For him it wasn’t just managing 1…it was managing an entire nation… what drove him was playing for India as he always said, what drove us was the madness to watch him in action on the crease…

You have allowed all to write plenty of wonderful scripts for all these years… some of which can be called masterpieces… u gave us the reason to hope, to unite as one, to celebrate, to cry in joy, to dance to the tune of your strokes, to love cricket..

You turned every stones to milestones…. And with every milestone you have put an end to all debates over who is worlds best… those who thought that you have played all these years to score personal records were only left giving standing ovation after each of your performances… The streets would lay deserted, all work stopped when you would be on crease…

He is a national treasure… he is everything to India…

This was the 24 years of fairytale that we all lived!!! #ThankYouSachin for the Sachin Era!!!



“Ek hai samandar, ek chand, ek sooraj, ek hai Himalaya, ek hai gagan, ek hai Bharat, ek Bharat ka Sachin”.


Kichhu muhurte oshaar hoye jete ichhe kore!

Kichhu muhurte oshaar hoye jete ichhe kore!

kono ekta konkone Seet’er raat,Ghum-hin aloshye lep’er tolaay bhir kore aasha muhurto ra..ba shoisobe Maa’er ancholer gondho…Holud Deoaal’er School Ghor…Sei prothom sporsho… ki bhishon bhalolaga, paaglamo, prem, kanna!!! shob muhurto gulo oshar kore ane…ekhono…

ei nihshongo Songsaar e tanaporener majhe kokhono fik kore ek muhurter mone pore jawa…sher gondho..shei sporsho…aluthaalu bhabe heshe uthi…Prothom sei Chithi…Boi er faank theke beriye elo kotto din por…dhulo makha boi..sobar choker arale sorano chhilo…samosto Protisruti..somosto hashi-kanna beshe othe abar!!!theme jaaye ei muhurto ta kichukhon er jonne…

smriti te Bhir kore aashe Para r shei pujo…aalo onek onek alo…laal neel sobuj sobuj !!! ujjyol kono mukh dekhe ektu hashi arr chapa bhalo laga…pujo te suru, pujotei shesh…tarpor toh arr mukh ta mone kora gelo naa..pushpanjoli r somoy khub kache chole asha…Agun sparsho ek muhurter!!!
ki bhabe kobe jeno yahoo chat e alaap…tarpor fone e onek onek kotha…erom bhabei hoitoh cholto jibon…ekdin hathat e dekha korar paglamo…ekraash daabi r sristi…shudhui tomar kache…muhurter jonne ga bheshe jaay bhalobhashar chorom muhurte…Achomka chholchhol e chokher konay abishkaar: eitto amaar ektukro prithibi! Amaar, Amaaar, Amaar!!!amar motton kore gora…amar prithibi…

Somoy kono map kathi bojhe na! Taar chhimchham haariye jaaoa! kono paharer kuwashar motto bheshe berano…chhorano chhetano Muhurto gulo joro kore ni…benche thakar jonne etai jothesto…ja chhulei oshar hoye jaaye…muhurtora….seo to Amaar….Amaar..Amaar…!!!

Hotaath jwole othe onek na bola daabi…aaj toh haranor kichhui nei arr…bhalobasha ta tobu benche achhe…amar sei fele asha muhurto gulo…shudhui amaar!!! sparsho-hin daabira aajo bhison bhaabe jibito!!!

Achomka kanpa hathe Telephone tar number khuje bar kora…ache tobe ekhono…Ghum joraano sei golaa, aajo ek e rokom!

– Hello…
-Aami(amar gola kanpchhe)
-kemon accho?
– bhalo, tumi?
– Bhalo, ta ei ashomoye hathat?
– Birokto?
– ki mone hoy?
– Bhishon seet porechhe, arr tar saathe bristi, tai..
– Tomar Chakri kemon cholchhe?
– Tomar Songsar kirokom guchole? chele meye kon school e jaaye?? kon class??
– bhalo..tomar??
– mone pore shei bristi r din e princep ghat er kotha?
– tumi ki ekhono onek raat obdi jege thako?

oshar hoye ashe hath…Proshno…Proshno…Proshno…Obantor proshner jhor!

