rant

sometines people pick up reputations for nothing
aflazur, the grey haired youth once slept with many
women. love, he says does not teach the difference
between the musky fragrance of different flesh. Inside,
his long nailed companion flicks gold dust off her filter
ipped fag. she thinks it prevents cancer. and else.


you know my love, I feel lost in these wounded roads
that lead to nowhere but the living dead. while you
walk, every stone round the corner comes off as a false
god hanging on to afailing strand of faith. everywhere,
stray thoughts of women asasult me like a childhood
dream my mother says that a woman can make me
go weak inThe knees. little does she know that I cherish
love hate exchanges with ten of her kind. i wish she would
know by now. i would happily eschew all pretensions of regret
i am sure.

somewere around the corner, my eyes twist
like her unkempt hair, on a chilly, rainy day in shillong

Poem published in Gloom Cupboard #115

Here's the link.

To read this poem on this blog, click this

Night

Empty sounds emanate from
Elongated lobes, like torsos of
Desireable women with plastic smiles
The wind is an unwelcome guest
At this odd hour, shattering any
Hope of ennui on a Sunday night

Candles flicker like half grown
Adults eager for love. Smells of
Fish fry aromas signal the fall
Of some unkempt bachelor’s
Bastion to womankind. Flies
Survey my banal diet with
The pure interest of capitalists

Meanwhile my old gardener
Romances the blossoms to the
Haunting orchestra of twilight

Street

There is no fragrance of flowers
People do not fashion some things
Anymore. Somewhere winter
Lazes around, like an idle snake
In hibernation, refusing to stir
Thunders taunt with no promise
Of rain. Everything is stoned

Crows head home like failed
Clerical missions. The sky is
Crimson with the dying day
Clandestine gazes exchange
Messages in twilight.Only
The street bears silent testimony
To a stray catfight.

Somewhere a lovelorn loafer
Seduces passing women
With a sly smile.

A Poem Comes Of Age

We cannot walk together anymore
Man and woman. These days it
Is not safe to say things in the open
There are revolutionaries out there
And Patriots . Sons of the soil
Who may not like us, taunt us
Earlier no one cared who loved
And lost. Which king advanced;
Or the fallacies of nubile age.

Instead we can communicate
In this indifferent clatter.
I can very well understand
The language of these lazy
Womanly aromas invading my
Nostrils. Another bomb blast
And we shall very soon pretend
To like this banal silence

Meanwhile, while each day recedes
Into a drunken lullaby, I understand
The wisdom of love. Just another
Futile, distant possibility in twilight

Winter

I never understood these mute chasms
Which separate us in this hopeless exile
These shadows cast by the fire in our hearts
Many long winters have passed and
Yet I brandish this forgotten childhood
Like a talisman to ward off evil

My mother is concerned with rice and gold
She wants me to go to the fields and reap
Hope in this wintry haze. But beloved, only
You and I know the pains of this indifferent
Existence, living like strangers
In this misty rain

Meanwhile, Winter comes like a
Shy widow, unveiling its lust in
The smoke of an early morning fag.

My mother makes tea for me

Voyage

I love the smell of smoke in the mornings
The stony stupor of this vagabond mind
Sometimes in these macabre afternoons
I embark upon a lowly odyssey in some
Scarecrow alley, haunted by some failed god
Armed with this futile obsession to unearth
The ancient pain of this widowed night

I love to watch these hills in winter
Clothe themselves in ragged shawls
Of white. Like old women, these hills
Know things more important than
The fear of hunger or war, or love.

And as these lines die into the sounds
Of this breathless ramble, beloved
Let this evening wind confine you in
The lifeless thirst of our hearts.

