along with veteran actor Barun Chanda, whose birthday it is today.
A very Happy Birthday Barun da! 
How can I ever thank you enough for all the support…
When I had met veteran actor Victor Banerjee at his house, with my debut book, Across Borders — over an hours discussion, in which he asked me a number of questions like an interview, on my inspirations and my career of two decades, he had asked me, “Who’s going to read from it at the release…I will be away in Dehradun.”
I had crisply replied, “I am”.
“No you’re not going to read” he said promptly, “ask your husband to read.”
“He won’t, no way,” I replied, laughing, “he doesn’t even read from his own book at launches, so how mine?”
“But you’re not going to read…I’m telling you… find someone…also let me see…”
“Why, I can manage on my own…I have no choice anyways…” I insisted, before seeking his blessings along with photos of his receiving my book with the backdrop of Rabindranath Tagore’s portrait in his study.
“Authors, especially debut ones don’t do justice in reading their own words” he stated, “There is already the anxiety of how your words will be received…I have read Naipaul’s early books at the release events internationally and of others too…only much later they read their own…let me see what I can do…you know Barun?”
On the one hand, with a sense of assurance that someone so erudite as him, took me seriously as an author, I was driving back to Salt Lake, an hour from his home in Ho Chi Minh Sarani, Kolkata. But with deflated confidence as a speaker, as I had been a trainer for many years of my working life. When my phone rang. Struggling with the steering and the mobile phone, I took the call anyways, as I saw his name flashing on my screen.
“I have informed Barun, he will read” Victor Banerjee informed me crisply, “just go over to his place with the book, today or soon, so he can read the book before the event.”
So I came back home, then with my senior executive search practise, I ran a thorough Google scan on Barun Chanda and learned he had also been a professor of English at St Xavier’s in addition to his advertising career and being Satyajit Ray’s actor.
I telephoned Barun da, and after a brief chat he asked me to come and meet him at home. When I met him at the door, imposing against the frame, I was overwhelmed by his personality and his easy charm. Easily one of the most handsome, well preserved man I had met, not to mention his baritone and erudite charm, in his mid sixties at the time.
After his reading the book, I went to meet him a second time and he referred to me by the name of the character Sanjana. He knew exactly, that was the narrator.
“The ending is devilishly clever” he grinned.
He then insisted I would read along with him at the launch.
“But Victor Banerjee insisted I should not read” I protested.
“No, we are going to read together…you will read along with me. I have already decided on the excerpts…the audience will relate to us. But importantly you will gain exposure and confidence.”
“Would you like to risk my fumbling beside you…” I asserted.
“Don’t worry, I will be there so just be yourself.”
Then the day before the event he said “we will read the part with the uncle and his mistress. It will be interesting.”
“No, no Barun da I cannot, I will not feel comfortable reading a bedroom scene to so many senior people.”
“This is the only way you will gain confidence in your own words.”
He was right…though you can see in the YouTube link how I’m almost fumbling and stuttering…my sister calling it my worst reading ever…the experience that day and many others God has kindly bestowed me with, makes me confident to write anything I please and then read to anyone who cares to listen.
Sharing in the YouTube link below, my reading from my debut book, along with Barun Chanda:
https://youtu.be/F4EWpRKkyZA?si=00MSFLkuQbTCHYoI
This is in context to the event covered
here in the old fashioned way: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLAfxCsc6bXZC1y3S4HQISvqIa3TP2V209&si=9X4HoBkbBumiiAVe
July 4, 2024
‘A Bouquet of Random Thoughts on the Rain in Kolkata.”: in a Bengali magazine.
I’m very pleased to share…
‘A Bouquet of Random Thoughts on the Rain in Kolkata’, the original in English by Shuvashree Chowdhury(myself)
…translated by their editor Swapnanjan Goswami and published in the Bengali magazine, ‘Coffee Hous-er Charpashe’ shared lower down below.
