মুর্দাফরাশের ফসফরাস

অ্যাট দ্য জেনিথ। নরোম কয়েকটা ধ্বনি।

আনমনে অনেকবার, এই ধ্বনিগুলোয় মিশিয়ে দিয়েছি নিজেকে। অ্যাট দ্য জেনিথ। পল ক্রান্তৎজ বলেছিলো।

People are only truly happy once in their life. Just once. Then they are punished for it. For the rest of their life. The punishment is, they can never really forget that one moment.

I think its best to say goodbye at the right time. Namely when you're the happiest. At the Zenith.



পল ক্রান্তৎজের বইগুলো পুড়িয়ে ফেলেছিলো নাৎসিরা। হুমায়ুন আজাদের প্রবচনে লেখা আছে প্রতিটি দগ্ধ গ্রন্থ সভ্যতাকে নতুন আলো দেয়। সভ্যতার পাহারাদারেরা তাই আজকাল ঘন ঘন বই পোড়াতে ব্যস্ত, সভ্যতাকে আলোর বন্যায় ডুবিয়ে দিতে! যা আলো আছে তাতে হচ্ছে না, আরও আলো চাই! হুমায়ুন আজাদ তো বলেই গ্যাছেন বই পোড়ালেই আলো পাওয়া যায়!

কিন্তু আমি ওই ধ্বনিগুলোয় তাও বহুবার চুমুক দিয়েছি। ধ্বনিগুলোকে পান করেছি। অ্যাট দ্য জেনিথ!

পল ক্রান্তৎজের বইগুলো পড়া হয়নি আমার। কোনওদিনও চেষ্টাও করিনি খুঁজবার।

শর্টকাট জেনারেশনের সদস্য আমি, এটা নিয়ে পরিতাপেরও কোনও প্রয়োজন দেখি না। ডায়ানা আরবুসের ছবিগুলো গুগল খুলেও দ্যাখবার চেষ্টা করিনি, সিনেমাটাই দেখেছি কেবল। পল ক্রান্তৎজের সাথেও সাক্ষাৎ হয়েছিলো সিনেমাতেই। দশ বছর আগে।

দশ বছর আগেকার সেই রাশভারি ডেস্কটপে, সেদিন ইউটিউব ছিলো না, ডিভিডি প্লেয়ারে ডিস্ক চালিয়ে জোর করে যাকে তাকে বসিয়ে দিতাম সিনেমা দ্যাখাতে। সিনেমা'র ইমপ্রেশন সাহিত্যের চে' অনেক তীব্র, আত্মায় সেই বিশ্বাস ছিলো বলে।

সিনেমা বলতে এখন সাধারণত হাবিজাবিই বোঝায়, হাবিজাবিই বাঙালির কাছে সিনেমা ছিলো চিরদিন। মেইনস্ট্রীম নিয়ে শুচিবায়ুতায় ভুগতাম আমরা যখন, যেদিন আমরা স্বপ্ন দেখতে জানতাম - সেইসব দিন ইতিমধ্যে মুর্দাফরাশের ফসফরাস হয়ে গ্যাছে।

সবকিছুই তো মুর্দাফরাশের ফসফরাস! জুলহাজ ভাই জিগ্যেস করেছিলো, সবকিছুতে এত আর্ট খোঁজো ক্যানো?
উত্তরই দেয়া হয়নি। এড়িয়ে গিয়েছিলাম প্রশ্নটা। জুলহাজ ভাই খুন হয়ে গ্যাছে, আর কেউ জিগ্যেস করবারও নেই, ক্যানো সবকিছুতে এত আর্ট খুঁজি।

আর্ট ফিল্মই দেখি এখনও, কিন্তু কই, আজকে তো আর আর্ট খুঁজছি না! রক্তের বন্যায় অন্যায় দূর হয়ে যাচ্ছে। আজকাল প্রতিদিন সকাল শুরু হতে না হতেই রক্তের বন্যা শুরু হয়, সন্ধ্যা হতে না হতেই সমস্ত অন্যায় সেই বন্যায় বেমালুম ফুরুৎ হয়ে যায়! এত ন্যায়নিষ্ঠার ভজনের মধ্যে আর্ট যে ঢুকবে, সেই খিড়কি কই?

