Reasons for being partial to one of my all time favourite classics, Gaanola by Suman Chattopadhay

Just before another concert of the legend, let me share a historical garbage. Way back in 1994, when a skinny boy of class seven [or was it six?] tried to pen down his feelings, after listening to the album "Gaanola", words [and vocabulary] failed him. This post is my tribute to that boy, and to the wonder that he experienced.


A flurry of memories stream in through the bathroom window, a sense of impending adulthood, a certain pang of being severed from the Blake-esque innocence, a floating sensation of being in love for the first time, and the derision of not being able to continue that spell of gloating lovesickness. I experience all these random feelings at once, whenever this particular album is mentioned! Yes, I know, "Gaanola" is that "PERSONAL".

And like all things personal, I cannot possibly remain coherent while talking about this album. It's raining, I am sitting in front of my computer, listening to "jawto durey jaabey bondhu", perhaps for the umpteenth time, and, it is doing magic to my most vulnerable chord. Memories, deep beneath the scar of indifference, are creeping up like zombies, lost moments are trickling down the impregnable wall. They taste hot and, aye, they taste salty!

A conversation

"How does it feel actually?"

'Nobody knows.'

"Not even Zimmerman? Surely. you are joking Mr Know-it-all?"

'No, I’m not. He can make you feel the heat, and the rain, and the snowfall, and the seawind. But, he, even he, doesn’t know the feeling. He can create the feeling, suffer from it, that’s all.'

"Don’t you, I mean, surely you do know about it? That feeling?"

'You think it’s fun?'

"I don’t, believe me. When the breeze ceases to blow over the face of deserts, and the whole becomes part, I feel a sudden chill, and wonder if that is the feeling. And, then, then, the chill fizzles out like contaminated water down the gutter. Once again, I become extraordinarily chaste, wonderfully vacant."

'I see. Sort of cloud in pants, you are. Warm and delicate and plastic to the point of humane reality. Genteel.'

"Oh, I hate it when you pass on these snide remarks."

'Really?'

"Not again! Like you, I also crave to have this feeling, I want to explore it’s exclusivity. But, look here, I’m only human. After waiting like a dying dove on gunpoint, when I realise that nothing has changed, and that it is not dark yet, I feel a strange and strong sense of harmony. Well, kind of."

'To understand even the contour of this feeling, you need to be vulgar, and sinful, my dear. Lovely pieces of rhetoric find it not. Jump into the abyss of dead metaphors, fondle every dead word, breathe the smell of restless lines that no one even dares to listen to, and you’ll get the basics. Try the other highway, rather than the diamond-studded one, see the dried bones talking with each other in powdery moonlight, get battered by love under the naked wonder of lightening. Perhaps, after all these moments of pure agony, and occasional ecstasy, you’ll suddenly touch the nerve-centre of that feeling. Until then, get off. I gotta clean my ears.'

"How does it feel actually?"

'Nobody knows.'


And the conversation goes on like before………….

On "Awborodh", a song of Kabir Suman

All we need is love and love is all we need.

Even when you are sitting pretty in front of your computer screen, calculating this and that, with wary eyes, a Kabir Suman song can break open the dam, without any prior warning.

Every album, based on a particular theme throughout its entire listening span, faces a steep challenge. It must overcome the risk of self-repetition, more so, in case of a relevant social issue. This album is not different. On Suman’s part, it looks more like an intentional take on contemporary reality, and at the same time, a passionate quest for the holy grail of unadulterated love!

It’s thrilling, when you listen to the same singer, years after his rendition of “Swadhinota”, where he so casually had touched the nerve-centre of establishment with-- “Traffic aatke chumu khawar naam swadhinota”! Later, in “Jaatishmor”, the thrill became a rainbow-coloured longing-- “Bidroho aar chumur dibyi shudhu tomaakei chai”!

Eleven years later, it seems the singer has become all impatient with the working of our well-oiled habit of acquiring indifference. His voice has drowned into the drawl of despair, with a sense of urgency interplaying between the words, especially when he utters-“aamaar shomoy aar aamar shorore/ kaara chumu khaabey pawth awborodh kore”!

Sermon of a Rainy Day

Words. Lots of them. Lying facedown all over the bibleblack uncertainty, clinging to their dreamless reverie! It is pouring in the pythonlike city, sunless and mundane, the cobblestreets grumpy and foreboding, it’s pouring. There in the muffled middle, a solitary tramline is dreaming wicked dreams, and as I stare down to its drooling abstinence, somewhere, near the slanting corners of the neighbouring alley, weeds break into wistful bloom!
As the blue-inked equivalent of a certain autocorrelation fades out like the last echo of a lonely cello, the big bad crowneckish cloud cracks into the hint of a forget-me-not-blue, just for a second.
It’s still raining. The day kind of drags its tail along the dozy city. A breeze from the creased water sighs upon the wet streets. Words, still lying facedown all over the snotgreen afternoon, clinging to their habitual desire!

Listen, time passes.

Listen, times pass.

MY tryst with a classic, "Boshey Aanko" by Suman Chatterjee

Unlike Deepak Sodhan and Lala Amarnath, to our heartfelt delight, Suman Chatterjee scored his second ton with "Boshey Aanko", in his second album! The title-song has a strange and direct colloquial flavour that so often had eluded Bengali songdom.

I still remember, how the allusion made to English medium schools had slapped me tight, and little did Suman know, how this song would mould my inner defiance to certain things. I loved "shurjo bollo ish" for fluid playing of the guitar, and, also, for the simple yet vibrant structure of its lyrical content. "ek muhurte phiriye dile" remains another of my favourites, for, pure love that can reflect a moment of eternal glory, amid the ruins of concrete faith, is the focal point of this song. Suman places his cynical counter-realisation vis-a-vis this feeling, and, we, the spellbound listeners, stay glued to the dialectics till this hour.