1.I am sitting amidst an array of potted plants – ceramic shapes and hues inspiring my words. A crow, then another,swoon upon the railing eyeing me, perhaps longing for an empathetic thought. I break up two biscuits I’m having with tea, and place the crumbs in an earthenware bowl which has been theirs for long, to await their descent on my tiny offerings of love, so I may feel a union with my environment. Semi-ripe mangoes are glistening in the sun, on nature’s tree-basket lined by green leaves in all hues, as a palette awaiting a paint brush: I’m sitting at my mind’s easel, all senses alert.Two crows have picked up the biscuit scraps in their beaks, hopping about to dip in water as we do our biscuits in tea. I promptly get up to fetch their cup, but they nibble on the dry biscuit scraps, looking at me as if asking me to join them, likethey prefer my company over wetting their throats to enable them to crow louder. Is it that they are lonely or think I am, for who has time for crows and birds!
*****
2.It is a late morning now, in early June in Calcutta, and a light rain last night has quelled nature’s thirst. The immense heat of the last month has been cowed down, so I have the luxury of sitting outdoors till late in the day, to spend time with nature in simple pleasures. Though the rain last night has raised earth’s thirst levels, increasing the skies and earth’s libido as the day progresses, with intense humidity – leaving us perspiring profusely. This leading to the torrential rainshere that gives birth to two beautiful young damsels that East and West Bengal grow into, draped in lush green kaftans, that leads one to the Swayamvara that the festival of Durga Puja turns into for West Bengal, where her suitors come to Calcutta, from all over the world, to win her heart.
I hear the chattering of a multitude of birds now – thepigeons on terraces all around me, mynas hopping around, sparrows on trees, all distinct as instruments in a royal symphony conducted by firm hands of the crows, as they caw assertively.
It starts raining again, late into the morning, clouds still aroused – even though earth is weary after the whole night of their unhurried love making – exchanging woes humanity is causing them – the skies never-ending tearing up, then drenching the earth that isn’t remorseful, even if humanity is seeking respite from rain’s teary flogging.
*****
3.Four days of last October had gone by raining – it’smomentum then slow and reflecting like a train’s chugging into a platform, yet it cannot turn its engine off till reaching the Stop, even as it’s sound gets faint and distant as the rain is a mere trickle now – it’s sound overtaken by the chirping of a variety of birds flying past my view – hopping sparrow’stwitter abounding, yet crows out of my sight enforcing their vocal might. When suddenly their choir goes faint and then quiet but I can still hear the rain like a toy train chugging up amountain path, before it is nearing its halt at Darjeeling.
The variety of plants lining my balcony quiver, slight tremor of a wind propelling rain to keep chugging – I hear it intermittently through mild chirping with their lazy carousing,when in the distance I hear a tooting – perhaps the Alarm for someone still sleeping, to get on today’s late ten am rail coach, though he has missed the best journey in the morning rain, of the symphony of birds.
The rain has by now ceased – so has the sound of the train chugging come to a halt in my mind to remind me to get off mentally, and walk down the Station of Life, to my day’s domestic chores and then my writing, with diligence over an independence, so that I don’t care to define myself with it or to take myself seriously as I do my work, to care political and social labelling. As Creativity, is the use of one’s imaginationor original ideas to create something new and not what the world expects.
*****
4.April has always been our Norwester month, the ‘Kaal Baisakhi’ invigorating Bengal — preparing it for the harsh summer ahead were hailstorms common in my childhood. In an absolutely rain free April this year, in my memory slideshows now, I can still distinctly collect lumps of ice that fell like large marbles on my veranda in Sovabazar in North Calcutta, as sheets of rain thrashed the roads in front of me and people ran for shelter – these memories I now savour as ice candy saved in a bowl of reminiscences, its taste acting as life’s milestones.
It had rained heavily a few days this May, a cool breeze carrying shower jets to my lips one evening as I sat out on my balcony. I had savoured the rain, even as it swathed my skin in the semidarkness interspersed by the sparks of wild lightning. Through blurry lightshades around me washed in rain, I viewed my varied plants blush again to the sound of a wind chime clanging merrily, after they had almost beencrushed by harsh rays of the Sun cowering over them lining my terrace.
The main gate below had clinked open, I heard it three storeys up, through senses awakened by rain. A man in a blue umbrella, our house help had slithered out and was gone for long – I saw him, yet he denied it, claiming he was looking for Biscuit and Cookie our four-month-old kittens. This made me think – Global warming, explains, a change of season on earth’s stage, but what of a conspiracy of duplicity! We cannot do without our air conditioners round the year, along with all the gadgets we use in a world where the average age span of man is without doubt on the rise even if not the quality of a healthy life. As man in kitten’s guise is feigning innocence – feeling victimised, as if we are fools or are we, to fall for this hypocrisy of damaging the planet on one hand and seeking redressal on the other.