আর্ট ফিল্ম দেখতে বসলেও এখন আর কোনও প্রতীকের রহস্যে বুকে একটুও কাঁপন লাগে না। শুধু দৃশ্যগল্প দেখে যাই। মাঝে মাঝে ঝিমুনিও চলে আসে।

তনয় ভাই সেই দেবদাসের চন্দ্রমুখীর মার ডালা গানটার সাথে কি তুমুল নেচেছিলো সেইদিন! আরেকটা গান, কি যেন ছিলো? আল্লা আমার চক্ষে তুমি দাও না একটু ঘুম? এরকমই হবে কিছু একটা! জুলহাজ ভাইয়ের ড্রয়িংরুমটা সেদিন বাঈজীর নাচঘর। কেউ কল্পনাও করতে পেরেছিলো সেইদিন, ওই ঘরটায় একদিন রক্তের বন্যায় ভেসে যাবে অন্যায়?

বাঙালির শ্লোগানবাজি তাও শেষ হয় না। কানের কাছে ভনভন করতে থাকে বস্তাপঁচা শ্লোগানগুলো, দুনিয়ার মজদুর এক হও এক হও, ভাই সব ভয় নাই রাজপথ ছাড়ি নাই, জালাল মিয়ার চরিত্র ফুলের মতো পবিত্র!

কিন্তু অন্যায়গুলো তো রক্তের বানে ভেসেই গ্যালো। বাক্সভর্তি অন্যায় বোঝাই করা ছিলো জুলহাজ ভাইয়ের ড্রয়িংরুমে। কোথায় যে ভেসে গ্যাছে ওই অন্যায়ের বাক্স আর স্যুটকেসগুলো, উদ্ধার করার কোনও উপায় নেই!

এখন ল্যাপটপের স্ক্রীনে মুর্দাফরাশের ফসফরাস। জ্বলছে, চকমকি পাথর থেকে, কবরের গন্ধ থেকে, ল্যাপটপে। ওয়ালপেপারের কাশফুলে জুলহাজ ভাই। এই কাশফুলগুলো কি জার্মান? নাৎসি আক্রমণের অপেক্ষা করছে? পল ক্রান্তৎজের মতো?

পল ক্রান্তৎজের বন্ধু, গ্যুণ্টার - তার প্রেমিককে খুন করেছিলো। তারপর নিজের মাথায় গুলি চালিয়ে দিয়েছিলো। অবলীলায়।

গ্যালো অক্টোবরে দীপনের মৃত্যু'র পর থেকেই আমি সিনেমাটা দেখছি। আর ওই গানটা, প্রিন্সেস ক্রোকোডাইল!

Heart Full of Bells
Rings In Your Moon
Wherever you go, I see it all in you
Princess Crocodile!

সিনেমাটা তিন বছর আগেও খুঁজেছি, সীমান্ত স্ক্যয়ারে। সেদিন সন্ধ্যায়ও আমার ঘরে অন্ধকার। শুধু এক ফাঁকে মুঠোফোনটা জ্বলে উঠলো। দেখলাম মেসেজ এসেছে, স্যরি ফর দ্য ইনকনভেনিয়েন্স। উই আর ওয়ার্কিং টু ডেভেলপ আওয়ার নেটওয়ার্ক।  

যেদিন লিওনার্দো ডিক্যাপ্রিও অস্কার পেলো, সেদিনই ফেসবুকে পোস্ট করেছিলাম টোটাল এক্লিপসের কয়েকটা স্টিল। লিওনার্দো ডিক্যাপ্রিও, কাঁচা শরীরে যেদিন সমকামী কবির অভিনয় করেছিলো নগ্ন দেহে!
টাইটানিক ছাড়া লিওনার্দো ডিক্যাপ্রিও'র আর কোনও প্রেমের সিনেমা নেই? কে বলেছে? ক'টা বাঙালি টোটাল এক্লিপস দেখেছে?



শুধু কেট উইনস্লেটের স্তন! লিও'র ওই নিখুঁত নিতম্বের কি হবে? সূর্যগ্রহণ, টোটাল এক্লিপস!

