I have not written blog for more than six months. Last time I
had written in June last year. Many things have happened during these six
months, both in national and international scenes, and in personal lives also.
The reason for which I could not write is I had troubles with my eyes and I had
to go for operation. After my second operation of the left eye I had a deep abrasion
on the cornea after the wound of the operation is almost healed. That gave me
excruciating pain and it took much time to be normal. I was unable to read and
write. The prolonged illness had completely disorganized me. I am yet to
reorganize myself, though I have fully recovered. However, I am reorganizing
myself and have written a story, the first one after my recovery, which Katha
is publishing in its special February issue.
****
During recuperating period after operation and healing of the
abrasion I had to be confined to my room. I could not read or write. I am in
the habit of reading and I read even when I commute to office sitting in the
bus. Not being able to read is really a great punishment for me. In the novel
The Outsider, Albert Camus has defined punishment as when someone wants something
to do but he is prevented from doing. The main character of the novel has
committed a murder and has been jailed and in the jail, he wants to smoke, but
is not permitted. He considers this as punishment. Later he is used to
non-smoking and then considers the punishment ceases to be punishment, as he no
longer wants to smoke. But I cannot think of a life without books.
During illness, when one is confined to his room and not
allowed to move, read or write, he is in need of the company of friends, at
least, for gossiping and passing time. My friends are busy with their work and
in their own ways. Pradeep and Gopa visited me once after my first operation
and so also Dipankar and Sadasiv. Dipankar loaded in my computer good and my
favourite songs, both of films and classical, which was helpful in passing
time. Swayamprava had visited me after the second operation and spent a few
hours with me and my family. But most of the time I had to listen music or
sleep to kill the oppressive loneliness. If I slept during the day, sleep eluded me in the night. The days were
long, and the nights became longer.
****
Two writers I like met unnatural and untimely death recently.
Jagdish Mohanty’s story, Album was published when I was doing my graduation.
Since then, during my college and university days, I used to purchase the
magazine if it had published Jagdish’s story. Incidentally I was reading a
story from his book, Prema Aprema published by Timepass when my friend Subash
Sadangi telephoned me to inform his death. He was at 61.The other writer,
Suresh Balbantray died at 59. He was to retire from service after 8-9 months.
Suresh had been a great friend. One day I had been to his office on an official
work. I found paintings drawn by him displayed in his office room. In course of
discussion I casually asked him why he had stopped writing stories or poems. He replied,
I cannot write a story better than you nor I can write poems better than
Senapati Pradyumna Keshari. Why should I write? A person with a large heart and
a broad mind could speak like this to a younger writer like me. Whenever in the
evening I went to the old bus stand, the writers' corner I looked for him and he was there to greet
with a smile. I know, henceforth I shall not find him, his warmth and smile in
the old bus stand though I shall look for him whenever I shall go, and the
vacuum will remain forever.
****
The old students of Alaka Mahavidyalay where I was a lecturer
before I joined Finance Service had organized a get together on 12th
January and invited me to attend. Last year and the year before they had also
invited me, but I had not attended. I was there a lecturer exactly for two
years one month and six days. But Manisha says, her friends and my old students
always ask and enquire about me. Among my students, she is only one who has
been in touch with me till today. This time I had also declined, but Prasanna,
once a lecturer there and now a senior officer of Cooperative Service insisted
me on accompanying him.
I could recognize two, Imam and Kalam, and faintly remember
the third, Bhattacharya of more than a hundred old students gathered there.
After all, twenty five years have passed since I left the college. I told them about a chance meeting of an old
student twenty years back when I was working in Satyabadi and while going to my
village. I met him in a canteen at the Cuttack bus stand. I failed to recognize
him, but he recognized and treated me with a hearty breakfast, a pack of
cigarettes of my brand which he had remembered (then I was smoking) and a free
ticket in his bus up to the bus stop nearest my village. I had written a story
on the incident which was published in the Sunday literary page of Sambad under
the caption Chhatra (student). This story is in my collection of short stories,
aampakha lokamane(the people around us).
I enjoyed the day and decided to attend next
time if they organize and remember me.
xxxxx