*****
5.The Hibiscus, I bring them to my desk every morningto enhance their days’ worth of a life – as on my terrace by evening they wither and spend a night falling out and dying.The varied coloured Joba in Bengali, red, pink, yellow, orange, and white, all dance in the rain around the year – the beauty they emanate just for a day, is more than I may radiate in my lifetime, even with honourable inspirations if I try to infuse empathy and sunshine into my words.
These flowers, especially the yellow, pink, and scarlet hibiscus bloom easily and daily and always smile – yet have a distinctly vivid though crisp life. Unlike the Orchids on my balcony or the pink Korobi (Oleander) in the front yard, that take long to flower but withstand the weather a longer time asI do memories and experiences that I weave into wreaths, with my green ideas on white.
*****
6.The lake in front of my balcony in Calcutta is a visual treat of nature’s bounty this late July morning. A fury, if you make out the nightlong deluge to be – when rains are late in other parts of West Bengal like Purulia, for harvesting.
My optimism on the rain and this flooding took an embarrassed beating – in empathising that my cook’s family back home was yet in-waiting for the season’s blessings. Yet I set forth to enjoy these precious moments sitting out looking at being transported as if to Venice, sipping my tea to the music of the wind chime that is my company across changes in times. The birds chirping, crows leading the chorus drew my attention to Sun’s rays now warming – to mentally fetch me back on a Gondola ride to reality, as breakfast he servedus with, “…in Purulia it’s raining now!”
*****
7.The rain splattered on my front porch, dripping noisily on the mosaic driveway – as leaves shimmered in light through the clouds of steam from my teacup catching my sight. Dollops of rain fell from the balcony shed, as the FM radio played into my senses trying to arouse in me words that still often fail me, after the deluge of soul crushing events and loss through the covid pandemic.
A medley of sounds, accompanying green sights during rain, trying to wrench out of my soul a jubilation to all that once spontaneously broke into song, but now is numb, shunning human connection.
Out cats – Milky & Pizza, look at me squarely, their green eyes demanding their portions of milk — as slowly in my mind I hear the chirping of birds assuring me – after the rain words cannot be far behind, in bursting the dam that had built in my mind.
As I write this, rain bursts from the sky that’s leaden and heavy, as a drenched sandbag of accumulated clouds weighing on my mind. Just as the rain, a shower of words will have to ease my sullen heart and writer’s block, and then help me follow my purpose in life to resuscitate the world.
*****
About the Author:
SHUVASHREE CHOWDHURY is the author of five works of literary fiction including novels ‘Across Borders’ and ‘Entwined Lives,’ a collection of short stories ‘Existences’ and two books of poems called ‘Fragments’ and ‘Trouvailles: My Moments of Yūgen’.
She spent over two decades in the corporate sector, in managerial capacities with top companies like Titan Industries (Tanishq), ITC Sheraton Hotels, Jet Airways, Shoppers Stop, Mafoi, Randstad and a few others, both in Chennai and Kolkata. She was a popular blogger on several public blogging sites, before turning a full-time writer. She is married to a senior journalist/editor with a national newspaper, also a reputed author of several books. After a long stint in Chennai, they now live in Kolkata.
shuvashree.chowdhury@gmail.com
*****
#rain #raininkolkata #kolkata #Bengali #poetry #prosepoetry #visualpoetry #poet #author
June 21, 2024
Excerpts from Across Borders, in the words of the protago...
