Whispers To The Oblivion ...

Most people that I have met in life have found my name intriguing, enigmatic or colloquially what you call a 'jaw-breaker'. Therefore, much to my dissent, my name got conveniently shortened to 'Shreya' or 'Shrey'. It irked me majorly because 'Shreya' is also a different name within the Bengali culture. It felt like an imposition of a person or personality that I were not. Over a period of time overstimulation forced me to accept the fait accompli until, a friend started using the word 'Shree' to address me affectionately. Intuitively, effortlessly and organically I felt like my personality fell in perfect symphony with being called 'Shree', so much so that, subconsciously, I also had started to address myself as 'Shree' soon afterwards. Needless to say, the shift in cultural paradigm as I immigrated from India to USA was vast and diverse. Surprisingly however, it made me cling on desperately to the vestiges of my roots and identi

পর্ব ৩  শ্রীচরণেষু মা, শীত , বসন্ত, গ্রীস্ম পেরিয়ে তোমার পাঠানো জিনিস হাতে পাই কাল সন্ধ্যেবেলায়; সাথে এক খানা কাগজ।  ভাবলাম হয়তো চিঠি লিখেছো আমাকে, তারপর দেখলাম যে ওষুধ পাঠিয়েছিলে সেই ডাক্তার এর প্রেস্কিপশন মাত্র। অতঃপর মন খারাপ এই হোক বা তোমার আঙ্গুল যে চাল এর ঠোঙা ছুঁয়েছে, সেই ঠোঙা বহু হাজার মাইল অতিক্রম করে আমার কাছে এসে পৌঁছেছে, এই অনুভূতির কাছে অবদমিত হয়েই হোক, চোখে জল এল। এক-দুই ফোঁটায় তাকে থামানো গেলো না ।  সহস্র ধারায় বয়ে চললো সে।  বিকেল তখন পরে আসছে।  বাইরে সূর্য মধ্যগগন থেকে নেমে এসে উঁকি দিচ্ছে আমার পশ্চিম এর জানলা দিয়ে: তার অগাধ কৌতূহল আমার মা এর বিদেশ থেকে পাঠানো দ্রব্যাদির ওপর। সারাদিনের ক্লান্তি বুকে নিয়েও অনেক্ষন, প্রায় ঘন্টা দেড়েক তোমার পাঠানো পাঁচফোড়ন এর প্যাকেট , চালের ঠোঙা, চানাচুর, আমার ফেলে আশা জামা গুলো নাড়াচাড়া করলাম, বুকে জড়িয়ে ধরে কাঁদলাম।  এ কি মায়া , ঈশ্বর এ জানেন। এ কি যে একটা মানসিক দ্বন্ধ আমি আগে কখনো অনুভব করিনি। বিদেশের এক ঘরের বাড়িতে, শুধু ভালো পদোন্নতি আর টাকার জন্যে এই প্রতিনিয়ত নির্যাতন।  দুঃখ হলে কাউকে জড়িয়ে ধরার নেই, শরীর খা

The claws are all at me: sinister and ominous, luring me into the dark alleys of my head, where all my courage  and will power lay, stabbed brutally. Their carcasses prophetic  of an imminent catastrophe. And yet, I want to thrive in this hell. And yet, what demon in me thinks  I can defeat the horror? To burn in humane, but to rise again from the burnt is not. The body I carry with me tells me I am human. The soul within, agrees not.

Compliments  in the middle of the office corridor, In between the walk to the grocery shop, At lunch, during work  socials feel nothing short of a long lingering hug- affirmatory and validatory to the peaks of hope landsliding with each little missed deadline and each tiny failure. As apprehension grips me  day after day- Will I make it? Or will I eventually fail? It is surprising how the lack of belief in yourself can make so much space for how others feel about you - your appearance,  your cerebral capabilities,  your creative stint and almost everything under the sun. Compliments to some might simply mean  a few warm words; While to some others it means a whole story- The story that they could never write in their own words.  

Sometimes i wake up  in the middle of the night  on my side of the bed I turn around to find  the other side empty.  I come out of my room  into the hallway  and find it empty. If i were to walk out  to my front porch,  it would still be empty If, out on the road,  still empty I sit in the farthest corner  of an empty bus,  travelling through  empty highways  to a deserted library. They say that air rushes  to  occupy empty space Except everything  now feels like vaccum  My porch,  the highways  and my heart.

Human beings no matter where they go in the world, will always seek home:  in places, in people, in things, and in food. Perhaps because at the end of the day one wants to be vulnerable and yet are loved. We search for a setting where not the flesh, not the bones, but the very soul beneath it is adored and cradled like a newborn, squealing, and needy for love.  As long as I lived with my family, I never realized the worth of home, unless one day, I was out in the wide world, alone, apprehensive, and being indoctrinated by societal norms every single day. The only pockets of peace that I was left with was a 'chosen family': a farrago of strangers that I met, and before I could decide to love or hate them, I was entangled with them like wollen strands in the mesh of a new warm cardigan. I have lived with a plethora of strangers, loved them, held them close in my most vulnerable moments, and then cried bitterly when we parted. After a time, both parties agreed on their fate and mo