র‍্যাঁবো'র বইগুলোও আমার পড়া হয়নি। কারণ, আমি শর্টকাট সময়ের বাসিন্দা। হুমায়ুন আজাদ অবশ্য র‍্যাঁবোর একটা বইয়ের বাঙলা নামটা দিয়ে গিয়েছে, নরকে অনন্ত ঋতু।

দু'একবার র‍্যাঁবো'র কোট সার্চ করেছি গুগলে। ওইটুকুই আমার র‍্যাঁবোপাঠ। কিন্তু, র‍্যাঁবো তো সমকামী ছিলো! ১৮৭১ সালে শুরু হয়েছিলো টোটাল এক্লিপসের গল্প।

১৮৭১। আর আজ ২০১৬। অথচ এখনও সমকামী হতে ভয় পায় কবিরা, বাংলাদেশে।

আর কবিতা তো এখন মাখন মাখানো রুটি! কবিতা আর কাবাবে এখন কোনও পার্থক্যরেখা নেই। কাবাবগুলো দাঁতে ছেঁড়া গেলে, কবিতা যারা ভাজি করে বিক্রি করে ফেসবুকের ফুটপাতে, ভ্যানে ভ্যানে, যে কাবাবওয়ালারা- তারা পকেটভর্তি বখশিস পায়! কবিতার সঙ্গে এখন এস্ট্যাবলিশমেন্টের ঘনিষ্ঠতা। আর ক'টা দিন পরে কবিতার অফিস খুলবে মতিঝিলে আরিচায়, সাইনবোর্ডে ল্যাখা থাকবে আমাদের কোনও শাখা নেই!

র‍্যাঁবোকে কোনও দরকার নেই আপাতত। এসবের মধ্যে। বাংলাদেশে তো নয়ই! র‍্যাঁবোকে কোপানোর ইচ্ছে নেই আমার। কারুরই হয়তো নেই।

তারপরও পূর্ণ সূর্যগ্রহণ। আর সেই পুরোনো রাহুগ্রাসের গল্প।

জুলহাজ ভাই খুন হয়ে গ্যালো। জুলহাজ ভাই র‍্যাঁবো ছিলো কি না, সেটা পরের প্রশ্ন। কিন্তু জুলহাজ ভাই স্বপ্নের পান্নাগুলো মেরামত করতো। প্রায়ই।

আপাতত স্বপ্ন-টপ্ন সব নিভে গ্যাছে।
এখন আর টোটাল এক্লিপস দ্যাখার দরকার নেই। লাভ ইন থটসও না দেখলেও চলবে।

গ্যুন্টার তাও বলেছিলো,
Dear Universe, When we have cease to exist, we don't anyone to miss us or shed a single tear for us. If anyone wants to keep us in his memory, let him do so in joy.
For you see, we've did the only right thing. We lived.

ভিএলসি প্লেয়ার ক্লোজ করে দিয়েছি। আর্ট ফিল্ম আজকাল আর দ্যাখা হয় না। আফসোসও করি না।

এখন টোয়াইলাইট সাগা দেখতে যাচ্ছি, ওই ভ্যাম্পায়ারের গল্প। প্রেমিক আর প্রেমিকা, প্রত্যেকেই ভ্যাম্পায়ার। রবার্ট প্যাটিনসন ছেলেটা দেখতে সুন্দর, মেয়েটাও সেইরকম - দুই ভ্যাম্পায়ারের চুমোচুমিটাও জমে ভালোই। তাই এখন ভ্যাম্পায়ারের গল্প।

শুধু আর্ট দিয়ে চলে না যেহেতু, এন্টারটেইনমেন্টও যেহেতু দরকার।

যেহেতু খুনের বীভৎসতা, খুন দেখে কাতরে ওঠা, ঘড়ঘড় শব্দে জবাই হতে থাকা গলা দেখে চিৎকার করে ওঠাটাও- যেহেতু এখন ছেলেমানুষি! যেহেতু খুনের লাবণ্য খুঁজতে এখন বাধ্য সকল লোক, আমরা প্রত্যেকেই।
 

Fragments of Memories: Some Raw, Disorganized Nostalgia about Xulhaz Mannan

It is not just one murder. It is actually two. Xulhaz Manna, and Tonoy.