Excerpts from Across Borders, in the words of the protagonist Maya…
Chapter 1 : That day in 1948, Kalpana and I left to cross over to another life with Ronjit uncle across the Pakistan border. There was no Bangladesh yet and was not going to be for a long time. Mihirpur is a small town near the city of Dacca, in erstwhile East Pakistan, currently Bangladesh. I was about to transcend the border of my childhood. After the age of eight, I was sucked into adulthood like quicksand. It would only be fifteen years hence that I would again cross the border, back into India. After my graduation in 1964, I would return to work, marry, raise a family and live the rest of my life on the Indian side. A few years later, in 1971, the home that I grew up in was to become a part of Bangladesh, no longer of East Pakistan, as when I would leave it. As the country was re-contoured into Pakistan, Bangladesh and India ensuing much turmoil, so did my life across its border in developing three distinct identities – childhood, adolescence and adulthood – get chiselled by the rough hands of time and experiences…
Chapter 2: It was nearly three days, before Ma got a first glimpse of the woman who had displaced her in her husband’s life. That morning Ma was by the well behind the house, putting the clothes to dry on the line. She saw a face just above the sari she had hung. Ma froze in recognition, a dagger passing through her heart, taking her breath away. Thereafter she felt no pain, no anger, not the slightest twinge of jealousy. Numbness had taken over, rooting her to the ground. This is how she would feel about this woman — anaesthetized, till her dying day. This woman had usurped Ma’s position as wife, robbed her of the status of the lady of the house, relegating her to becoming a stranger in her own home. Slowly regaining composure, Ma became acutely self-conscious of still wearing sindur on the parting of her hair, and the shakha, paula and loha around her wrists.
Why was she still adorned in the symbols of marriage of Bengali women, when her marriage was in reality dead, Ma pondered? The shakha (shell bangle) mirrors the qualities of the moon, implying that a woman remains serene and calm; and the paula (coral bangle) is beneficial for health. The loha (iron) signifies that a relationship assumes the qualities of iron — to become tough and enduring, which hers had failed miserably to do. But then, she would continue to wear these visual signs of her extinct marriage till the death of her husband. So what if these symbols had proven ineffective in warding off the biggest threat to her marriage – another woman? Ma now looked closer at Baba’s second wife. She was wearing the identical symbols of marriage, except hers shone brighter from newness and perhaps from requited love, unlike hers.
Chapter 4 : At the very outbreak of the riots, Sudeep arranged for Kalpana and Swapnil to leave for Calcutta immediately. He would not take any chances with their security. I was able to convince him telephonically of my need to stay back, promising to leave right after my exams. He himself stayed back in a refugee camp, in wrapping up his business for a few more months. The evacuees from Vishnuganj who took shelter in two mills as reported by The Pakistan Observer were 24000, though the unofficial estimate of the evacuees was 150,000. As I learnt of this in the safety of my Muslim friend’s house, knowing that Sudeep was in that count, I fervently prayed for his safety and reunion with his family. I constantly fought my fear of being brutally murdered if detected to be a Hindu. It truly was the acid test of my ability to fight any threat life would pose thereafter…
C hapter 5 : My mother’s helplessness in the face of father’s treachery always came to mind in times of indecisiveness like this. It propelled me to stay on in Dacca, in spite of the arsonist mood I was enveloped in. Though I was to never literally take up arms, I was intrinsically combating with life itself. How then could external forces deter my battle to win a good life, to hoist the flag of my success in front of my father? Therefore education and resultant economic autonomy I chose over the security of life at the time, deciding to leave East Pakistan only on completion of my final examinations. My personal experiences of the riots still give me the shudders. Even now, I wake up from sleep after vivid dreams of the violence, breaking out in a cold sweat as if I were in the midst of it…
Chapter 6 : After the outbreak of the riots and attacks on a number of girl’s schools and hostels, it is difficult to pre-empt what may happen next, so all of us girls have vacated the hostel. However, of the twenty-two of us, only four of us who are Hindus, are in actual danger of our lives, if detected. As our truck rolls out into the neighbourhood, we can hear agonizing screams, as people are running crazily pushing one another, overturning wheelbarrows of fruits and vegetables, trampling over the crushed as well as fresh ones they might have just bargained hard for. There are small to large fires everywhere, with a putrid burning smell mixed with that of blood, sweat and fear. People are running arbitrarily — not sure in which direction. They are unsure of who is killing whom, not even aware if the man running alongside is a potential slayer, to escape the vandalism that has erupted on the streets.
