বিষয় : সাত পেরিয়ে সতেরোর বইমেলায় গুরু
বিভাগ : অন্যান্য
শুরু করেছেন :pi
IP Address : 220.127.116.11 (*) Date:06 Jan 2017 -- 12:33 PM
IP Address : 18.104.22.168 (*) Date:04 Feb 2017 -- 05:54 PM
pi কাল যাচ্ছি বইমেলায়, বউও সাথে যাবে। এই প্রথম মিলন মেলায় যাচ্ছি।
যখন রবিন্দ্র সদনের সামনে হতো বইমেলা, তখন একটা বই কিনেছিলাম। ঐ প্রথম আর ঐ শেষ। দেখি কাল কি হয়।
IP Address : 22.214.171.124 (*) Date:04 Feb 2017 -- 07:24 PM
ইন্টারেস্টিং বইপত্র কে কি কিনল সেগুলোও একটু থাকুক। রিভিউ মতো ইত্যাদি থাকলে আরো ভালো।
IP Address : 126.96.36.199 (*) Date:04 Feb 2017 -- 09:40 PM
আমার একটা আইডিয়া মাথায় এসেছে , পরের বছর বই মেলায় প্রকাশকরা তেলে ভাজা স্টোল এ রাখলে হয়তো বইটই একটু বেশি বিক্রি হওয়ার আশা থাকবে ।
IP Address : 188.8.131.52 (*) Date:04 Feb 2017 -- 09:51 PM
ব্রিটিশরা ডেসক্রিপটিভ ক্যাটালগ বানাতো পাবলিশড বইপত্রের। গিল্ড কি একটুও শিক্ষা নিতে পারে না?
১৮৬৭ থেকে ১৯৪৭ অবধি ছাপা বইয়ের লিস্টির জন্য এখনো ব্রিটিশ লাইব্রেরিকে ধন্যবাদ দিতে হচ্ছে। বাংলা বইয়ের জন্যেও।
১। কারুবাসনা-র মহীন ক্রোড়পত্র ভালো হয়েছে।
২। বাঘের বাচ্চা-র সুবিমল মিশ্র, বাসুদেব দাশগুপ্ত-র পর সুভাষ ঘোষ নিয়ে গোটা সংখ্যার কাজ, ভালই বলা উচিত, এই দূর্দিনে।
৩। ভাষাবন্ধন থেকে নবারুণ ভট্টাচার্য-র 'জোড়াতালি' (এখনো অগ্রন্থিত কিছু লেখা) না কিনে পরের বছর নতুন পরিবর্ধিত সংস্করণের জন্য অপেক্ষা করা যেতে পারে। কিন্তু সেখান থেকে মবিনুল হক-এর অনুবাদে মান্টো, ইসমত চুঘতাই আর পাকিস্তানের উর্দু গল্প কিনে ফেললাম। পড়ে দেখা যাক।
৪। গল্পসরণী-র বই মান্টোর একমাত্র উপন্যাস শিরোনামহীন (১০০ টাকা প্রিন্ট) ৬০ এ না দিলে নেবেন না। বরং নতুন শতক-এর সেপ্টেম্বর ২০১১ ইস্যু তে ওই একই উপন্যাস ছাপা আছে। সেটাও ১০০ টাকা দাম, এবং ৬০-এ পাওয়া যায়। একই লোকের অনুবাদ - পুষ্পিত মুখোপাধ্যায়। বইতে শুধু বংশপঞ্জী, জীবনপঞ্জী আর গ্রন্থপঞ্জী একস্ট্রা। সেটা গল্পসরণীর মন্টো র নির্বাচিত বইতেও আছে, সেটা কিনে নেবেন বরং। ১৫টা গল্প। ১৫০ টাকা ছাপা। ১০০ তে পাবেন। নতুন শতক-এর ও একটা মান্টো ক্রোড়পত্র সংখ্যা আছে। ১৫০ টাকার বই ১০০ তেই দেয়। দেখতে পারেন।
৫। ফাটাফাটি হয়েছে গতবছরে বেরোনো সংবর্তক-এর প্যারীচাঁদ মিত্র সংখ্যা। ৯০২ পাতার বই (৩৭৫ টাকা প্রিন্ট) ২৮০ টাকায় কেনা গেল বলে শুধু নয়, ওঁকে নিয়ে ৩০ টা নতুন ও ৮ টা রিপ্রিন্ট প্রবন্ধ, ওঁর লেখা আলালের ঘরের দুলাল, মদ খাওয়া বড় দায় জাত থাকার কি উপায়, রামারঞ্জিকা, কৃষিপাঠ, ডেভিড হেয়ারের জীবনচরিত, রাইয়ত, প্যারীচাঁদ ও রাধানাথ শিকদার সম্পাদিত মাসিক পত্রিকা, ও ৯টা ইংরিজি প্রবন্ধ ছাপা হয়েছে, সাথে জীবনপঞ্জী ও বংশলতিকা। কালেক্টেবল অবশ্যই।
IP Address : 184.108.40.206 (*) Date:04 Feb 2017 -- 10:26 PM
Shenanigan’s Wake – Kolkata Bookfair and the Art of Guerrilla Reading ;-)