    They killed Xulhaz in his own home. If they would choose to kill him on the road instead, perhaps we could demand to build a memorial for him, at least a few decades later.
    This was an apartment house. After a few decades, it might not be there. It might be sold, damaged, demolished, reconstructed. It might not exist that long.

    I don't remember the day I first saw Xulhaz that clearly. I called him Xulhaz vai, which means brother Xulhaz.

    But perhaps it was December of 2014. He arranged a film exhibition in his home, the same home where he was killed yesterday. And I was invited there. I saved the schedule in my instagram. That's how I remember it. It was either 19th or 20th.
    Still, I don't remember whether I noticed Xulhaz vai that day or not. What I do have well-preserved in my memory was the cat. The fluffy, ash-colored fur of its body.

    I happen to be a cat lover. But I forgot to pat it that day. It belonged to him. I will never have the chance to pat it anymore. I won't go to that house. I won't need to, simply.

    This is midday over here, in Bangladesh. A few hours ago, I checked the news update again. The news said, they hurt him on his head. Not on his body. They chose the right spot. The spot that would make it sure.

    I'm grateful to the photojournalists. They did not take any picture of that. I wouldn't want to see him drenched in blood, skull cut open, the brain hanging out. I don't want to see it. I don't want that memory to exist in my mind. I would rather know him as I did. The same tall guy, with that air around him. And that attire. That would be enough.
    I don't want to remember his dead body. Not a bit.

    It was 2015. Suddenly the news came one night, that Avijit Roy is dead. He had been murdered, pretty much the same way.
    At first I couldn't believe it. Slowly, I looked into the thing.

    I stayed up all night.
    The very next morning, I was supposed to attend Youth Leadership Program that Roopban arranged. Xulhaz vai's Roopban.
    Slowly, the dawn came. 5 AM, 6 AM, 7 - the clock moved forward. I was trying to stop crying. And I stopped.
  
 One year ago, I made a girlish dress. While I was in Birishiri, a tribal area of Bangladesh, mostly remembered for a poet named Rafiq Azad. I'm not a cross-dresser. But I wanted a dress like that. I looked for it in my basket, and took it out. And I put it on, for that day.
    It was winter. So I wrapped a shawl all around my body, to hide it. I had to, if I wanted to go in public wearing it. It must not be seen or shown.

    I uncovered it an hour later, when I reached the venue. I was with Roopban, this dress would not cause much fuss there.
    I first met Xulhaz vai that morning. I knew his name, recognized his face, shook his hand. At least my memory tells me so.
  
 The next day, the last part of the program was to be held. I did not wear the dress that day.
    It was my second day with Roopban. The morning's session begun with Suchi Apa. Suchi Karim. A radical feminist, just like me. Exactly the kind of person I was looking for.
    She was such a magical creature! Her speech was hypnotizing, and mesmerizing. Feminist or not, everybody enjoyed her company. And everybody was calling her Suchi Apa, which means Sister Suchi.
   
I raised my hand to speak, in the middle of the session.
    Inwards, I was broken to pieces already by then. It was Avijit Roy's death that sucked up my soul that day.
    Somehow I managed to ask what I wanted to ask: why should we go back to our oppressor? Just because society demands us to respect them? No matter who they are, they might be our mother, our father, or whatever-  but if they are our oppressor, if they are the ones responsible for all the traumas of our life, why should we return to them? Why?
    This is not exactly what I said. But this is close enough. To what I can still remember. I just remember the first sentence vividly: why should we go back to our oppressor?

    While speaking, I had a glance at Xulhaz vai's eyes. His eyes were sparkling, literally. He looked so happy that I stood up, and I said what I wanted to say. The bliss in his eyes was telling me that.
    I won't forget that look, ever.
    It has been a year since then. I did not know him before that.

    One year is not long enough for breeding memories.
    But some memories are born anyway, in this short period of time.

    I'm just regretting one thing. If I knew he would leave the world like this, I would ask him. I would ask him, do you know Xulhaz vai, people who die this way are considered holy in the market? Do you know the people who sell victimology turn dead bodies into icons? Perhaps I did not know you that much. But do you know Xulhaz vai, after your death, you are the most divine face of this country now? Would you love me if you were still alive? Would you?

    I'm telling the truth. If I knew it would happen yesterday, I would go visit him, before the killers come. I would die with him, with pleasure.
    After all, how much blood one can take? One dead body after another, and another. I'm just watching.