There are lungi clad men on the trot, with lathis, daggers, spears and burning torches, against the fading light of the setting sun. All shutters of shops are either closed or are being frantically pulled down, as those late to react will be looted and ransacked, lucky if they can manage to save their lives. People are making a dash for shops or godowns still open, in a bid to hide, not sure if they should stop to pick up a wailing child separated from the mother in the frenzy. There are partially burnt hulks of cars, serrated holes in place of their windows and windshields, dotting the city like campfires in a National Scout Jamboree amidst pitched tents, silent witnesses to the mass destruction and massacre. Thick smoke is wafting about, heavy with the stench of burning flesh, tyres and charred cars, buses and rickshaws.
There are pools of blood on the pavement, where a man might have been beheaded with one flash of a machete. The body, its skin ashen in death, has perhaps been removed by relatives or shop assistants after the rioters have moved ahead. Ambulances and police jeeps are rushing past, their blaring alarms merging jarringly, the red lights blinking furiously. Hospitals are thronged with the dead and the wounded; their mortuaries being combed in search of loved ones, in earnest prayer that they are not found, giving hope a chance to linger. Photos of missing people have been taped on walls of markets and stores. By now, trips to newspaper offices clutching photos taken at weddings — whether the missing person’s own or attending that of loved ones, is forming queues…
Chapter 10: On completion of their schooling, I plan on my daughters attending college from home in Calcutta. So we can now live truly as a family, after the years of mere vacations together. But to my surprise, Dipanjana, now in her eleventh standard, shows a keen interest in going to college at Delhi University. She manages to impress upon an unwilling Sanjana, who has just completed her twelfth standard, to proceed to Delhi. Initially I try to dissuade them, disappointed they do not want to stay home with me and Nayan. But having wished for them to be independent, strong and decisive women, sending them to boarding school at such tender ages to achieve the same, I cannot complain now. Thus I relent, escorting them to Delhi myself; decidedly to admit Sanjana to the college I had worked in for long…
After dinner, all the first year students, referred to as Freshers, are made to assemble in the lawn in front of the dining-hall. The second and third year girls standing facing them, size up each of the new students. Then the Freshers are made to introduce themselves, thanking the seniors who interrupt each one making personal digs, addressing them as Ma’am…
By the time Dipanjana joins the following year, having obtained above the high grades required for admission, ragging is more absurd. She is at times sent with her classmates to the nearby Kamala Nagar market, to fetch a broom and bucket, dressed in the mismatched salwar-suits, with the three braids of oiled hair. They are not allowed on their feet anything other than bathroom slippers, that too only the Bata Hawaii chappals. Even when they step outside their college, they are to address every senior of Delhi University as Sir or Madam, wishing them the time of day. Once few girls including Dipanjana are sent out on the University streets with a bowl in hand, to beg at bus stops the way common beggars do. The ragging at the college for day-scholars lasts about a week, but at the hostel it continues for months. The Freshers abhor being ragged to begin with, but in time drop their resistance, and enjoy themselves. In fact they get smarter day by day…
The more rules were imposed, the smarter the girls got in breaking them, till detected.
I quote V.S Naipaul here, from his book “India: A Million Mutinies Now” which aptly describes my attempts to define Maya –
“She was still part of the story she had told me, over two or three meetings. She was full of the emotions of it, and unable to see in it the historical progression that I thought I saw.”
The newspaper reviews/media coverage of Across Borders is in the link below:
https://shuvashreeghosh.wordpress.com/2013/09/13/the-telegraph-reviews-my-book-across-borders/
June 4, 2024
The Subsong: World Environment Day
The Subsong: Time amidst Nature is a LuxuryI’m sitting amidst an array of potted plants,
ceramic shapes and hues inspiring my words,
a crow, then another swoon upon the railing -
eyeing me, longing for an empathetic thought.
I break up two biscuits I’m having with tea,
place it in an earthenware bowl - theirs long,
to await their descent on my offering of love,
So I may feel a union with my environment.
Semi-ripe mangoes are glistening in the sun,
on nature’s tree-basket lined by green leaves
in all hues as a palette awaiting a paint brush:
I’m sitting at my mind’s easel, senses alert.
Two crows have picked up biscuit crumbs,
hopping about to dip in water as we do in tea -
I get up to get their cup but they nibble dry
looking at me - as if they prefer my company.
It's late morning now, early June in Calcutta,
light rain last night has quelled nature’s thirst -
so I have the luxury of sitting outdoors late,
to spend time in nature with simple pleasures.