Sarthak, a poet barely into his teens came to Santiniketan chasing two sisters with requisite ambivalence on preference as young poets do and as Arturo Belano, another teenage poet, actually did in Roberto Bolano’s wonderful Savage Detectives set in Mexico City of 1970s. I got to know him through a childhood friend of mine. Sarthak was also anxious to taste the famous local weed, in poetic moderation of course, and we could realize from the way he wore his unbuttoned shirt that he was open to the idea of getting horizontal in case opportunities presented themselves. We did not have much of sanskara, being teenagers before revivalism became fashionable around a little known mosque and its famous debris again in 1990s. We found his motive reasonably legitimate for men of his age during peacetime, in view of the grave responsibility of extending it.
The time was the autumn of 1985, he was apparently trying to skip the mad bustle of Kolkata during Durga Puja. He will read and write for two weeks in peace, an older boy in the entourage announced, after sharing backstage gossip that apparently Sarthak even had a Marley tee shirt. We were in awe, a 15 year old trying to find peace to write. This was unheard of in my area. Normally personal peace was only necessary when some hot fiction could be smuggled into the bed room or when one needed to sneak out to see an American film in a ‘video hall’. The idea of public peace was entirely political and was not shy of the decibel score, rhyming with Vietnam or Naxalbari when spelt, depending on the camp you belonged to in the meaninglessly sectarian pre-Kanhaiya or should I say pre-Modi student left movement. Also nobody I knew needed a very personal peace that winter in India, one lanky debutant called Mohammad Azharuddin was in form and Laxman Sivramakrishnan was making batsmen dance.
But in Santiniketan, the main university campus was actually completely quiet due to festival holidays, boarding halls being empty, with even weed dealers taking it easy and not many girls were around. The peace became little too unbearable for the young poet, who was already clearly smitten with his love for the massive madness called Kolkata, he could not stand being away, the sisters did not have much chance. He had to leave next day abandoning the masterpiece project and went on to become a bit of a teenage sensation in the learned circles of Bengali kabi sammelan circuit. Senior poets insisted on ‘discovering’ him until he was in his late 30s as he wrote alternatively forlorn and frustrated angry poems until out of boredom and complete absence of any family money, he fled to teaching Economics. This book fair 2017, he is being discovered again , the only change is, this time it is by a younger publishing startup who are trying to find lesser known poets for a new generation of millennial readers.
However in those 24 hours, a far greater damage to Bengali readership was rendered. Sarthak created the myth called Kolkata Book Fair in minds of his spellbound country groupies and all of us suddenly wanted to read lesser known writers in Bengali.
