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What is God? Perhaps the unknown is destined to remain within the realm of the unknowable. I am certain he endeavoured to reveal something of that mystery, yet I do not believe revelation was his ultimate purpose. Rather, it seems he sought to fashion a different way of seeing—a new pair of eyes through which one might glimpse, however imperfectly, the Supreme Being.

Poem of Nissim Ezekiel

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Humanity—and men in particular—has rendered the art of cross-gender discourse unnecessarily fraught. It is a lamentable reality that, with distressing frequency, offence is given to the opposite sex on a near-daily basis. While this is not an issue exclusive to men, it is often we who struggle to maintain a truly decorous rapport. I contend that the solution lies not in outmoded chivalry, but in a profound, quiet gentleness; this is, indeed, the moral imperative of our time.

This endeavour is not a transient task, yet it is one we must pursue for the sake of the rising generation. It is not essential to be universally liked, but it is vital to be regarded as a man of integrity—one who is neither abusive nor misogynistic, eschewing the labels so frequently and deservingly assigned in our current era. True character is forged from within. Through rigorous self-reflection, one should strive to ensure that tomorrow’s version of oneself surpasses today’s.

History serves as a sombre precursor to a more enlightened future. Having grown weary of the abusive patterns that have plagued both past and present, I believe our salvation lies in our reaction to refusal and the rejection of masculine dominance. Though the path is arduous, it is by no means insurmountable. Ultimately, the quality of our collective behaviour is a matter of individual choice; we must determine the standards of conduct we expect from one another and have the courage to uphold them.

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I am uncertain regarding feline communication; does extant scholarship elucidate this matter? While the investigation into cat-human linguistic interaction is ongoing, a poet may now offer a more profound, nuanced explanation.

Vijay Nambisan

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Upon perusal of this work, the perennial query persists: is this a poem or a philosophical contention? It exercises my mind, compelling me towards the contemplation of further, unexplored realms of existence.

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Arrows into the Abyss

Notwithstanding our vaunted attainments, I proffer this ruminative query to the collective nous: what feats might we have dispatched with greater celerity in bygone epochs? Furthermore, buoyed by the sanguine assurance that posterity shall yield the harvest of our every aspiration, does such sanguine prospect bestow the balm of serene tranquillity upon our ephemeral sojourn? It mirrors the chronicle of yore, wherein we, as vigilant custodians of the relentless tide of time, surveyed the panoply of multifarious martial cataclysms. Verily, I venture to aver that no conflagration—from the Peloponnesian strife to the Pax Romana—approached such apocalyptic disarray. It would constitute a grievous dereliction of historiographical duty to omit the dire diptych of the world's conflagrations, a lacuna tantamount to intellectual malfeasance. Amidst our ostensible progress, the rubble of bellicose aftershocks abounds: the heinous depredations of warfare, the voluptuary slaughters, the doctrinaire exterminations, and the sectarian purges. Have we not wearied our spirits to the very brink of utter prostration with these abhorrent recrudescences? Nonetheless, I presage an ineluctable trajectory towards the most insidious Armageddon etched in the human ledger—the so-called gender imbroglio. Who, one might inquire, hoisted its incendiary standard or forged its baleful inception? Albeit certitude eludes me in this epistemological quagmire, it resembles the futile discharge of a bolt into Stygian obscurity. The perpetrators remain shrouded in enigma; they eclipse our frail dominion. Unbeknownst to us, they command an arcane potency, wielded with Machiavellian finesse to subvert the very codex of human ontology.

[arnaultcavalcanti]

The Seer

One is compelled to question the nature of our current societal discourse: is it a nascent movement, a moribund ideology, or a living, evolving phenomenon? Upon what epistemological foundations can we assert certainty? Each historical epoch is characterised by its own unique deficiencies; however, a contemporary proclivity exists for attributing blame universally whilst eschewing constructive resolution. Indeed, one might observe a conspicuous absence of positive, forward-looking solutions in the current polemical landscape.

Conversely, the exhumation of historical figures for contemporary censure has become a pervasive and facile pursuit. We are engaged in a peculiar form of retroactive adjudication, levelling accusations against a pantheon of historical entities, from the Mughal Empire to Mahatma Gandhi. This constitutes a rather bizarre socio-political function that has emerged in recent decades.

A common counter-argument posits a false equivalence, suggesting that certain political regimes—often those self-identifying as secular—are somehow exempt from historical scrutiny for their role in present-day maladies. To proffer this as a defence is to engage in a fallacy; no historical actor is without blemish. The central quandary, therefore, is to determine the most prudent course of action: to continue participating in this cycle of recrimination or, perversely, to seek pre-emptive retribution in the twenty-first century?