I hear the chattering of a multitude of birds -
pigeons on terraces, mynas, sparrows on trees
distinct as instruments in a royal symphony
conducted by firm hands - crows caw merrily.
#worldenvironmentday2024 #worldenvironmentday #nature #leisure #poetry #poetrylovers #poetrtislife #natureisluxury
The Subsong: World environment Day
The Subsong: Time in Nature is a LuxuryI’m sitting amidst an array of potted plants,
ceramic shapes and hues inspiring my words,
a crow, then another swoon upon the railing -
eyeing me, longing for an empathetic thought.
I break up two biscuits I’m having with tea,
place it in an earthenware bowl - theirs long,
to await their descent on my offering of love,
I may feel a union with my environment.
Semi-ripe mangoes are glistening in the sun,
on nature’s tree-basket lined by green leaves
in all hues as a palette awaiting a paint brush:
I’m sitting at my mind’s easel, senses alert.
Two crows have picked up biscuit crumbs,
hopping about to dip in water as we do in tea -
I get up to get their cup but they nibble dry
looking at me - as if they prefer my company.
It's late morning now, early June in Calcutta,
light rain last night has quelled nature’s thirst -
so I have the luxury of sitting outdoors late,
to spend time in nature with simple pleasures.
I hear the chattering of a multitude of birds -
pigeons atop terraces, sparrows on trees
distinct as instruments in a royal symphony
conducted by firm hands - crows caw merrily.
#worldenvironmentday2024 #worldenvironmentday #nature #leisure #poetry #poetrylovers #poetrtislife #natureisluxury
June 1, 2024
‘Entwined Lives’: My new novel.
The description below, including the photo is the working blurb/back cover of my upcoming novel titled Entwined Lives: 
I know, I know, you must’ve heard of a working title for a book, not a whole blurb. But I always have a blurb ready in advance, to guide my path. Especially th The book should be ready for release in August.
May 7, 2024
‘Dance of Kaal Baisakhi: Nor’wester’
This morning, after the May Norwester.‘Dance of Kaal Baisakhi’April is always our Norwester month,
the ‘Kaal Baisakhi’ invigorating Bengal —
preparing it for a harsh summer ahead
were hailstorms common in my childhood.
In slideshows now, I collect lumps of ice
that fell like large marbles on my verandah -
these I savored as ice candy saved in a bowl,
its taste in my memory acting as milestones.
It’s raining heavily this evening, in May,
a cool breeze carrying shower jets to my lips;
I’m savoring rain on my skin in semidarkness
interspersed by the sparks of wild lightning.
Through blurry light-shades washed in rain
I’m viewing my varied plants blush again -
after almost being crushed by harsh rays of Sun cowering over them lining my terrace.
The main gate below clinks open, I hear it
three storeys up, in senses awakened by rain:
a man in blue umbrella slithers out, I see him,
yet missing are Biscuit and Cookie our kittens.
Global warming, explains, a change of season
on earth’s stage - what of a plot of dubiosity:
Man in kitten’s guise is feigning innocence -
we aren't fools, are we, to fall for Hypocrisy!
#poetry #poetrylovers #norwester #kaalbaisakhi #bengalrains #rains #hypocrisy #may #summer
Mangoes, almost ripe…
More photos are here: https://www.facebook.com/share/2wEnjvRjPZMyGKHe/?mibextid=WC7FNe
Adding this, below, on 8th May…
On Rabindra Jayanti today, adding to my previous post and poem which incidentally mirrors the views quoted…sharing Bishwanath Ghosh’s pertinent article in today’s ‘The Hindu’…
[image error]It’s also in the link: https://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/kolkata/need-tagore-more-than-ever-say-bengals-voices-on-the-bards-birthday/article68149247.ece
RabindranathTagore #RabindraJayanti #RabindraJayanti2024 #thehindueditorial #thehindu #kolkatadiaries #DhritimanChatterjee
May 1, 2024
Happy May Day: ‘A Doctor’
Happy May Day!
Sending warm wishes to all workers around the globe. Your efforts contribute to building a brighter future for us all.
I’m sharing in the link below, a short story titled, ‘A Doctor,’ that’s set in Chennai, the city that imbibed in me the aspirations to become a poet and writer, and how — you will figure out from the aspirations I’ve tried to define in this story that’s in my book, ‘Existences’.