Apparently the book fair was the real abode of peace, where poets and novelists that nobody ever heard of, could meet, sing, smoke weed and drink bangla or chullu depending on mood or the trial sequence of the day. One could those days also steal books with noble intention of reading them before selling them off to discerning readers for more weed, They could impress each other enough to share food, discuss Said, Foucault, Derrida, Weber, Popper and Kierkegaard and the ever present Mao. Karl was clearly getting on in his years, as the bald man with a map of Italy on his forehead seem to suggest from Moscow.
I discovered Sarthak’s own attempted translations of Lorca, most probably some notes on Tushar Ray’s work and heard the names of Nicanor Parra and Dylan Thomas with serious scoff that I never heard of any of them before. Suddenly my faint acquaintance with Jeebanaananda and Samar Sen sounded old fashioned and reading of Nazim Hikmet in Subhash Mukhopadhyay’s translations looked ideologically bogeyed. Though he did blink his eyes when he saw a Rilke in my room but I did not have the courage to confess I never read him though I was sure I was already caught pants down.
We also got to read some of his own stuff,
‘you will find me in the abandoned cha shops late in the night, in the dry skinned, veined sick bloodless hands of the old crippled woman who has her bed by the quietly burning coal’
is the only line I remember, or so is my claim. He had real talent in metered poems, and we should have killed the fellow who introduced him other forms at such a young age.
None I knew had a car, Santiniketan was bit of a Pleasantville at that time, all roads leading to itself. My chance encounter with Sarthak and his leather bag of old books and half torn drafts of scrappy poems and of course the smell of weed with the background sound of Bengali Aulia music, was the nearest I ever got to Kerouac without being further than 2 kilometers from home. It felt fine.
I was well into Bengali masters but detested what passed as literary fiction in popular journals or even what was coming from socialist realism progressive camp which was very interesting in the beginning but lost some of the creativity and vigorous engagement needed to sustain it. Political sectarianism created reels of revolutionary kitsch. Due to the serious and then more crippling problem in distribution of less known experimental writers, we never got our hands on those brave souls who started writing in 50s apart from those who were lucky enough to get some award. Much later in the 90s when radical fiction in Bengali was seriously shaken by Nabarun, Akhtaruzzaman Ilias and Shahidul Jahir, we started rediscovering many, including Nalini Bera, Udayan Ghosh, Amiya Bhushan, Shyamal Gangyopadhyay and of course Shaukat Ali, just out of yearning for reclaiming our language.
Back to 1985, it was also a year I read Anna Karenina in a not so good desi edition, a book on May 1968 in Paris which had Daniel Cohn Bendt’s photograph on the cover and Maupassant’s Bel Ami which had the famous Toulouse Lutrec woman with that elaborate feather hat. All big names sounded completely useless in contrast with those pages with terrible handwriting in Sarthak’s workbooks. The time of our life that was clouding everything else.
My head spun a bit with an idea of freedom of soul that did not need props like the motorcycle or a guitar or a rifle or party program reader or even a Russian classic in a Soviet publication. It became instantly clear that there was stuff to catch up on and there was no way that stuff would ever make it to the university library. The other Bengali poets he was talking about had a singular charm in the real or absolute certainty of immediate oblivion or extremely limited readership. These artistes of course were apart from those who would use their depleted social situation as a sort of victimhood and gain some quick fame probably also under pressure from livelihood issues. Given the wind of that particular time, dreams of freedom being dead, both the requiems and real and imagined stories of disillusion were selling well. Political change was also no more on agenda.
Santiniketan was founded by Rabindranath Tagore in beginning of 20th century when he got disgusted with the colonial pedagogy. At time of founding and until much later, this was middle of nowhere in the laterite district of Birbhum. The place became bit of an academic colony as years went by, posing a challenge of sort to us, the children of the intellectuals who thronged there in the 1950s and 60s with dreams of experimenting with the idea and methods of education after the university started expanding with federal funds. It was like being the children of hippies who never went back to where they came from and who stopped being hippies falling for security of mainstream academia. Personally I seriously struggled with the fact that we were from nowhere.
