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><sub>*রাস্তাটা যেখানে বৃক্ষশাখার মত দুভাগ হয়েছে
সেইখানে বসে ছায়া তেলে ভাজা বেচে
গরম কড়ার তেলে-বিকেলে-সন্ধায়
যৌবনের কথাগুলো ধুমায়িত হয়*</sub>

As every stroke of the pitcher on the violin deepens my sadness, slowly I start losing my grasp on the ability to fend of sorrow and despair from taking over! Is the end near? Does this universe cease to exist when visible light stops making images behind my retina? Or do I only cease to exist? I ponder at such thoughts but find no solution, like that shipwrecked man who made a volleyball his companion to find some modicum of humanity in his solitude, only to lose a part of his sanity!

I was better off before, in those times when I never cared about Bach's oratorios. Simple life, simple thoughts and evening after evening spent away gossiping about simple things! And now, I am spirited away, chasing after my soul, and no matter how many cats I murder, the flute that opens the doorway to other realities keeps deceiving me! A mirage is it! Or fool's errand destined to end in folly! I don't know anymore.

><sub>*...ঢের বেশি তাপ আছে স্বামীর আদরে,
ঢের জ্বালা খালি পেটে...সোহাগ লাথিতে..
রাতে কথা বলতে নেই..ও নিঃশব্দে কাঁদে,
যদি বাচ্চাটা জেগে যায়!*</sub>

><sub>*অনেকটা ঈশ্বরের মত মাঘের সন্ধ্যায়
গায়ের কাপড়টা গলায় মাথায়
খুব জড়িয়ে ছায়া কাট হতে চায়...*</sub>

Illustrious thoughts nourishing ones' philosophy they might be, but nowadays, words like a virtuoso and firm morale seem nothing but trivial hollow expressions. Once, it wasn't like this. Or, it might be then, I was a cynic in denial. Like that woman who loved her man with all of her heart. Even though he came home drunk at night and relieved himself from stress by beating her and making mindless love at the same time! With her belief in love, hope and humanity, she kept holding on to him. Until one day, a misplaced kick to her belly took the life of her unborn child! While she tightened the noose around her neck and the man lay on the floor with his throat sliced through, she found the meaning of reality! Was she too a cynic in denial? Or that singular act of repulsion turned her into one?

><sub>*খদ্দের না থাকলে, মাঝে মাঝে মেয়ে
স্থির চোখে রাস্তার আলো গুলো দেখে,
আলোর শরীর ঘিরে আবছা মায়ায়
জীবনের কথাগুলো কুয়াশা হয়*</sub>


I once had a dream where I was in a *Wheatfield with Crows* along with Mr Van Gogh. Standing at the pitchfork crossroads, while my sense of direction was utterly lost, I saw him! Like the devil at crossroads, while he strokes his paintbrush in the air! As if he was god painting the universe a canvas at a time! The road on the left muddy, and while hovering over it, thunderclouds play with lightning. The road on the right, all dry and while god rays shine over, crows and vultures fly in circles. I walked up to him and asked, among those two roads in front, which one should I choose? After a short menial pause, he pointed his paintbrush towards me.

Only after ages, I realized, he did not point at me but actually had showed the right direction: to go back the way I came! To the place which I should have never left! And now, as the turntable in front of me sings *Erbarme Dich, Mein Gott* and grieves, I can see crows flying over that wheatfield, only this time, no one is there to show the right way!

><sub>*সামনের রাস্তাটা, জ্ঞানবৃক্ষের দুটি শাখার মত
দুই ভাগে প্রসারিত হয়...
সাবধানে,
ছায়াকে দেখেও দেখে না*</sub>

>***-ছায়ার কথা!
সন্দীপন চন্দ***

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Photo by @azircon dada:)