Winter

These days are long and dusty
Do not blame me if I turn to stone
Like a false god. I have seen many a
Sullen afternoon die a slow death
Baring themselves to the hungry night
Like unwilling women selling love

This day, beloved, will it be any different?
Today, like other days, you shall not rouse
As this indifferent commotion recedes
Into the lull of this sunlit funeral
Today, I shall roam these streets again, this
Ancient burden of being a man, weighing
On me, like an insipid, forgotten sin

And we shall remain mere tombstones
In these dusty graves. Will this winter
Promise another bout of hazy memory?
Only these lifeless lines shall banish us
To the hope of this brutal love, and us...
Strangers in this tepid, misty rain

Pain

You do not cringe when you are young
It is a crime for men to be afraid of
Death; or things more dreadful
Like the barrenness of manhood
Before the skies became too alien to bare
Myself to its prying eyes, I never understood
The pain of being a man

Since then I want to be young, again and again
Sometimes in these desrted lands, the clouds
Come tumbling down to caress my breath. Seven
Summers have passed and still I dread
The solemn oaths of these dusty evenings

And today, when I have loved and lost
These effigies of the past still beckon me
Like a whore with whom I had shared
A wintry night in Shillong.

Poem

These times do not attract me anymore
Like old women, like faded shoeboxes
These days do not deserve love. Sometimes
In the wintry pilgrimages in this ghost town
The nefarious breeze resurrects itself from
The whirlwind of these lazy Sunday afternoons

Time and again, I have seen this town
In these faded plaques of memory. In those days
You could play with fire and dust. Now people
They do not speak of the monsoons anymore
Or throw caution to the wind. As ma says
These times are bad. You evade their company
Like the gazes of whores

Instead we talk about things which don’t matter
The insignificant ramblings of life and death; Or
The eternal promise of a poem at the oddest hour
With which I’m smitten.

Promise

Beloved, this dying day is no different
Like muted gongs, this child of the stony night
Promises no sound of rain. How many more lives
Do we offer on this hungry altar that knows no prayer?
How many deaths do we die like withered spirits?
Only this road, this fiery eyed beast shall know

Beloved, let this dusty wind break at your feet
This wind deserves no mercy. Beloved, we are tied
To these white sands that offer no warmth, this nightbird
That sings no song to the children of this cruel night. Beloved
Only the promise of this failing dawn shall keep us alive.

Beloved, this night is a bereaved widow
With wounds that refuse to heal. How many more births
Do we live like barren souls? How many scalding nights
Shall pass like this howling wind? Which gates shall guard us
Against the cruel insurrection of this frigid adversary?

Only the quivering flames of my ancestors’ pyres
Shall promise us another barren answer

Tawang

Tawang, this snow like forgotten widowhood
Speaks very little. You do not expect warmth there.
Only the shivering remains of our unholy sins
Only the tepid prayers of these doubtful monks
Can rid you of your manly fears. In Tawang.

There, you want to be young again.
And my mother spoke in silent whispers
Making lukewarm gestures to the Buddha
Tawang, only the staring rocks, the screeching wind
Can remind you of your sublime male fears.

Tawang. There, you do not question the law of the land
You do not engage in idle talk of life and death.
In Tawang, only fear will show you the angry sun
And only the silent waters of this promised land
The white mirage of this cruel earth
Draw you to this forgotten pilgrimage. In tawang.

Published in The Sentinel 'Melange', the 20th October, '09

BOUNDLESS DETERMINATION!