Muhurtora chupchaap bneche, sudhu Somoy ek tukro sabdoer odhikaar kere niye chole gyachhe : “Bhalobaashi”

Unknown Kolkata We Know

Kolkata is like a piece of shit on the face of this earth”, wrote the famous writer Günter Grass.

Like there is some who would agree with this bad notion, there are many many more who loves the city of joy and would disapprove of one such statement. A person who is not associated with or is ignorant of the Indian culture and tradition will probably generate one such idea and never understand the true spirit of the city. It could also be our shortfall that we had been unable to show many like Grass the brighter side of things that are here.

I have heard many of my friends calling Kolkata to be chaotic, cluttered and dirty. True, some parts of Kolkata is dirty, is chaotic. Yet Kolkata is the City of Joy. Kolkata is the city of tradition and culture. Kolkata is the city of football and cricket. Kolkata is the city of Tagore, Ray and Ghatak. Kolkata is the city of lavish shopping malls. Kolkata is the city of booming IT industry. It’s the city we all love.

After much of my insistence, two of my friends – one who migrated to a foreign land some 10 years back to pursue his higher education and then finally thought US would provide him better opportunities and lifestyle settled there and another who moved her base down south considering it to be a much progressive place – decided to fly down to Kolkata during Durga Pujo. I travelled with them through the city. Took them to places just to show them why I loved Kolkata. Besides a rigorous pandal hopping, we also visited many parts of the city and hogged on everything starting from street food stalls to plush eateries.

I didn’t had to do much to make the desi American and the bong Bangalorean admit the fact that they have travelled across the world staying in some of the most popular cities, but have never felt so connected with any place. Being the emotional fool that I am, my eyes were filled with tears when he uttered those words.

Well the fact is that I never did anything to influence them to change their perception about my city. I did not make Victoria Memorial look so intriguing while the sun going down. I did not make neon draped streets of north Calcutta look so inviting at night. I did not make the Vidyasagar Setu so alluring from Princep Ghat. I did not make the Circular Rail trip down riverside seem so romantic.

It is all there seeming so fascinating all the time. The fact is that most of us never noticed it.

There will be a second part of the article talking about our 4 days trip around Kolkata.

From Me to We… A transformation

Each one, I know, around, has competencies, which helped them develop a successful professional career. They know it well to fix the problems of their clients, meet their requirements and deliver an optimum quality on time. But the only joining dots that were missing were a collaborative effort. How many times did we pause to help others solve their problems or seek mentorship, collaborate and work? New skills and perspectives offered by other professionals, who have found solution to one such problem before, can definitely add a lot of value to our work.

We perhaps used to seek guidance from one another before, either through mail, over chat or sometimes when we happened to meet. But, that only limited us to specific people we were connected with. My this blog post is about the massive transformation I have witnessed in our IT community through several events and conferences organized by NASSCOM and the two very dynamic groups in Facebook created by Aninda: Kolkata IT Startups & Kolkata IT Professionals – Developers, Designers and QA.

Young and energetic, Aninda through his enthusiasm put us to think otherwise. Every time I heard him talk at an IT event he would harp upon – collaborative work. The two Facebook groups with around 700 members have grown in terms of vigorous participation from the community. It is certainly a place to seek advice and instant feedback from experienced people.

I remember few months back when Priyankar Mukherjee posted a question in the Kolkata IT Startups group, received overwhelming suggestions from the community members. This, I believe, is a big leap towards crowd sourcing. Important issues such as Importance of Documentation in programming, how IT professionals can upgrade themselves and How much time does it take for a fresher to learn Ruby on Rails were raised that resulted into intriguing discussions.

This change has helped us in ways more than I can define. A more compatible relationship among the IT professionals has developed. We are now more connected.