    I played a song on my laptop all night. Rajprasader Bondee, which translates into The Prisoners of The Palace. Anupom Roy composed this song. This is the most beautiful song written on LGBT issue in Bengali language so far.
    And I watched a film. In high volume, so that anyone awake nearby could hear the dialogs. Chitrangada, a film of Rituparno Ghosh - perhaps he needs no introduction.
    This is all I could do. So I did what was within my ability.

    I searched for another song, Pokkhiraj, which means Pegasus. A song written by a band, named Cactus. I couldn't find it. Not even on Youtube. It was another gay song I loved.
    This is how my night has passed.

    After waking up, I discovered I'm crying.
    It didn't take long before the tears dried up. But I was still feeling totally
    stiff. My mind, my body, all were stiff. I was still feeling moonstruck. Only my fingers were making the fork dance on the plate. Grain by grain, I was eating. It took me half an hour to finish a plate of rice.
    This was way too much distress than usually what I feel. Too much fatigue. I rarely feel like it. I rarely feel this things this strobgly.

    The memories came on their own.
    It was Pohela Baisakh of Last Year, the first day of Bengali New Year. Xulhaz vai invited me to Roopban's gay pride.
    That day, I had to locate them by asking them repeteadly on phone where they are. They were on the streetside gallery in Shahbagh, called Chobir Hat. Xulhaz Vai was busy with the props & costumes for the rally. He was having a rough time managing them properly.
  He told me clearly, "No sarcasm for today, Tamoso! Not today, not one."
   "Okay! Fine!" I said. I got busy with another friend.
   I didn't talk much with Xulhaz vai that day, either. Only one thing I remember vaguely, the bag he was carrying on his back had the flag of America on it. Or perhaps, it was his tee-shirt. I don't remember which one. Either of them.
         When I got back home, I saw the news. There has been a rape attempt right at the place where we gathered. Just a few minutes after I left that place.

    This was April. I went to Roopban's program in the month before that as well. In 27 Number of Dhanmondi. They published a poetry collection, called Rupongti. As much as I can remember, they invited the poets to recite their work that evening. I too got invited, without having a poem published in that book.
    I took a copy, got home, and finished reading it.
    That book is now resting somewhere in my attic, amidst the cobwebs. I will have to find it. I definitely will.
    Xulhaz vai also wrote a poem. And I do remember one or two lines from it. Something like this: "Some says, on the other side of the river, there lives my beloved mermaids, too."

    Two months after Pahela Baisakh, I got another invitation from Roopban. Ramadan was going on, and it was an Iftar Party.
    As always, he invited us all to his home.
    At that time, my kitchen was messy. I was living alone, and I could never manage my errands. Still, I cooked some sweets for the party.

    When I entered his home, six or seven people were present there. They were playing cards. Not exactly traditional cards. It was UNO. A game I never heard about before. The three letters, U N O, were printed on the backside of each card.
    Xulhaz vai asked, "Wanna play with us?"
    I declined. I said, "I don't know the game."
    "It's easy. Just watch for a while, and you will learn how to play it."
    But I did not play. I took a book instead. A magazine or something, on Nepal or Bhutan.
   
That room was always dimly lit. I went to his home twice. Both times, he kept a faint, though rather lovely light there, coming from a lampshade. I was reading that mag with the help of it.
Suddenly, somebody switched it off.
         "Hey, mister! I was reading it!"
    Xulhaz vai said sorry, and put on the light again.
  
 Then came the Last Letter Game. The usual rule of this game is, one has to start a song with the same letter with which the last song has ended. Somebody proposed to modify the game a bit. Perhaps it was me bringing up the proposal. Perhaps. I don't remember.

    We decided we would play with film names instead. Everyone would try to tell a film's name using signal language. His team members have to decipher it.
    One of them whispered a name in my ear, Jara Bristhite Vijechilo. They drenched in the rain. The name translates into something like that.

    I tried my skill best. Xulhaz vai, Tonoy vai, everyone tried to figure out what I was telling them. Rain, Drenched in Rain, Umbrella, Them, Those people etc etc - they did come up with the almost accurate words. But no one got the actual name of the film.