-Anurag Rudra

It’s not everyday that you come across a figure who excels in various facets of interests and passions, a person who pursues his calling with sheer tenacity and will and ultimately comes out triumphant. Polishing one’s skills and inculcating the desire, the passion to pursue one’s calling in life requires courage, an iron will and above all, boundless determination. The process is somewhat like a metamorphosis, like gold which glimmers brilliantly after it burns in acid. The Northeast has produced many such exponents who have attained the heights of success and acclaim in their respective fields, who have made us proud in the international arena, people who have led by example and the sheer power of their achievements. Talking of international acclaim and accolades, there are very few people who have taken the Northeast to the international arena onto such prestigious platforms as Utpal Borpujari, the award-winning journalist and film critic who has earned international acclaim and fame and whose exceptional calibre and talents have showcased brand Northeast on a pan-Indian and on an international scale. His achievements and the laurels which he has earned from all over the globe speak volumes of his professional excellence and critical acclaim which Borpujari has earned in the course of his illustrious, and still going strong, career.
A journalist-film critic based in New Delhi, Utpal Borpujari’s span of writing and interests encompasses a staggering gamut of issues, addressing prolifically diverse and interesting arenas as cinema, culture, literature, Northeast India, politics, science... the list simply goes on. When drilled on the vast expanse of the areas of his expertise and interest, Borpujari replies with great humility, modesty and frankness: “Of course, as a professional journalist, one should be prepared to write on anything if required. Though my interest lie primarily on cinema, I try to write about anything related to Northeast India – be it politics, art, culture, literature, environment, people, anything, and that is my heart’s calling. I follow diverse fields closely – arts, literature, culture, cinema, politics, sports – which I think allows me to write on them with some sense. But I am just one more journalist, nothing more than that.” This comes from a seasoned veteran who carved a niche for himself, being the first from the entire Northeast to win the Swarna Kamal (Golden Lotus) Award for the Best Film Critic at the 50th National Film Awards of India, 2003.
Borpujari, currently based in Delhi for professional involvements, hails from the city he loves most, the city where he grew up, where he nurtured his dreams - Guwahati. However, he is strongly attached to his roots, he loves Assam and cherishes his memories in his hometown where he first started spreading his wings. Little did he know then that he would one day fly high in his cherished sky of passion and success. “Despite working in Delhi since 1995, I have been constantly writing on various aspects and subjects related to NE India consistently. Working with The Sentinel at the very start of my career, under the editorship of Dhirendranath Bezboruah, was a boon, especially when I look back at it. The place gave ample opportunities to write on any and every subject if you had the interest, and what I learnt from Bezboruah sir has been helping me even now. When I joined PTI in Delhi, if I was able to be one of the trusted hands, it was thanks to the grounding at The Sentinel.”
Indeed, Utpal Borpujari has come a long way from his days at The Sentinel in Guwahati, where he found his voice, his calling, where he was groomed into the prospective journalist par excellence that he is today, to his present engagement as the Special Correspondent of The Deccan Herald bureau in New Delhi. In the course of his enigmatic and admirable journey, he has had his path strewn with laurels and accolades from various quarters, earning the stature of a brilliant film critic and writer and above all, a person who has constantly conquered his own self to reach the scale the heights of success. However, it would be worthwhile to note that for Borpujari, the victory lap has but just begun. Speaking about his childhood and his formative years, he dwells nostalgically on those magical days: “I belong to a normal middle class household, with my father Prabhat Chandra Borpujari in the judiciary and mother Dolly Borpujari an official with the Law Department of the State Department. My younger and only brother Nilotpal has been a national level junior TT player who represented Assam in national championships from sub junior to senior levels. Even as a child, we used to watch lot of films, as my parents would take us to watch films while we were very small, in Silchar, and then in Guwahati. Of course, later, I used to watch lot of films without telling at home, bunking classes in college. Reading books was my passion, which probably drew me to writing, though not creative writing. My maternal grandfather, the late Suresh Chandra Goswami, incidentally, was a renowned novelist, a Xatriya dance exponent and the director of the ninth Assamese film Runumi (released in 1952), and I was always fascinated by his achievements. My first exposure to cinema as a very interesting visual art form came through Doordarshan’s Sunday daytime telecast of award-winning films in various Indian languages and also festivals of Indian and international films organized by Assam Cine Art Society (ACAS). Being a neighbour of director Sanjeev Hazarika, and introduction through him to people like Nayan Prasad and Chandan Sarma, apart from knowing senior journalists like Samudra Gupta Kashyap, who was a family acquaintance, also helped develop my interest in cinema, theatre and writing about them.”
A resounding embodiment of academic excellence, Borpujari decided to don the garb of a journalist after pursuing an M.Tech in Applied Geology from University of Roorkee (now IIT-Roorkee). And commenting on this unusual shift in his career track, Borpujari remarks: I think that was destined. I was always interested in cinema, and the M. Tech in Applied Geology from IIT-Roorkee probably happened because I did not have guidance to take up a journalism or mass communication course, which were not so easily available in the late 1980s or early 1990s). Of course, as a subject, I love geology, and I have also written quite a few pieces on geology-related aspects. By the time I was completing the second year of my M.Tech course, I had in mind decided to become a journalist, as my experience of writing for The North-East Sun while doing my B.Sc in Guwahati and then writing articles in various newspapers (Sunday Observer, Hindustan Times, Indian Express, Prantik, Assam Tribune, North-East Times, etc.) while in Roorkee whetted my appetite”