Charulata 2011, Read Murdered

After a long time I was scared by the thought that Bengali cinema was losing its grip over intellectualism. Charulata 2011 was certainly a disappointment in every sense. It aroused strong feelings of rage and anger as I watched. Starting from the casts, to script, dialogues, music, and storyline everything was miserable. The movie proved Agnidev Chatterjee, the director, a juvenile persona with sheer lack of understanding of the film language.

Based on Tagore’s popular novella, Nostonir, Charulata 2011 seemed pretentious and immature with very shallow portrayal of relation between the characters. No logic would take you to a proper conclusion if you try to use your brain while watching the movie. The lacking sense would only lead you towards frustration.

I would dare not try to draw a comparison between Ray’s masterpiece and Charulata 2011. While Charulata and Amol’s relationship in Ray’s creation was sensitive and subtle arousing the human mind to drown in imagination, Chatterjee certainly killed all the essence of the characters making it seem so hollow. In one sentence, the modern day Charulata and Amol had nothing significant to offer.

Chaiti (played by Rituparna Sengupta) is married to Bikramjit (Arjun Chakraborty) an editor in chief of a leading media house. They are drifted apart due to lack of communication. Chaiti, in order to overcome her loneliness, lands on the popular social networking site, Facebook. This is where she meets Sanjoy (Dibyendu). They get hooked to each other which drives them towards a pathetic saga of sexual desire and lust.

Films that are based on relationships are driven by three main elements – screenplay, performance of the protagonists and treatment of the story. Neither of the factors was established here. Rituparna looked older with unnecessarily loud make-up like brown lips and blood red nail polish.

Charuulata 2011 marks Dibyendu’s debut in a lead role. But he is not to be seen in the first half of the film. He only arrives in the 2nd half to strum is guitar and deliver a few immature dialogues. Well, the best thing I thought about his character was his voice. But later read in a review that it was dubbed.

Not to mention Rii, Chaiti’s friend, Arnobi in the film, again did an unbearably painful job. Her exaggerated expressions, loud make-up, fake accent and hilariously superficial and ineffective dialogues would irritate and infuriate you. At one point of the film she says “unconfident”. Someone please try looking for a meaning to that word.

There are too many flaws, including plenty of continuity breaks, in the movie. The regular mails that Chaiti and Sanjoy exchanged before they meet, completely vanishes. Further, Chaiti, who is married to a very well off person, and Sanjoy, who resides in London, go on dates at some CCD. While sipping over coffee Chaiti plays footsie with him and gives him a clear signal of her sexual desires. Soon they end up in a lusty scene, Chaiti displaying her thunder thighs certainly looks scary. Later she breaks down and blames herself. The film at no point justifies this change of emotions. In one of the over the shoulder shot of Chaiti no locks of hair is seen on her shoulder. While in the same scene from a front shot, a lock of hair hangs on her shoulder. 

Hathat Bristi !!!

Hathat korei oshomoy bristi suru hoye gelo….ami tokhon ek mon e kaaj korchhi… laptop er dik e chokh.. mathay nachhe hajar o chinta… client er hajar daabi… shob e toh na hoye manlam, payment ta korbe toh thik somoy?? boroi tired aaj… bhebe bhebe tired… opekhya korte korte tired… tobuo jed… e ek bhishon jed… amay j partei hobe… roj kar juddhe j bhabei hok amay partei hobe… thik tokhon e namlo bristi… ami ek doure baire gelam… du hath mele bhijlam… aaj koto mash por… hathat jeno fir e pelam nijeke… amar theke ami ta kokhon kothaye hariye giyechhilo… amar khub priyo kichhu kobitar line aaj bohu din por jor e jor e awralam…

bristi namlo jokhon
ami uthonpane eka
doure gie vebechilum tomay pabo dekha
hoyto meghebristi te, ba siuli gacher tole
ajanukesh vijie nichcho akash checha jol e
kintu tumi nei bahire
ontore megh kore
vaari byapok bristi amar buker modhye jhore…

—Shakti Chattopadhyay

"aalaper diney akash-bhasano megh
porosporer kotha dhuye gelo joley
prothom jedin millam nirjone
sedino bristi sara sohoranchole."