    After this, we went to the dinning table. This was dinner time. I made a small trouble. While taking the food on my plate, I dropped some on the floor. Everyone got irritated. And they were asking who did this.
    I did confess to some, it was me.
    Someone came, and wiped it off from the floor with a tissue. Was it Xulhaz vai? Might be. He is gone now, probably each one in my memory is now looking like him. It might be someone else, too.
  
 After finishing the dinner, we came back to the drawing room again.
    Xulhaz vai asked me, "What do you do all day?"
    "Well, I just roam around, here and there. With this guy or that. Anyone I can lay my hands on, at all."
    I did give him a vulgar reply like this. We talked for a few more minutes, I guess.
 
  This was the last time I saw him. I did not know it was going to be the last time.
 
  But I did talk with him after that, on Facebook.
    I chatted with him for hours, sitting in a cyber cafe, after a few weeks or months.
    I will keep those messages. Its impossible to erase them. Because it was him, in those messages.
    We last talked ten days ago.

    It was Pahela Baisakh again. And he invited me to the Gay Pride. And I wanted to go.
    At first I wanted to print a tee-shirt for the occasion. I wanted to have the cover of Avijit Roy's book, Samokamita - printed on it. The title of that book translates into homosexuality, the first book ever written on this subject in this country.
  
 I tried to make a tee-shirt like that. I couldn't. People who work in the tee-shirt printing business were either not available, or the cost was too high. So I had to settle for a rather ordinary tee-shirt this time, though it was new.

    The Facebook event said the Pride rally would start at 7:30 AM. I reached at Shahbagh fifteen minutes later. The street side gallery was locked.
    I looked for them everywhere. From this corner to that. They were nowhere to be found.
    I gave Xulhaz vai a message, and told him I did come, but I couldn't find them. So I am leaving.
   
After I got home, I got the news. Four had been arrested from Roopban's rally.
    Xulhaz vai replied to my message two days later.
    That was the last word I heard from him.
   
One by one, ten days have passed since then. One two three four five six... One by one.
    Three days ago, I heard a noise on the roof of my kitchen. A bird was flapping its wings.
    I went to the roof, to see what's the matter. I knew the bird was being hunted down. Either a cat, or an eagle - something was hunting it. But there was no sign of blood. But the bird did fall off from the roof, before I reached there. It was just a bird, nothing else.
  
 Last evening, suddenly I saw a status on Facebook. It said, two had been murdered, along with the editor of Roopban.
    I went to the Facebook page of Roopban right away. Only one article came since then. Dhaka Tribune published it.
    And the evening darkened, I looked around. All the lights nearby were blown out.
    It blacked out.
    I went to the roof.
    I was just walking, and asking myself, "Aren't you feeling anything Tamoso? Where's the grief?"
    I don't know what name is proper for these feelings, grief or something else. Soon enough, an emptiness devoured me.
    I've finished three packets of cigarettes already. I do have a little vodka left in a bottle. I'm thinking whether I should finish it as well.
 
  Xulhaz vai is dead.
    I won't celebrate any Pahela Baisakh ever again. No one will look for me that day, to the least.
    The newspaper said, he will be buried today. Well, I don't want to go.
    Life moves on. Death is lonesome. One has to go away alone.
  
 I saw some people commented on his last status, hope this brings real change in Bangladesh.
    What change? There's nothing to change, and nothing  will.

    These memories are totally personal.
    If I could, I would write a song on him. Or an elegy or something. But no music is coming to me at this moment. With blood before your eyes, music takes leave.

    Now I'm waiting for one another invitation from Roopban. For a protest rally.

    People are protesting his murder in America. Why won't we protest in Bangladesh? No matter how little, there will be some protest somewhere.
    And then, people will forget him. When the time comes.
    But will I ever forget him? Will I ever be able to?

    I will have to carry on this death all my life. As long as I live. I won't be able to forget it, even if I want to. Besides, there's no need to forget it.

    I did want to write it all a little more neatly. I couldn't neaten 'em up. It's
    not happening, at this moment.

    Now the lights are out again. The sun is blazing. Burning. The earth is burning, too.
    Only a little heat is touching my body. A few fangs of fire.
    Just a little hot air, carrying the breath of the dragon far away.

4:11 PM
26 April 2016