Borpujari’s name has become synonymous with authority and expertise in the realm of film criticism and in the print media. Many prestigious awards and privileges have been conferred on him for his contributions to the realm of cinematic criticism and writing. A member of the International Federation of Film Critics (FIPRESCI), he has served on several prestigious film juries including the Jury for Best Writing on Cinema, 51st National Film Awards of India, 2004, FIPRESCI Jury at the MAMI International Film Festival, Mumbai, 2006, Critics Jury of the Indian Competition section at the 10th Mumbai International Festival of Short, Animnation and Documentary Films (MIFF), 2008, NETPAC (Network for Promotion of Asian Cinema) Jury at the 11th Osian’s Cinefan Festival of Asian & Arab Cinema, New Delhi, 2009 etc. As a critic and journalist, he has covered Cannes film festival, Nantes, IFFI, MAMI, 3rd Eye, MIFF and Osian’s Cinefan film festivals over the years. And that’s not all. To add yet one more feather to his cap, he has edited the official catalogue of the International Film Festival of India (IFFI) in 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007 & 2008. He has also been a member of the preview committee to select international films at the 39 IFFI (2008) and 40th IFFI (2009). In keeping with his professional pursuits, he is associated with Film Trust India, New Delhi; Assam Cine Art Society, Guwahati; and Cine Art Society, Asom (CineASA), Guwahati). He has contributed cinema-related essays to various publications, and served as an honorary consultant to the 1st Ahmedabad International Film Festival (2009). However for this prolific critic, he has but started on his long, long road.
Shifting focus from his professional achievements to the complex host of issues haunting the State, especially the socio cultural aspect, I try to extract the seasoned journalist’s response on the burning issues of the day. Speaking about the deplorable plight of the Axomiya film industry, Borpujari pours forth his concern and opinions regarding the pathetic plight of the film industry in the state which once upon a time produced such masterpieces as Dr Bezbaruah, Moniram Dewan and Chameli Memsaheb to name a few. Borpujari also draws attention to the surprising fact that while Assam, in tandem with other States, has a rule that every hall has to run local films at least 100 days per year, filmmakers are refused screening space by halls, without drawing any action from the government. That too when with the few number of movies made, the halls rarely get local films to screen, let alone screen them for 100 days! Indeed the deplorable plight of the Assamese film industry deserves more attention if it is to be rescued from the deluge of maladies paralysing the industry. Coming back to the topic, it would be worthwhile to note that as the trend of parallel or artistic cinema catches up in other parts of the country, thereby offering ample scope to the new breed of conscious film-makers to address the concerns and questions taxing the minds of our age, the concept hasn’t exactly caught up in this part of the country. Utpal Borpujari believes that the audience in Assam needs to respond to the concept of such films in a positive manner, thereby offering sufficient stimulus and creative encouragement to the budding film makers to showcase their talent. “Filmmaking, like any creative, art form, has all kinds of products, if we can call them that. ‘Intellectual’ films, as you call them, are basically films that are also called ‘parallel’ or ‘art’ cinema in various parlances. Just selecting a serious subject would not result in a good ‘intellectual’ film, because the creator of that film too needs to have the ‘intellectual’ capacity to deal with such subjects with the required sensitivity”
Addressing the concerns and burning questions of his native land has always been a matter of responsibility and priority with this talented critic-journalist, and he has explored various avenues to put forth his opinions on whatever has concerned him. Significantly, he had also co-authored the book Secret Killings of Assam with journalists Mrinal Talukdar and Kaushik Deka on the spate of the infamous secret killings in the State. The book is primarily an exposition of his opinions and research into what he terms as ‘the dark chapter of Assam’s recent history’. Encouraged by the response of his first stint as an author, Borpujari is in the process of a pioneering initiative to bring out a coffee table book on Assam, the first-ever coffee table book on the State along with Mrinal Talukdar and nine others. Indeed, it is worthwhile to mention that such innovative initiatives will go a long way in promoting brand Axom on a pan-India scale. Talking of Axom , one is bound to give due cognizance to the unfortunate fact that the State has witnessed a spate of conflict and strife unlike any other State in India, and it is in this context that Borpujari dwells with concern on the host of problems which have created a hostile situation here: “We have to learn our lessons from our recent history, and learn to be hard working, honest, and confident to take on the world if we have to be at par with the rest of the country or the world. It is really sad that whenever there is a study on the States’ performance in sectors like education, health care, agriculture, Assam is near the top from the bottom! And we have to overcome the fascination for easy money, bestowed upon us thanks to reasons we all know”.
Shifting focus to the different shades and the lighter side of this talented critic, much has been said and written about his professional and intellectual interests, but how prolific is the critic when he dons the garb of the loving family man, the indulgent father. For one who has many cards up his sleeve, Borpujari never fails to impress: “Well, there is nothing to talk about – I am a journalist who goes to office every day! I stay in Delhi with my wife Bornali, who works with a private company, and our two little devils Arunabh (8) and Anurag (1+).
Indeed, some people, their achievements and above all their attitude and perspective leaves an indelible impression on our minds, and it is without a grain of doubt when I say that Utpal Borpujari is truly an icon. For whatever he represents, his dedication and success has taken him to new levels of endeavour and achievement. As stated earlier, it is not everyday that you come across a person who constantly re-invents himself, his commitment and his passion. Needless to say, we can be sure of the wonderful reassurance that Utpal Borpujari, critc-journalist-writer extraordinaire will continue to rediscover himself and make his people, us , everyone proud through his commendable achievements. As Robert Frost aptly said: “And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep”, Utpal Borpujari too has a long, glittering and remarkably beautiful ahead of him, a road that ultimately leads to the innermost sensibilities of his place, of his native land and his people.
Feedback: anuragrudra@yahoo.com

