The Bearded Man In My Head..

I remember I wrote my first poem at the age of seven. It was ‘ Ek je chilo bador, Se kheto sudhu gajor (Once there was a monkey, who ate only carrots)’. My parents had a hearty laugh about it. My father, then  told me that Gurudev’s first poem was ‘Jol Pore, Pata Nore’ (It rains, the leaves tremble)’. Perhaps, the most powerful line I had heard till then. Time passed and I left my futile chase after poetry and concentrated more on football. Perhaps every Bengali has a sleeping Maradona or Pele inside him. But Gurudev remained with me. Inside my little head. He was everywhere. In the faded morning hours, the tiring afternoons and the restless evenings. In my love, longing and loathing. I remember my lazy mornings were mostly occupied by the resonating voice of Debabrata Biswas. Our old gramophone would be playing, my father sitting beside, his eyes closed. I must admit, that I couldn’t decipher the meaning of all those songs at that age, but the tune struck a chord. It hummed inside my soul, vibrating on its hollowness.

***
As days passed by, and I ripened, the man inside my head took a more firm grip. I listened to his unsaid words. His poems helped me sail through my sufferings. But all this remained a secret affair. Since I was neither educated at Shantiniketan, nor at Visva- Bharati, I always kept a low profile, when it came to Gurudev. I must admit my failure in keeping a long beard, unkempt hair, roaming in Nandan, attending theatre or applying for a course in the Art College. I open-heartedly admit my ineligibility in claiming the above creative grounds. My friends with their prized girlfriends from Shantiniketan also openly warned me. I was cautioned not to try experimenting with Gurudev’s works as it was a highly sensitive issue.

***
Some more days passed .I was struggling through mechanical engineering and our world famous ‘Bangla’ at times soothed my soul. On one such lovely crimson evening, while I was happily gulping my beloved liquor at Anup Da’s Thek (or Adda you can say) I met Gurudev again. I was sitting on the mud floor with a farmer, a rickshaw-puller and a local matador driver. The topics were taking interesting turns. I, being the most educated of the lot, was made to judge who was the richest among them. It was tough choice you see. And being inhibited already by few glasses, I was having a tough time to decide. It was all going on smoothly, till the farmer suddenly started crying. He gulped two quick pegs and stated that he had a son near about my age who was no more. Painfully, it all turned sombre. The old man kept on crying with the pain that he couldn’t save his son. And then the man inside my head appeared again. I,with the ‘Bangla’ reserve inside my belly, was amazed to hear the old man singing in his harsh voice. ‘Je raate mor duwar guli bhanglo jhore……’ And then the pain melted in those cheap glass containers. I closed my eyes and felt united with the old man’s song.

***
A few more years passed. I was in London working for an insurance company. It was perhaps raining that day. You know, the Queen’s land is always cloudy and rainy. That day, as I watched those raindrops sliding on our window, I remembered him again. ‘Pagla Hawa, Badol Dine…’ echoed inside my heart. Looking  through the window, I imagined my nephew’s paper- boat trembling and stirring in the monsoon. Somewhere deep inside, in the heart of my heart, an unsung pain kept craving for something. The moth-eaten meaninglessness tore me apart as suddenly the outside became discoloured with irrelevant marks, smudges and gaps. The man as I told you, was always there . Inside my now, grown up head.

***

Such was the pain that I tried to pour it down on a crumbled piece of paper. As the words started flowing, I felt relieved. And relaxed. I thanked him and continued. But then all went futile. A few days later, as I was flipping through the pages of  a Macmillan pocket Tagore edition of Gitanjali, I saw the same sense. The same feelings. Thousand times better than mine. I kept on writing a few more lines and then I surrendered. For I could find nothing new in my words. All had been previously said by that bearded man, in much better and splendid way. I hated him for it. For having known all my feelings. I hated him more,  for turning me into a puzzled half-creative human being and then mocking me again and again. It was perhaps in the month of May. When Hyde Park still waited to be lush green.Autumn was here. While I was still fighting with him and myself.

***

The decision to come back to Kolkata permanently was unsettling me. Then on one such gloomy night when the great Bay area happened to look not so great, I heard that man inside my heard again. I was then looking at the Golden Bridge and comparing it to our Howrah Bridge. My friends who were still in United States of America, termed my decision as ‘ Utter Foolishness.’ Those who were in Queen’s land said, ‘ Preposterous.’ And those who never had set foot abroad asked, ‘ So you want to do something here?’  They were surprised when I said, ‘I want to be back for myself…for my love, for my city.’

***

And again I heard the term ‘utter foolish’ in hushed voices. I must admit, I struggled initially. It was hard. My bank balance decreased exponentially. I pondered if my friends in both US and UK were right. I pondered more. And then, flushing out all such thoughts, I switched on the old gramophone. It’s alive still. It still brings back those old memories. I smiled. I was relieved. I walked along my favourite road in Kolkata. Beside the race course. I hummed Gurudev. The crimson evening was slowly getting dark. I looked up and saw birds returning home. I closed my eyes and said to the man inside my head, ‘ I simply love you for it.’So I am here and still  fighting in my beloved city. The City of Joy. Kolkata. Morning sweats, abnormal humidity, endless traffic, increasing pollution, ‘Manchi na…Manbo na’ marches. I am loving it. For even the polluted air is still pregnant with the magical words of that bearded man. It will be, forever. Amen!

***

Saptarshi Basu is a gold medallist in mechanical engineering and has worked in the IT industry for the last eight years. However, writing has always been his first love, his passion. His debut novel-Love (Logic) and the God’s Algorithm is now a national best seller in Infibeam, a premier online store. His second novel, Autumn In My Heart was published by Vitasta Publishing with Times Group in November’11. He maintains a blog http://saptak-firsttry.blogspot.in/ and writes screenplays for movies and columns for some online magazines.