Purnendu Potri

trishna jeno joler fota barte barte bristi badol
trishna jeno dhuper kathi gandhe anke sukher adol
kha kha moner sabta khali,mora nadir chorabali
othocho ghar duar jure trishna bajay karatali
pratikha tai prahar bihin ,ajiban o sarbajanin
sarobar to sabar bukei,padma kebol pardanashin
swapno ke dey sorbo sorir,somokke se vase na
je telephone asar kotha,sochorachor ase na….

Purnendu Potre

se boleche, "mone to nei
amar osob mone to nei."
ami bollam,"tumi amay
lekhar katha bolechile…."
se bollo, "songe ache?
vasiye dao gayer jhile!
r ha, shono – ekhon ami
megh noi r, sobai ekhon
bristi bole dake amay."

Se jodi tomake agnite fele mare?"
-Bina cheshtay more jabo ekebare

"Se jodi tomake meghe dey utthan?"
–Bristite, ami bristi te khan khan

"Se jodi tomake pishe kore dhulobali?
–Poth theke pothe ure ure jabo khali

"Urbe? … Achchha chhire dey jodi pakha?"
–Porte porte dhore nebo or shakha

"Jodi shaka theke niche fele dey toke?"
–Ki ar korbo, joriye dhorbo okei

–Bolo ki bolbo?…adalat, kichu bolbe ki erporo?
"Jao aajibon oshanti bhog koro"

Joy Goswami (Ishwar ar premiker songlaap)

It’s that time of the year again

It’s that time of the year again. The time when I miss wishing my dad a very very happy birthday. When I can’t remain awake to either pick up the phone to wish him or break into his room with a cake singing out loud “happy birthday to you” at sharp midnight.

It’s again that time of the year when I force myself to work late night so that I don’t think of him much. So that the heart doesn’t long to hear him one more time. So that I don’t finally go to bed with moist eyes and heavy heart.

It’s that time of the year when I feel the cold wind caressing my hair. Moon looking haze as the fog sets in. The faint yellow of the street lights play hide and seek with the trees that line the avenue.

It’s that time of the year when there is an eerie calm. I stand in darkness near the window tucking my hands deep inside my pockets braving the cold. The cold wind starts to pick up, my hair flowing all over my face. I take my hands out in a bid to fix the flowing hair. The fingers feel the cold instantly. Goosebumps. But is it merely the cold? I break my trot abruptly and look back. Nothing. The chill down my spine desperately wants to see a figure behind myself. As if I need the figure right here at this point in time. The dry wind almost instantly blow away the slight trickle of moisture at the corner of my eye.

It’s that time of the year again. When it’s too cold to cry. It’s too cold inside.

It’s that time of the year again.  When I wish you a very very happy birthday Dad. Stay happy where ever you are.

Shona Pishi, the Returned Daughter

I have come back to the ancestral house as so many other women of my family have done before me…widowed, abandoned, the shabby decaying old house was always the only refuge for a woman without her man. I have brought my grief and desolation to bury within these familiar walls as others have done before me. Nowadays, nobody says widows are inauspicious but in oneself one carries that long ago sense of being unlucky, cursed.

I have returned to the scenes of my childhood and in my mind’s eye I see people long departed; my kakima, oiled hair flowing down her back, the keys of her household jangling at the end of her sari; my grandmother, filling the paandaans with betel nut, supari, lime and all the other necessities; my pishimas, laying baris out in the sun to dry, along with sliced mango and lime for pickles.

Now, as I pace the corridors, avoiding the compassion and curiosity that I see in my relatives’ faces, inhabiting that bleak land on the other side of remembered happiness, I feel like a sea creature stranded far from its element and when occasionally the tide of grief recedes it leaves in its wake remembered things, as the sea retreating, uncovers shells, driftwood and debris sticking out of the sand and so I remember Shona.

Shona pishi was what we children called her; golden aunt, for Shona means gold and pishi stands for paternal aunt. Everyone else called her ‘returned daughter’, a sort of annotated sub-text of her history.