A more progressive philosophy posits that true development necessitates consigning the past to the past, viewing such transcendence as the ultimate form of revenge. Yet, this seems an unattainable ideal amidst the legacy of immense human suffering—from wars and genocides to communal riots. This necessitates a profound ethical inquiry: as a species, what is our path forward? Must the construction of a temple necessitate the destruction of a mosque? The moral valuation of history is less pertinent than the imperative to forge a superior future.

The fundamental premise must be the primacy of the human race itself; all other affiliations are secondary and subjective. The critical juncture we face is an internal one: a choice between confronting the prejudices within our own psyches or continuing to project them onto external, constructed 'others'.

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Remembering My Father, Jacques Lacan ‹ Literary Hub

Remembering My Father, Jacques Lacan

When I was born, my father was already no longer there. I could even say that when I was conceived, he was already elsewhere, he no longer r

Upon reflection, the thesis that emerged is that divinity is an anthropogenic construct. Humanity has historically deified mortal figures, who posthumously become the nuclei of cults of personality. These cults are subsequently subjected to a process of demystification, often through the dissemination of apocryphal myths, insidious rumours, and unsubstantiated allegations. This cyclical process of creation and deconstruction ultimately serves as a profound metaphor for the human condition: we are, in the final analysis, artefacts of our own insatiable epistemological curiosity.

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Basic Humanistic Behaviour

A profound paradox defines the modern socio-political contract: whilst we, the electorate, vest authority in our governing bodies through democratic processes, we subsequently attribute all societal failings to them. We demand from these chosen representatives a fundamental decency and competence in the execution of their duties, yet we fail to engage in the requisite self-scrutiny regarding our own civic and ethical responsibilities.

There exists a glaring hypocrisy between our public discourse and private conduct. We, as citizens, often neglect the most basic humanistic tasks in our quotidian existence and abdicate the core tenet of civic engagement: personal responsibility for the collective good. Our collective memory is notoriously fickle; societal obligations are forgotten with the passing ease of a calendar event.

This begs a critical reflexive question: before levelling accusations at our leaders, ought we not to pose the very same challenges to ourselves? We are quick to assign blame yet demonstrate a chronic reluctance to offer apology or grant forgiveness, thereby perpetuating cycles of grievance.

Furthermore, it is a logical fallacy to hold present and future generations culpable for the historical transgressions of the past. Whilst we rightly confront enduring injustices—caste discrimination, class inequality, racism, homophobia, Islamophobia, and gender inequity—these battles are rendered futile if we refuse to first confront the biases within our own inner sanctums. The most essential struggle is an internal one; a failure to conquer one's own demons inevitably perpetuates a cycle of externalised blame and recurring societal ills.

Ultimately, it is individual choices that forge the world. However, a prevailing ethos appears to have sanctified greed and selfishness, elevating them to the status of de facto fundamental rights. It is this internal moral failure, not merely the failings of institutions, that is fundamentally transforming our world for the worse.

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Though the prospect of this being a congenial matutinal inception remains dubious, my recent hermeneutic engagement with Cioran’s oeuvre—a week-long intellectual sojourn marked by fervent exegesis—has perennially ameliorated my quotidian existence. Whilst traversing the urban sprawl, I would assiduously scrutinise his digitised tracts aboard the omnibus, my gaze intermittently alighting upon fellow commuters, inciting a dialectical interrogation: is he a mere litterateur, or rather a vatic figure whose prescience eclipses mortal cognition? His ontology defies Manichean dualism; he is neither a paragon of virtue nor a monolith of turpitude, but an interstitial entity—a paradoxical amalgam of anthropic frailty and Luciferian sagacity.hastags Emil Cioran

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Some thoughts about Nietzsche by Lou Andreas-Salomé

“I first spoke to Nietzsche during a day in the spring of 1882 in St. Peter’s in Rome, his studied, elegant posture surprised and deceived me. But not for long was one deceived by this recluse who wore his mask so awkwardly, like someone who has come out of the wilderness and mountains and who is dressed conventionally. Very soon a question surfaces, which he formulated in this words: “Whenever a person permits something to become visible, one can ask: what does it hide? From what does it wish to divert someone’s gaze? What preconception should it arouse? And further: to what extreme does the subtlety of this disguise go? And, does he misperceive himself in all that?”