We were seen as posh yuppies clearly because our relatives were the top 1% in the district who had jobs of any kind, as most of the locals were in some real barely surviving small trade or subsistence farmers or their impoverished casual labor with zero social security. With the risk of a crass generalization, I guess we can say, those who made it to the university were the children of families with landed interests with assorted conservative ideas about life and culture thinly covered with Bengali nationalism of pre independence years, untouched by its more secular progressive form articulated from the time of Food movements and the liberation of Bangladesh.
So, in a sense, whatever I was reading apart from Tagore, I particularly liked late Tagore, was actually a cultural tourism. Things we noticed in nature had reference to his songs rather than direct experience reflected. The fact that I liked Tolstoy was nearly as absurd as my failure to appreciate Jasimuddin. The nature this incredible poet described was not around us, the people he described were probably to be found everywhere, but my eyes were not ready. Uncomfortable in urban, rural even suburban or refugee milieu, disconnected from counter culture articulations of 60s and early 70s, we were really from nowhere having nothing to write about in spite of having plenty to read.
I guess only in Tarashankar I found some connect, probably because Tarashankar was from Birbhum. Personally in Kishen Chunder and Prem Chand, I guess many of us started getting vague glimpses of an India that did reside outside Bengal and that it was in trouble but only in Kishen Chunder, probably because of what I picked up of him, I found a voice I wanted to hear at 14.
So Sarthak and other contemporaries held some promise for us simply because it was not the age to care if the angst had any life beyond the end of school. Some folks around us had more concrete ideas about themselves, and they were already writing.
Ashim Chattaraj was challenging the primacy of Kolkata or suburban experience in contemporary literature, the steel plant city of Durgapur was his place. There he saw music, prose, magic and its death in the phase when policy emphasis on Public Sector enterprises gave way to serious disinvestment and closures of factories in late 80s. He did experiment with bits and pieces of Mahabharata as he could not get enough of that, but I guess I connected most to his plays set in the steel city dystopia. I still feel grateful to him, he gave me my first John Osborne to read and got to me to read Manik very carefully.
Ahana Biswas, a quiet girl who came to study with us in pre-university had such power in her early feminist pen that we did not have a place to hide after reading her when she was in her teens. Books became what they were not meant to be, a sanctuary for escaping conversation, she did shake us up at that time.
Sabya Sanyal, an editor aged 17, asked me to ‘consider’ writing memoirs, I was 19. Glancing through Neruda could help, he suggested. I should have killed him, but he was the only Left voter in the department of Botany and in the interest of dwindling prospects of the working class movements in the world with imminent fall of the Berlin wall, I kept him alive. He also published my first short story which was so autobiographical that some characters came to meet me with questions and some sticks the morning after.
With memories of sharp midday sun and shadows the lonely dark brown fat kubo birds looked for, I had to leave behind Tagore and his Birbhum in Punashcha. As a travelling saIesman, I started discovering books and corners to read them all over the country. I think I was incredibly fortunate to discover Ibsen in an endless night of waiting in the tiny railway station of Deoghar and was terribly lucky to find the memoir of Hector Berlioz in a newspaper stand in Asansol which I had to time to read only in Sahebgunj waiting to be eaten by a mouse which looked like a pig that terrifying night in ₹ 5 a night Dharmashala.
In a brief sojourn in a school in Uttarkashi, had the improbable luck to meet Zubin Driver, the young playwright. After knowing me for half a week, he gave me a bag load of books and then disappeared in Mumbai, advising me not to laze around. Needless to add he did not use the word ‘laze’. Also met Chhetriji there, who told me how he read everything that was to be read by and about Rahul Sankrityayan in Mussouri before deciding to quit his law practice falling for a Garhwali assistant and settling in remote Devidhar 10 kms off the road from Haridwar to Gangotri. He said he has kept all his Beatles records and other books purchased from western travelers locked in a suitcase under kept in a dark corner and had no plans to open it until his daughter was at least 30 who was then 5. He was one hanikarak bapu. I think it was Prabha, a senior professor, who I met through Zubin, gave me Chronicle of Death Foretold to read, which I finished the night before I fled Uttarkashi superimposing the helpless cruelty of Angela Vicario towards Santiago Nassar with the face of a girl I happened to know, who decided to fall for a boy who in spite of the great historical advantage of having a motorbike never showed any interest in landing up in Argentina.