Shona was my father’s cousin. In the manner of joint families, my father inherited her as his father had inherited Shona’s mother when she returned to the family house as as a widow with three daughters.

Grandfather had arranged marriages for the 3 daughters as soon as they reached puberty and they had gone off to their respective houses while their mother stayed in ours, one of its many dependents.

Ours was and still is a typical Bengali joint family, every room in the house occupied, sections of the sprawling old mansion with its courtyards and corridors assigned to different branches of the family. There was no individuality (although sometimes, a younger daughter-in-law or junior sister-in-law grumbled or jostled for more power) but there was an attempt at separateness through which we children streaked like multi coloured fish against and across the currents. No section of that much partitioned house was barred to us. We grew up never knowing loneliness.

When Shona was ‘returned’ by the family into which she had been married, it was to us that she came back, to the only home or family she had ever known. Her bridegroom, they said, in whispers that reverberated around the old house, returned her because she was not quite right in the head. Others asserted that it was because she could not produce a baby. A feat so ordinary that no one thinks anything of it until the possibility arises that one is incapable of this commonplace miracle.

Looking back now, I wonder, for Shona did not stay long with her husband before she was so unceremoniously returned, hardly any time at all. Was it her mind or her body that was found wanting, something missing? But is the human mind so easily plumbed and found empty?

They all called her returned daughter, all the adults in the house, but to us she was Shona pishi, she who told stories, wonderful tales of derring-do, long ago faraway myths. Shona wove her stories as others in the household knitted and sewed and her tapestry was a delight of colour, sound, song and magic. She a child who was no longer a child, cast out from a child’s magical world into a cold adult realm of practicality, what we call the real world, in which she could not sustain herself.

Shona died a long time ago and it is now many years since I married and left the old house; many years since I returned to Bengal for I married a non-Bengali and went to live in faraway places. Now, exiled from happiness, returned like Shona, my thoughts turn frequently to her and I see her and all those who had then formed the kaleidoscope we call family, differently.

When Shona was returned from her brief sojourn into matrimony, it was as if she had never been away at all. If there was grief, it was (like mine now) a subterranean thing running through caverns measureless to man. That is the way with women’s grief, it must not be allowed to brim over into madness.

The family found good use for returned daughter, or perhaps she assumed it because everyone needs a reason for living. Shona made the tea that was prepared daily for the women of the house. Then it was the turn of the laundry; having served the tea, she gathered up the dirty clothes from each section of the house and took it to the wash place where for hours she banged, lathered and squeezed the shirts, lungis, saris, frocks and underwear, then hung them out to dry in squadrons where they flapped on the line like family ghosts. In between she told us stories as we squatted around her, giggling as she banged the clothes against a huge stone and watched the rainbow drops of soapy water that flew around us.

Oh yes, returned daughter made herself useful all right, but every day at 4:30 precisely, neither later nor earlier, dressed in a clean crisp sari, Shona went out to the park near the house. She never ever asked anyone, child or adult, to accompany her. She went alone and sat alone on a bench, watching the world go by.

Ayahs walked by with babies, children played among the flower beds, elderly people sat and gossiped, all escaping from the small noisy flats that fringed the park.

Shona sat in the park for one hour precisely and then before dusk fell, she slowly rose and walked back home. This happened every day, as the seasons came and went: the burgeoning bougainvillea, the paling petunia, the resurgent rose, the colours and scents of a Calcutta winter superseded by the heat and humidity of summer, the thunder and lightning of the monsoon.

Now, as I sit on that same bench, looking back across the years, surrounded by happy families, children, joggers, as the scent of winter flowers assail my senses, I wonder what my golden aunt, returned daughter, the Scheherazade of a thousand and one nights, had thought about as she sat there day after day, year after year.

Sitting in her place, looking at the people in that little park as they walk and jog past me, or sit in vacant dreamlessness on the benches opposite, I wonder what sadness, what privation, lies behind their eyes. Perhaps Shona, too, had wondered, had questioned whether sadness and longing, loneliness and the despair of empty years ahead were her portion alone.