“In proportion of the escalation with his trend, everything which is objective reality becomes appearance–only deceptive veil which isolated depth weaves about itself in order to become a temporary surface intelligible to human eyes. “People who think deeply feel themselves to be comedians in their relationship with others because they first have to simulate a surface in order to be understood”. Yes one can even consider Nietzsche’s thoughts–insofar as they are theoretical expressions- to be part of this surface, behind which silently and profoundly lie inner experiences that have given rise to them. They resemble a skin “which reveals something but conceals even more” hidden under the cloaks of light” referring to those who cloak themselves in the clarity of their ideas.

In every period of his intellectual development, we therefore find a characterizing masquerade in some form or fashion: “Everyone who is deep loves the mask… every profound spirit there continually grows a mask”. “Wanderer, who are you?... Rest here… recuperate? What will serve your recuperation?... My recuperation? My recuperation? Oh, you inquisitive one, what are you saying! But, give me only, I beg… What? What? Say it! – One More mask! A second mask…” …

”And so, he willingly relinquishes personal unity-the more polyphonic the subject, the more it pleases him: Sharp and mild, coarse and fine, Friendly and strange, dirty and clean, Am fool's and wise man's stand-in, All this I am, and want to mean. Dove as well as snake and swine. ("Joke, Cunning, and Revenge," GS, 11) …

”Occasionally folly itself is the mask for an unfortunate unholy all-too-knowing knowledge (BGE, 270); and finally it becomes a deceiving photo of godly laughter which aims to transform pain into beauty. And so, during his final philosophical mysticism, Nietzsche slowly sank into a last loneliness into whose silence we can no longer follow him. Only his idea-masks remain, like symbols and emblems, open to interpretation, while for us he has already become what he once signed himself as in a letter to a friend: "The one eternally lost" 0uly 8, 1881 in Sils-Maria)

.” Nietzsche by Lou Andreas-Salomé Translated by Siegfried Mandel and Theo S. Mandel University of Illinois Press

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Novel Odour

While contemplating the elusive nature of the life we seek, I often reflect on the lack of certainty that pervades our existence, even as we relentlessly strive to bring order to our circumstances. We represent a generation defined by its inherent frustrations, yet we remain determined to make one final, resolute effort. It seems, paradoxically, that for all the personal commitments we have made to ourselves, the losses we have incurred far outweigh our achievements. I frequently find myself ruminating on the promises I made to myself a decade ago. Curiously, the pursuits that currently occupy my time—primarily reading and personal writing—do not align with the conventional metrics of monetary success or professional establishment.

It is challenging to articulate the significance of these activities, but my sustained engagement with Marcel Proust's monumental work, In Search of Lost Time, has been particularly illuminating. Having spent over a year immersed in his magnum opus, I gleaned a profound insight: his meticulous observations of himself and others were fundamentally a form of self-exploration. He seemed utterly unconcerned with the broader world, yet his incisive gaze afforded him an unparalleled understanding of human nature. Proust's work serves as a scathing critique of societal norms, exposing the hypocrisy of human values and morals and laying bare the sheer absurdity of our behavioural patterns.

Before I fell under his spell, I was genuinely at a loss regarding my own station in life. But now, a glorious dawn of comprehension has broken. I am merely a fellow traveller on this tumultuous journey, weathering the same storms as every other soul, all the while casting about for my own glimmer of understanding of the human condition and clinging to the steadfast hope that humanity is not yet beyond redemption.

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In recent times, I have not been accustomed to receiving personal gifts, as I tend to maintain a private demeanour and find contemporary expressions of affection somewhat unfamiliar. My personal philosophical framework is rather idiosyncratic, not readily aligning with the perspectives of even my most intimate associates. My recent birthday was, as per established custom, commemorated with my familial unit, a singular annual occasion I particularly cherish. Subsequently, I was presented with several thoughtful items by my elder brothers, individuals who have consistently provided sagacious counsel and unwavering support throughout my life's exigencies. This recent demonstration of their affection was profoundly moving. Whilst I am proficient in the application of appropriate decorum and civility, the articulation of profound affection, being inherently subjective and intimate, presents a greater challenge. It is my considered observation that genuine altruism is often scarce in contemporary society, with many individuals adopting a disingenuous facade. In stark contrast, my brothers exemplify an extraordinary commitment, consistently demonstrating an unparalleled devotion to their younger sibling. I am thus convinced that the enduring ethos of genuine fraternal solidarity shall persist indefinitely.