A few jobs, a few girls, a wife and a soulmate and about 15 years later I guess I was back in Kolkata and discovering three things full of possibilities. Bengali writing was possible on the internet so blabbering became an official form, then it was much easier to read really young writers from Bangladesh due to great progress on font uniformity made by its young bloggers who were still alive and the finally I found most radical place on the face of earth as well. It was the office meeting room, because with a busy sign on the door, you could read Nabarun Bhattacharya for hours, as long as the deadlines were unaffected or could be pushed. Poker face was an essential skill now part of global survival kit.
The more interesting stuff in creative function is still getting written in Bangladesh. But I am not entirely hopeless about fiction in West Bengal after I read Uttam Purokait and Kaushik Dutta even though it seems the unbelievably talented Indra Ghosh Dastidar has taken a self-imposed exile. Amitava Malakar’s writing on street food and their back breaking sellers broke from tradition delineating food writing from the indelibly intertwined fusion and elite tradition. I am less hopeful about serious theory and big ticket non-fiction writing in general history or say science writing reaching common readers, as long form writing has taken serious beating in this age of social networking. Book fair gives us the time to think and celebrate the forgotten while cheering in the new writers. To find poets like Tushar Ray, like we found Ananya Roy a couple of years ago is a rare reading scoop. And I am not worried about new poets, simply because Poetry is seriously rare art and there is no evidence that there is suddenly a lack of interest in poetic expression among the young people of our language discounting of course the limits of quality education and the resultant freedom of thought.
What I see as a serious problem is the place of prominence granted to endless rows of media, telecom, banks, food stalls and other businesses of all sizes including jewelry retailers occupying more and more space with ware that have got nothing to do with books, a few years ago these were the now discredited dodgy finance organizations, one I remember was trying to sell commodity bonds. This is in the backdrop where independent publishers including tiny little magazines or book sellers are squeezed into exhibition halls or tents, transforming the pleasures of book browsing and adda between book lovers as problems to paying participants and stall owners. I am not even sure if the organizers consider books and publications to be their central ware anymore, small and not so small local brands of Kolkata seems to be piggybacking on kolkata’s love of books and their joyous reaction to depressingly pedantic distribution business. Lack of interest outside heart of Kolkata is generally thrown as an excuse, district and town book fairs are quite common for nearly a decade or even more. It is unthinkable, in the age of Flipkart and Amazon, we need to wait for the book fair to get our hands onto an authentic experiment or a well researched essay written in Bengali. The publishers on their part need to come out of this book fair orientation in their product planning schedule and they need to make distribution choices and investments or at least lobby the government to incentivize that. I am not sure who is being helped if a Bhedia or Balurghat or a Hyderabad based reader cannot get everything that a College street resident can. Languages other than Bengali, I am not sure are as celebrated as organizers want them to be, I see plenty of Urdu and Hindi bookshops, other North Bengal or Eastern Indian cultures are also officially represented but there seem to be few takers.
The book fair is a funny mix of traditional boring stuff, classics, completely hyped rubbish in name of new writing and rare thoughtfulness, with assorted squabbles and myopia and a genuine celebration of what is essentially a regional language in India with big participation from small publishers and individual readers. After all where else in the world would I receive a post card from a publisher, inviting us to visit their stall and then compelled to buy the only new title out that year only after the 5th visit because apparently the press guy has a relative’s wedding to attend in Mongolia. Not a half chance in Jaipur.
Independent publishing in age of self-publication is in a problematic zone, access to high quality digital technology to wide variety of individuals creates a situation on when monolithic publication houses with iron fist on distribution networks are challenged to at least invest in book design. The dearth of long lasting serious talent was and is a problem and is probably a good problem to have because that lure of immortality drives part of this business, and in this madness hopefully not completely conquerable by commerce still being untouched by big retail, I don’t mind waiting for those writers who are compelled to write when their heads are turned unbearable by their own time or something more intangible inside. And down with the fuck who had the bright idea of getting jewellery stores in the fair.
