When I was a kid, I wanted to be
a poet. Well, do not get alarmed! If you asked any average Bengali boy then,
you would have got the same answer. After
all, the greatest hero in our land is not a religious messiah. Neither was he a
war-lord, nor any revolutionary leader. He is our great poet Rabi Thakur
(Rabindranath Tagore) – whose poems and
rhymes we have been breathing since our childhood. So, I dreamt to be a poet. As
every dream needs a push, it was my mother, who excited my budding grey cells
those days. I am not sure how early it was. Most likely, it was after I finished
my primary school. I was a little hero then
in our small township, as I topped in its final examination in the circle, and was
awarded a scholarship. In one evening, my father came from his office, and
announced that a local weekly wanted to start a page for kids, and requested
him for a contribution from me. My
mother asked me, “Why don’t you write a poem?”
“Can I?”
“Try.”
So, I sat with my notebook and
after struggling for an hour, came up with a few stanzas. It was about a
piece of green mango, freshly fallen from a tree in an early morning in spring.
In fact, every morning in spring and summer, I used to visit then a mango tree
in our dwelling to search for such fallen pieces. Our land lord had permitted
us (kids) to pick any such fallen pieces, with a stricture that we should not
try to get them by throwing stones or riding a tree. As an early riser, I had
an advantage over other kids, and no sooner than I woke up, I used to run to
the base of the tree with great excitement and expectation for possessing a
piece before others. So being confronted with the literary demand from my
parents, my materialistic mind could only get inspiration from that adventure,
and desperately sought to pour out both joy and frustration in those lines. When
my mother went through them, she smiled and encouraged me with an appreciating
tone, “It’s nice. May I suggest a few changes?” I readily agreed. Finally, very
little of my originality could survive her onslaught. But, after a few weeks,
when I saw my name printed on the weekly, I was immersed in supreme happiness,
and proudly exhibited it to my friends.
About that time, I started going
to my new school. It was a high school, and I was admitted to the fifth grade. Within a few months, our Bengali teacher
typically took notice of me, as he was very much impressed by my answers in the
very first examination of his paper. I do not know why he liked that typical
answer-script. But, he profusely praised my performance in the class and spoilt
me to such extent, that I became very proud and confident in my proficiency as
far as the subject Bengali concerned. I could never match his expectation in
subsequent examinations. One day, he was told that I could write poems. He
asked me, “Can you write one for me?”
“Now?” I could not suppress my
excitement, and was eager to prove my talent.
He said, “Why not?”
So I wrote something, and showed
it to him. He was a good-hearted person, and encouragingly patted me.
I confided to him, “But, it’s so
easy! Everyone must be able to write a poem, if he wants to.”
He told me, “That’s not true. You
may find it easy to get rhythms. Others may not.”
He spoilt me again. He turned my
whims into passions.
…
So I continued with my creation.
Whatever event excited me, I used to scribble down them into rhymes. I was bold
enough to show them to my friends and teachers, and even read out on some
occasions in our school. I wrote one such long ballad hailing the victory of India in world
cup hockey. Once I composed a poem condoling Nazrul’s death the day poet died
in Dhaka after suffering from a prolonged
illness. Next day, I recited it during
the morning prayer, after our Head teacher addressed the assembly honoring his
death. Today, if I recollect my school days, I wonder the way I enjoyed my
freedom. I was not afraid of presenting myself in any forum. May be, I was
innocent enough to differentiate between scorn and appreciation then. Though I
must say that my friends were always nice to me, and they respected the way I
wanted to be. Somehow, when I left my
school, and came out from my fictional world, I lost that innocence and
confidence, and was shy enough to exhibit myself to others. Fortunately, by that time the copy-book with
the collection of my early poems had been lost for ever. I did not bother to
get them back either. So that’s it. That was the end of a poet. It is true that
I made some efforts even afterwards.
But, I never trusted them, as I did before.
06/07/2013