Spirit

Beloved, these mountains are my brothers
They are the sins which confine my breath
These mountains do not know mercy
Unless you satiate them with virgin water
Drawn from the frail bosom of my widowed earth

Beloved, yesterday we went up to the hills
There my grandfather’s spirit rode on fire
Drawing angry glances from the hungry rocks
There you can buy happiness from the crying stones
With the offering of rain and the earth

Beloved how many pilgrimages do we live?
How many births do we take
In the span of our unholy love?
Only the mossy remains of our fiery lust
Hold the barren answer

Letter

Hill, today I question
The sins of your blemished birth
The unholy union of tepid rain
With the hungry, crying dust
Today I question the echoing water
Which made me fall in love
With the soil of my promised earth

Hill,I am a mirage
My roots are like false promises
Which women use like charms
I am the child of this craving earth
The love of this blossoming flower
Hill, I’m the childhood
Which manikda deserted
After he became a widowmaker

Hill today I question
The barren wombs of our forests
Which once bred echoing dreams
The sweet breath of the golden water
Hill, Today I question
The robust bosom of my beloved
Which blossomed like a shy virgin
Now wilted like our widowed earth

Ahem!

Dear All, I'm delighted to announce that I've been published by Creative Saplings, a leading literary forum. Here's the link to the poem.

Thanks to Dr. Shaleen Kumar Singh for giving me this wonderful oppurtunity.