IP Address : 220.127.116.11 (*) Date:04 Feb 2017 -- 10:58 PM
ক্লিয়ারলি আমি সার্থক এর বই বেরোনোয় খুব খুশি। তবে আমার ধারণা ও আরো ভালো লিখেছে ও লিখবে।
Name: ranjan roy
IP Address : 18.104.22.168 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 12:10 AM
কাল বইমেলায় বিকেল চারটে অব্দি থাকবো। কিন্তু যে হারে তুমি বুড়োদের চুমু টুমু খাওয়ার কথা বলছ তাতে ভয় পাচ্ছি। ঃ((
বাকি আড্ডা/ গ্যাঁজানোর জন্যে তো আছিই।
Name: ranjan roy
IP Address : 22.214.171.124 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 12:11 AM
মনীশ কি নাকতলায় উঠেছ?
IP Address : 126.96.36.199 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 12:42 AM
রন্জনদাকে আর কিছু বলার নেই।
Name: ranjan roy
IP Address : 188.8.131.52 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 12:46 AM
আমি কি খুব লিমিটের বাইরে ইয়ার্কি মারলাম? তা হলে সরি! কিছু বলার আগে আর একটু হিসেব করব।
IP Address : 184.108.40.206 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 01:05 AM
না। এই পোস্ট নিয়ে কিছু বলার নেই বলি নি
IP Address : 220.127.116.11 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 07:36 AM
বুড়োদের চুমু খাওয়া যদি অপরাধ হয় তো এটুকুই বলা যেতে পারেঃ নো কান্ট্রি ফর ওল্ড মেন।
Name: ranjan roy
IP Address : 18.104.22.168 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 07:48 AM
IP Address : 22.214.171.124 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 09:56 AM
আমিও খানপুর রোডে থাকি। আজ দেখা হচ্ছে। কিন্তু PT র কথা মতো যদি এত হাটতে হয় তবে গেছি।
IP Address : 126.96.36.199 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 10:13 AM
টাকে তো এফসি দেওয়াই যায়। বুড়ো অর নো বুড়ো।
IP Address : 188.8.131.52 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 04:48 PM
এইটা পেলাম আজকের কাগজে -
Name: ranjan roy
IP Address : 184.108.40.206 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 10:05 PM
আমিও খানপুর রোডের সঙ্গে লাগোয়া গলিতে,। ফোনে যোগাযোগ হতে পারে? তাহলে ডিরেকশন দিয়ে দেব।
আমার ফোন ৮৫৮৩০৪১৩৯৫।
IP Address : 220.127.116.11 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 10:26 PM
এর পরের আড্ডায় আমাকেও ডেকে নিও রঞ্জনদা........
IP Address : 18.104.22.168 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 10:40 PM
এবারের বইমেলা শেষ। শুনোলাম পরের বছর বইমেলা চলে যাবে ইকো পর্কে। সে নাকি রাজারহাট ছড়িয়ে কাঁহা কাঁহা মুল্লুকে। আদৌ যেতে পারবো কি না কে জানে?
Name: ranjan roy
IP Address : 22.214.171.124 (*) Date:05 Feb 2017 -- 10:47 PM
জমবে তখন জমবে ভাল মধুবংশীর গলি!
Name: সিংগল k
IP Address : 126.96.36.199 (*) Date:06 Feb 2017 -- 03:37 AM
শেষবেলার গুরুচন্ডা৯র একটিই মাত্র ছবি দেব -
কেয়ামতের দিনটি বোধহয় এসেই পড়ল!!
