স্বগতোক্তি

An organism thrives on communication—with its surroundings, within its ownself. When you look at a cell monolayer—you find that individual cells are separated by an extracellular matrix— the matrix is shared by surrounding cells. Like cells themselves, the matrix (though technically not alive) also communicates, chemically, physically with the cells. A community-based organism—like human has an extensive external network of shared feelings, emotions (shared consciousness?)—a nurturing ground for celebrations, hysteria and culture and most people spend majority of their time in this shared network.

And then there is a rarely ventured wee bit that resides within you interacts with the outer, experiences all that’s to be experienced and yet it always comes back to its den and thinks, alone. I believe, a song, an art that essentially has what it takes to be popular usually touches you through the shared network, the matrix. It hits a string, the string vibrates, and you exult—sometimes, even before the vibration reaches your core.

I know, I am not good enough—but if I were given the ability for a moment—I would want to touch you in there, directly, in your introspection, in your solitude—a solitude that is never conductive to celebration.

Yeah, I know, I know the heavy atmo above doesn’t go well with panu, literally. I never intended it either, but prolonged oxygen deprivation can do that to you (did you know, it can kill you too ! I mean real effing dead).

So let’s venture into the lighter side of the poop. Elders say, it takes some courage to laugh at yourself. I figured, it takes some more to turn yourself into a laughing stock. So, I took the plunge (with some Dutch helpings) and wrote some lyrics, composed me some songs and started shouting from the rooftop. But then, too much of anything hurts, even laugh. OK, OK I admit that "composing" had its perks, a bit of euphoria while recording it, probably a bit of endorphins due to the good honest labor, especially when you’ve had a coupla drinks. But when I listened to them in sobriety, man O man, these compositions are bloody rotten, so rotten in fact that they actually abuse your senses.

সো, পানু ইস অল ডান অ্যান্ড ডাস্টেড, নো মোর পানুসঙ্গীত, নো মোর অফ দিস ওয়ার্থলেস ক্র্যাপ । পানু বউকে বলেছে, পুজোয় এবার যদি একটা ম্যান্ডোলিন কিনে দেয় ! তা লখণৌএর দোকান পত্র ম্যান্ডোলিন কী বস্তু তাই নিয়ে ধাঁধায় । অতএব পানু অন্য কিছুর সন্ধানে – হয়তো চড়ক মেলায় ঘোরা । হয়তো মাছের ডাক শেখা (ডলফিন নয়, রিয়েল ফিশ) ।