This is what the noted poet of Indian English Poetry, Ananya S Guha, had to say about this poem, and my poetry:

"Trauma'' by Anurag Rudra is a deeply sensitive poem, embedded in a silent pathos, but not without hope. Anurag is a poet of fortitude, and his similes are like the famed metaphysical conceits."

I think I'll drop down dead! :)

Revenge

Beloved, only you and I know
The secrets of this strife-torn soil
The desires of this famished earth
Only you and I know the tales
Which spring up from the aching bosom
Of this whispering mountain

Beloved, all these are ours
These hills and mountains, rocks
Those tepid clouds floating above
Like fallen virtue stolen
From outside the door of a whore

Beloved, only we unravel the sins
Of this wounded street
Only we traverse nine lives in one journey
Let us conjure flames beloved
Flames on these tombstones
Tombstones, which once throbbed with life
Now turned into lifeless dust

Hunger

Beloved the time has come.
Tonight we shall draw fire
From hungry stones
Tonight we make the streets
Bleed with the secret understanding
Of rain and the earth

Beloved, it is the season
When rain ceases to pacify
The growing anger
In stooping trees; and
Women will bear children
Like dead white termites
Beloved, let us befriend today
The chill of the lonely night
Creeping on deserted hearths

Beloved, your eyes
They speak a thousand words
Like ancient magic parrots
Use your blue eyes beloved
Seduce the sleeping gods
Satiate them lest they unleash
Their hungry breath
Upon people with limp skin

Beloved, let us walk today
To the destined streets
And witness the game
Of fire drawing breath
From the silent earth