IP Address : 188.8.131.52 (*) Date:06 Feb 2017 -- 09:33 AM
মামু প্রথম কদিন বাইবেল চাই বাইবেল চাই করে সবার কাছে এমন হেদিয়ে মরেছিল যে শেষবেলায় মামুর উপহারস্বরূপ সাত কি আটটি নূতন নিয়ম জমা হয়েছিল। এটি তারই একটি।
কেউ কেউ আবার গুরুর হই বলে কেনার ইচ্ছাও প্রকাশ করেছিলেন। দশ কি কুড়ি টাকায় কিছু বিক্রি ও হয়ে গিয়ে থাকতে পরর।
IP Address : 184.108.40.206 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 11:14 AM
হনু আর ব্ল্যাঙ্কি দুজনেই কোথায় হাওয়া হয়ে গেল রে বাপু!!
IP Address : 220.127.116.11 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 03:45 PM
কল্লোলদা, রন্জনদা, পিটি আর বাকিরা সক্কলে কি এখন কলকাতায়? রোববার করে একদিন বসা যাবে নাকি ?
IP Address : 18.104.22.168 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 03:48 PM
কল্লোলদার ইকো পর্কের ভয় টাও ভেঙ্গে যাবে এই ফাকে ঃ) যদি আমার ফ্ল্যাটে আড্ডা হয়। আমার ফ্ল্যাট ইকোপার্কের কাছেই
IP Address : 22.214.171.124 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 07:34 PM
সরি পিএমদা, ইকো পার্ক সম্বন্ধে কল্লোলদাকে ক দিলাম। তার মধ্যে এখন রাস্তা ১/২ হয়ে গেছে। ২৫ ডিসেম্বর এয়ারপোর্টে যেতে গিয়ে কাঁদিয়ে ছেড়েছিল
IP Address : 126.96.36.199 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 08:09 PM
২৫ থেকে ১ তারীখে হাল এবার সত্যি খুব খারাপ ছিলো।---১ তারীখে আমার ফ্ল্যাটে কিছু স্কুলের বন্ধুদের গেট টুগেদার হয়েছিলো--- একজনের অ্যাক্সিস মল থেকে আকান্খ্যা মোর আসতে ২ ঘন্টা লেগেছিলো ঃ( --- ঐ সময়্টা ছাড়া আর বিশেষ সমস্যা নেই। আমি যদিও ওখানে রেগুলর থাকি না ও তল্লাটে ঃ)
IP Address : 188.8.131.52 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 09:49 PM
পিএম। আড্ডা মারতে একইন বা তেমন হলে হপ্তায় একদিনও যাওয়া যেতেই পারে। তোমার লুরুর হোটেল আমার তখনকার বাসা থে প্রায় ৪০ কিমি ছিলো। তাতে কিছু আটকায় নি। কিন্তু পরপর ১০দিন আসাযাওয়া খুব চাপের ভাই।
কলকাতায় থাকলে চলে এসো। মার্চ অবধি তো আছি-ই।
IP Address : 184.108.40.206 (*) Date:07 Feb 2017 -- 11:05 PM
আমি তো আসা যাওয়ার পথের ধারেই থাকি-আর গেলে শনি, রবি-ই প্রধানতঃ..........
IP Address : 220.127.116.11 (*) Date:08 Feb 2017 -- 04:45 AM
একদিন ফোনাফুনি করে চলে এসো ভাই।
IP Address : 18.104.22.168 (*) Date:15 Feb 2017 -- 11:06 AM
আগরতলা বইমেলায় উবুদশ আর বইঘরে গুরুর বই আছে। মেলা আছে আরো এক হপ্তা।
অনেক পাঠক আসছেন, বই খুঁজে খুঁজে, কেউ কেউ হাম্বা পড়তে শুরু করে বাকি বই নিয়ে যাচ্ছেন, কেউ এসে যা যা বই নেই, তার সব ব্যাগে ভরে নিয়ে যাচ্ছেন। মেলায় গিয়ে আলাপ হল জানতে পারছি, অনেকেই সাইটেরও নী পা !
এখানে রেডিও থেকেও নিয়ে গেল গুরুর বইপত্র নিয়ে সাক্ষাৎকার।
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