"shawkaal belaar Roddur" is a social statement, beautifully sung and, the choice of words, they never cease to evoke the pang of fellow-feeling ( sympathy is too limited a word) for that nameless little girl. "chhawk ketechhe gaachher chhaya, ebong roder dwando" reminds us of Bibhutibhusan at his best. Before Suman, I never came across a description so physical in its essential nature, so ethereal in its sense of aesthetics, at least in the empire of Bengali songs.

The last two lines of "meghdoot" gets ironic enough, to show us the contrasting reality, and, like Yeats, reflects that beauty, indeed, is not a joy forever!

"rekhaaber rawng" captures the sombre mood of serenity, from the point of view of an ageing maestro. The song continuously makes us aware of our past, and how it firmly holds its ground even now. In "hothat rastaay", nostalgia bewitches reality, and the refrain of "bondhu kawtodin dyakha hoyni" breaks through the craving, yet uncertain hearts.

"ekekta din mosrin" remains another of my favourites, despite its embryonic rock sound. The lyrics, with a nonchalant "ekekta taa din bawro bey-rongin, awsukher mawto aashe aamar shawkaal", projects the casual darkness in the heart of a truant generation.

Although "chaalsher Gaan" was a childhood favourite; with dotage, it has lost some of its appeal. It sounds a little boring, a little overstretched, with some brilliant lines here and there. With "pukur paarer noyaano gaachh", begins the celebration of the trivial, which some years later would touch the pinnacle of song-making with 'chaarline-er gaan' in Jaatishmor.

"bhorsha thakuk" reminds me of Sukumar Ray, the lyrics are absolutely fascinating. This song actually captures the possibilities of the Bengali middle-class existence. The song is all about magical commonplaceness that renders a certain pedestrian charm to this song.

We are mere muggles, years before the boy who lived started enchanting us with his magic spells; another wizard had made us spellbound, as well. "boshey Aanko" remains another of his dazzling spells. I can't get rid of it, of course, I don't want to get rid of it for the world!

Suicide note..

If I ever plan to counter Albert Camus, I would do it with the words of a black American poet.....

" The cool
Calm face of the river
Asked me for a kiss"

Period.

Longing...

It’s not easy to deal with smiles. A sudden twist of facial muscles or a moment of indecision can ruin your citadel in a flash. I close my eyes and try to regain composure. Somewhere deep down the valley of lonely stars, faces creep in to the last syllable of recorded time! She was someone very close, or was she not? Memories play snake and ladder with each other !

The cellphone screen shrieks with searing light. How strange has this living been, how terribly fantastic. Someone, from a different corner of this old, old city, has sent me some words. Flowers and ashes do not seem much different within the cavity between each word.

Suzanne, I miss you.

Flakes of thoughtlessness

There are times when you want to assure yourself that you are capable of scribbling a line or two! That is precisely the reason I am trying to phrase some thoughts on this very page. All my ideas have gone haywire, giving way to incomplete thoughts! It does not bother me anymore. I am happy to be alive, as Tolstoy had said in one of his less pious efforts!

Collecting words out of a void has never been easy. It may be bread and butter for philosophers and poets of this world, but it does cost me a lot of time. Sometimes, I wonder, why am I trying to post such morbid thoughts, damn it, Why am I even writing this crap at all! Is it because of some hidden urge to express vulnerability, or is it just a fancy like boating on a summer night!

The quest goes on....

My baby shot me down!

Almost imperceptible, a hint of coloured reality lurks beneath the words of Uma “the Goddess” Thurman. The pang of being shot down plays a pivotal role in making our heroine aware of her femininity. Somewhere, deep down the valley of consciousness, the feeling of sexual suppression and racial abuse prepares a queer concoction! Strangely enough, the inevitability of being exploited as a woman never clashes with her affection for the lover boy, the age-old adage “nothing hurts like love” seems to be the potter-esque scar of this woman-child! She makes love with her ideas of perfection by dedicating her independent self to the confines of society like a mature woman and yet breaks like a little girl, showing her sand-made defiance.

Thereafter comes adulthood and April is the cruellest month! Even the flawed ideas have their moments of glory, church bells do have a tendency to weave magical sounds through still air and after all, we human beings are only human. So, the last shot comes unexpectedly and there remains only the bullet-ridden carcass of the angel of dreams! It’s pain, pain and excruciating pain all the way, and a little bewilderment. The song ends with almost an acceptance of what had happened, and we all see a woman trying to come to terms with actuality that has always been hidden in her dark corridors of loneliness. And yet, in her eyes, I can always see a bewildered look like that of a little girl!

Personally, from an inverted perspective, I am not sure how I would face the entire situation. Derisive I have never been, the way Dylan flaunted derisiveness in “Like a Rolling Stone” is never going to become my much-needed “protégo” charm. I lack that razor. I would rather prefer to say, “Don’t think twice, it’s all right”, and begin the walk down the long and lonesome road. I am ready to give my heart to somebody, but, if anybody ever wants my soul, the bargain would end there. I would still prefer walking the path with Bob Dylan inside my head.

Perhaps, the male counterpoint is always a little linear in its depiction of feminine reality!

when winter comes.....

More than two hundred years ago, an English youth in his muse had written the welcome note of spring amid the usual frosty weather of his motherland. Since then, scholars and dare I say, masters, have been blowing their trumpets of incorrigible pedantry by repeatedly quoting it in the confines of classroom. Honestly, when you are literally shivering from the chill, if someone reminds you of those ever hopeful lines in a dreamy voice, would you not be better off by giving him a tight slap for being untimely! And there lies the crux of our civilized existence, you could only offer him a meek smile and perhaps a pained stare at most! Destiny!