Challenges of Art: Anurag Rudra

It’s that time of the year again, the time when people rush to make purchases, shopping as much as their purse strings can be stretched, making last minute additions to their wardrobe, and when the time finally comes, it’s time for them to show off their regalia, to revel in the spirit of pujo. For many generations, Durga Puja has necessarily been an occasion to bask in the festive light, to enjoy the humdrum of the Pujas spread all over town, to enjoy the sumptuous prasad of the Puja and go pandal-hopping. True, this holds true even till this day. The magnitude and number of Puja committees and their festivities have definitely increased by leaps and bounds, mainly due to large scale mass participation and contribution, and somewhat to the advent of sponsors financing a large chunk of the Puja festivities. However, it would be worthwhile to take into consideration the pathetic plight of those craftsmen, those unsung heores, who give us a reason to celebrate Puja every year, dexterously shaping up the goddess from mud, and lending shape and form to the goddess whose advent is celebrated so ecstatically. The idol-makers, the unsung heroes of the Puja paraphernalia, constitute a vital part of the ‘Puja’ experience, no less than the actual rituals and worship that is offered to the goddess. It is their skilled hands, which so deftly transform a lump of clay into an almost living breathing incarnation of the goddess, so lively and dazzling in its sublime beauty that as a child, I was often led to wonder whether the goddess was really manifest in her four-day incarnation.In Guwahati, there has been a phenomenal growth in both the splendour and size of the Puja, and for the better. However has it brought about a brighter day for the real heroes of the Puja? Well, unfortunately, it remains a hard pill to swallow that even after such massive expansion of the Puja phenomenon, the idol-makers are still confined to their pathetic plight, living in extreme penury and obscurity. Owing to a sharp increase in the prices of raw materials, accompanied by inflation, they have been pushed further into troubled waters. Guwahati’s repertoire of the idol-makers is concentrated mainly in College Hostel Road, Panbazar (Opposite KKH College), Pandu and Lachit Nagar. These idol-making enterprises or ‘shilpalayas’, as they are called, are a family affair of sorts, the fine art being handled down to the younger generations. The root of most of these families, now in their third or fourth generation in Guwahati, can be traced to West Bengal, mainly Cooch Behar. However, even native Asomiya craftsmen have taken up this trade, bringing in their own unique touch to this dying art. However, their plight still remains miserable, and with no assistance being offered to them, this art is in grave danger of losing many skilled workers, many craftsmen whose magical hands lend the Goddess Durga her earthly incarnation during her brief sojourn amongst us.“Our condition is really pathetic, times are really miserable. We do not have proper facilities, and we are on the verge of collapsing.” This was what Chittaranjan Paul, proprietor of Lakshmi Shilpalay of Panbazar had to say when I went to learn more about their art. “We do not enjoy any facilities or help from either the government or from any organization. In addition to that, what hurts us most is that our art form has not been accorded the status of an ‘art’ in the true sense of the term. We do not do this only for money, it’s our legacy, our heritage and we try our level best to keep alive this art. People should come forward and recognise our labour, give us a pat on the back too. I am sure this is not too much to ask. In West Bengal, our counterparts are comparatively well off. The government is providing them with better facilities and financial assistance, and their skills have also been recognised. Asom needs to do the same for us.” Similar was the response of Ratan Kr. Paul, proprietor of New Rupasree Silpalay of Pandu. “See, our vocation is seasonal. That means that although we are overloaded with work before the puja season, for the rest of the year we have to rely on whatever meagre income comes our way to sustain our livelihood. In addition to this, the price of raw materials has shot up considerably, and inflation has further fanned the fire of problems for us. The result is that our children are no longer too interested to inherit this art from us. This is very unfortunate.”Indeed. The younger generation of these families will opt to go for a real ‘profession’. And why not? Though many of the younger generation are still actively getting involved in the trade, learning the subtle nuances and tricks of their art, many are venturing out into hitherto untreaded avenues. With education reaching the doorsteps of every family in this day, the younger generation has nurtured hope to do something ‘better’ than live in penury and obscurity like their fathers and grandfathers. ‘Many of the children, owing to the education they receive, have actually started looking down on the craft, forsaking it for a professional career… they’re not to be blamed, what life can they expect from an art that is slowly dying out’, this was the collective outpouring of the craftsmen with whom I interacted in the course of researching for this article. Indeed, I was astonished to see the plethora of problems they are facing. The art has been pushed into the brink of uncertainty and obscurity, and even more horrifying is the fact that the new generation has not exactly responded to their inheritance with the same enthusiasm and vision, courtesy the sorry state of affairs prevailing in their trade and society.But wait, all hope is not lost. Not at all. While interviewing the artistes, and peeping into their hearts, their workshops, I came across a young lad in his nineteens or twenties, maybe a year older than me. And what followed was a revelation to me, striking a familiar chord in my heart. Popping up the subject before him, I asked him whether he too planned to eschew his inheritance for a more ‘respectable’ career, I was astounded to hear what he said, smiling: “No! No! I know the times are bad, that we are in trouble, that our art is slowly dying out...true. But which art has always treaded a smooth path? What is life without challenges? I won’t give up my inheritance, this legacy for anything. My cousins have diverted from this route, they were too weak to shoulder the responsibility of carrying this legacy forward. I’m not. Help or no help, I will take up this art, and help spread it to the best of my ability. If Durga wishes, we’ll see the light of the day again.....we will!”As they say, hope is what sustains the world. And it is hope which has to augment a new day for these unsung heroes, helping them, their children to see the light of a better day, to continue preserving and propagating our heritage and culture. It’s not impossible, surely not. What we need to do, as individuals, as a society is to spare a thought and salute their skills, surely we’ll succeed in working wonders. After all, it’s only the audacity of hope that can achieve the impossible...surely so.

(Published in The Sentinel 'melange' Puja Special Issue, on the 20th of September, 2009)

My first bengali poem

আহত শিশির

আজ তুম আসবে বলে-
নিল আকাশ নিস্তব্ধ
সেই নিল পাহার চিরে
ছূটচে না প্রান খোলা হাশি
তুম আসবে বলে
আজ মদু আলো ভিজিযে দিযেছে
আমার মনের খোলা বইটী
তুম আসবে বলেই তো
আজ মেঘ শান্ত

তুমি আসবে তো ?
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