Here is the online version in the reputed literary magazine, Himal Southasian.
Please click the link to read…https://www.himalmag.com/a-doctor-sto...
PS: This photo, taken last year, is on the streets of Chennai, in Pondy Bazar, close to where I lived in T Nagar, for 13 years.
#MayDay2024 #internationallabourday #HimalSouthasian #shortstory #authorlife #chennai #chennaiblogger #workingwomen
April 21, 2024
An ‘Invisible Reunion’: Ma’s poem, translated on her 3rd death anniversary today.
Invisible Reunion
Where and when did we meet —
I don’t remember a thing.
Suddenly it feels — silently
you are standing behind me.
The day the courtyard was swathed
by the licks of a soft moonlight -
Abruptly at the dawn of my imagination,
I had written you a letter.
I did not encourage my mind -
rather I pushed it away far behind.
That is why today it is victorious,
In vain has been my reasoning.
When my heart is overwhelmed
by the rhythms of the ocean -
the repeated hurts breaking it down,
my worries caught in its net.
My reasoning and intelligence drown
in the fleeting temptation of my emotions.
A heartfelt spring breeze
presents an innocent annoyance.
I have not strung a garland of longing,
knowing there will be no meeting.
As I have only loved you -
that too I don’t know since when.
Perhaps it was at dusk - the night
that you and I met.
Or maybe on a lost day -
as we were not destined to meet.
You were on the banks of this river
under the shade of a cool forest.
Your world is eager with fragrance
flowing over the woods of Korobi trees.
Do you know that day -
where I had hidden myself?
Here in the background,
in a corner of my dormant mind.
Even today, I am not gone far -
leaving you alone.
In your heart, if you search
you will meet me there.
In your work worn path you’re tired -
Won’t you return home?
My memory awakens in your mind
even in a latent sorrowful song.
Maybe you will remember me -
My memories will be happy.
You will sit and think, dressing me
in the garland of your world.
Your pain will increase twofold
recalling that I am now very far
The Koel will hear - pour in your ears
the melody of my songs.
Try to find your mind’s
fairy-tale imaginative path.
If you trudge an independent path -
Who will emerge in your grudge?
The chariot will move forward,
you will open your gate and see.
(I don’t know), in your midst I’m here:
You will think — whose chariot is this?
—- Mahamaya Chowdhury/ translated from the original below in Bangla, by daughter Shuvashre Chowdhury
PS: sharing the starting lines of the novel that is inspired by my mother’s life, narrated in her first person point of view. https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLAfxCsc6bXZAAYX01pQkYktsWPYQgaI4m&si=oCnitJtHLI5epD_D
Yesterday was my 18th Wedding Anniversary and today is my mother’s 3rd Death Anniversary. So you might imagine how it felt, when on the day after my 15th anniversary she just left us in a moment with not a hint…in my arms.
Life is so erratic and unpredictable…it is in handling it that we realise how strong we really are!
At attempt to merge cultural traditions and a wedding anniversary this year — that Ma would surely approve of, is in the link below. The last two days I could not help recalling that she would have loved this place and cultural extravaganza: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/fSJiGfdXRV62YnVN/?mibextid=WC7FNe
This morning, a friend in Chennai sent me the photo of Ma and I on the top of the page, quite by chance, without knowing today was her death anniversary. This is just after I had spent half an hour in our puja room, upstairs, seeking the blessings of the divine Ma Durga and my mother and father. Then I had come down and garlanded my parents photos and asked my cook to prepare Ma’s favourite Khichuri, Begun bhaja, payesh etc for lunch.
So this photo, randomly sent to me, on this date, the 21st of April, I took as a sign that Ma and the universe was trying to communicate to me that she is and will always be with me!
The best tribute I could think of offering Ma, then, was to translate this meaningful poem on death and moving on, into English. It’s the last poem of the book. And it took me the most part of this day to do a reasonably decent job, as translation takes away a lot of the charm of an original work in my view.
I was aiming to post this before 1020pm this day, the time she passed away… I am pleased I managed it.
#poetry #poetrylovers #poetrycommunity #lifeanddeath #motherdaughter #deathanniversary #banglapoem #translatedpoem #weddinganniversary