Ours, as I have said, was a joint family in that we all lived together, the generations and the branches huddled under the same roof, sharing our rice, pooling our income, but what had anyone known of the others? Not one of us knew what had taken place when young Shona went to her brief marriage and we knew even less what took place when not much later, she was returned. It was enough for most of the family that she knew her place, carried out the duties assigned to her. Her time in the park was her own, something she had carved out of her day for herself and no one gainsaid it. If she had secrets, and are there not sections in every human mind that remain like locked rooms to which no one has the key, returned daughter took her secrets with her when she died.


Why does it all have to be so ‘lifeless’? And make sense only when looked back upon every time? Why can’t I keep a track of my changing life? Or see and accept as it is changing? The "phases" of my life…Why can’t I differentiate one phase from the other while I am living in them? I guess that’s why I need friends…true friends as well as general friends…so that I have an outsider who would keep telling mee constantly, "oh, it’s just a phase…” or "awww…this is love!" or "don’t worry, you will move on!" or "honey, there is something better in store for you…" or “everything will regain its shape back again”…or “huny u never deserved that bugger…its good for u that he is gone…” or “sooner or later he too will fall for you…”

Jesus! Spare mee… am I just conditioned to wait? Just wait. Wait for things to happen. Wait for the better or may be the best to come my way…as I have always been told “don’t try to make things happen…let it happen…” Wait till I am old enough. Wait to reach that adult stage of mind…Like Right now; I know what a kid I am. How scared I get at the mere thought of losing my dear ones. How "wandering" and directionless I am and how lazy I am….totally in a limbo…I see that myself every moment and yet I don’t see a way out of here…a vicious circle… How does one grow up? And how shall I grow up? Is there a ladder I can climb? I have never found myself in a hurry to grow up…never really felt the need to…never really craved for it…really, never wanted to go to a disc when I was fourteen, never was in a hurry to have a boyfriend (ahem….debatable though), never in a hurry to do "it", never was in a hurry to watch movies with friends…or go on shopping…never was in a hurry to realize that I am a girl and that I am a grown up girl…

But today I sit here scribbling on my blog…fingers racing through my keyboard…and my god, after having received so many opportunities in life to really grow up; I still am such a kid. And here’s the most childish part, I held responsible for my actions. I still don’t want to take the call. I want to behave like a kid and say at the end of every slip-up, "hey, I am sorry…"Not knowing what I have done… I am sorry yet another time….

But did I really want to see myself as this after three years of college and two years of university? And having spent quite an eventful year at the film school? Or maybe it’s just "institutionalization" that has made mee to think like this…see there I go again…putting the whole blame game on the system. Everything around mee would still keep changing as they wish to…no matter how much I hate or love it…no matter how rebellious I get… Really, am I so insignificant in this world….”MAAYA” as they say…things will just keep "happening" to me all my life as I will "wait" for them to happen!

someday very soon I wish I will grow up…or still remain a kid… I am not yet done living in such "ignorance". Perhaps I am made for that purpose. To just Be…

Shades of Black & White

imagine a world in shades of black and white, will the rose be still called colorful? will the rose be still called beautiful? while the answer to the first question is a definite NO, the answer to the latter is tricky. and that is because beauty does not necessarily depend on color, odor, taste, texture or any other physical features. beauty can be seen, and yet remain hidden from the untrained eyes. beauty can be touched, and yet the silent stroke of beauty on your flying hair may go unnoticed. beauty may be smelt in the perfumes of Paris, but the smell of the first rain can get overpowered by thoughts of the ever so important appointment about to be missed because of the downpour.

people walk past beauty in their lives a hundred thousand times – are their eyes not trained to see them? are their skins so course that they can not feel it all around them? or is it the everlasting lack of time that forbids the man to stop and look, stop and feel, stop and awe at how beautiful the world around them is? or is it that the world around us has gone so ugly, so grotesque that we have stopped believing beauty may still reside here – within us?

"…and the answer my friend, is blowing in the wind; the answer is blowing in the wind"