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Once upon a time, there existed a humble post office—an institution where letters were received and dispatched with care. In the present era, we seem to have all but forgotten the significance of letters—their emotional depth, their tangible presence. There are certain sentiments, I believe, that can only truly be conveyed through the written letter.

I belong to a generation that stood at the cusp of this fading tradition, witnessing the gradual disappearance of epistolary culture. Emails have undoubtedly become the dominant mode of communication across the globe, yet what they often lack is the profound human touch that letters once offered. The world will inevitably miss the letters of Tolstoy, the epistles to young poets, and a vast multitude of other correspondences too numerous to list.

Among them are the wartime letters—missives sent from soldiers at the frontlines. There is a poignant tale of a soldier from the Second World War who tragically took his own life. It was only posthumously that his mother received a letter in which she discovered that he had been reading the works of Rabindranath Tagore.

Letters, thus, serve not merely as documents of communication, but as vessels of hope. Agha Shahid Ali’s collection of poems resonates in a similar fashion—they instil within us a belief in the human spirit, the struggle for dignity, and the enduring value of empathy. Such writings remind us of our shared humanity and offer a way of coexisting with difference, through dignity and discernment, and with a mannerliness rooted in compassion.

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Yesterday, I was entirely absorbed by the reading of this book. It constitutes the first instance within my experience wherein I have encountered a sustained examination of a poet's faith – whether explicitly enunciated by the poet themselves or subtly embedded within their creative output. Historically, poets have demonstrated a pronounced inclination towards spiritual exploration, frequently immersing themselves in profound introspective contemplation. Within this meditative state, they compose a continuous narrative documenting their existential odyssey.

The poet, in essence, may be considered an architect of a lifelong symphonic composition, perpetually refining the musical arrangement to harmonize with the ever-shifting resonance of their inner being. Within this literary work, we witness a diverse array of poets engaged in a profound introspection – a solitary internal dialogue conducted within the hallowed chambers of their own consciousness.

At birth, individuals are typically assigned a religious affiliation, serving as a pre-determined marker of their identity. However, I posit that the foundational principles of any religious belief system are inherently grounded within the broader discourse of human experience. If a specific religious doctrine fails to champion the fundamental tenets of human dignity and moral rectitude, then a compelling argument can be made for embracing the virtuous precepts of all faiths rather than adhering rigidly to the dictates of a particular religious orthodoxy. Ideally, religion should function as a catalyst for transcendence, providing individuals with the metaphorical wings to ascend beyond the confines of divisive dogma and to cultivate a profound sense of human solidarity, analogous to the vibrant spectrum of colours observed within a celestial rainbow.

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Although I do not subscribe to the notion of change as the ultimate state of being, I acknowledge the profound truth in Heraclitus's observation of its constant and pervasive nature. This inherent dynamism is readily observable in the ongoing evolution of human societies, encompassing cultural shifts, civilizational advancements, and the continual transformation of professional landscapes.

Within the vibrant and culturally diverse region of West Bengal, India, the majestic Howrah Bridge serves not merely as a structural marvel but also as a potent symbol of interconnectedness, embodying the region's unique cultural identity. This iconic structure physically links two major urban centers, while simultaneously reflecting the rich historical tapestry of the region, including its legacy of colonial rule.

I wish to direct your attention to a scholarly work that examines the intriguing phenomenon of "Lost Professions and Lost Tales." This work investigates the intriguing question of whether these once-thriving professions have completely vanished, their existence now shrouded in the veil of obscurity, or whether they have simply receded into the realm of historical memory, their significance now reduced to mere mythical narratives.

Fortunately, the significant contribution of Kinnar Roy, a renowned scholar and author, has shed considerable light on this fascinating subject. His seminal work, "Luptajibika, Luptakatha," transcends mere anecdotal accounts, offering a more rigorous and insightful analysis of these lost vocations."

Not all livelihoods, perhaps, were sources of joy or honour, but they existed nonetheless. Alongside them were countless small things that once filled our daily lives, seemingly insignificant yet omnipresent. Before we could even realise, they vanished, slipping away unnoticed, lost amidst the shifting sands of societal change and crushed under the relentless wheels of the corporate world, taking with them an entire era.

This anthology is a commemorative collection of memories of a bygone time—of pond divers, washermen, street entertainers, water-fetchers, compounders, wet nurses, or the quaint relics of postcards, ink, and pen, mustard chutney, medicinal powders, traditional herbs, or the soothing touch of chilled rock sugar water. These were once essential parts of everyday life, now relegated to obscurity.

This compilation brings together two long-forgotten yet widely discussed books published by Pratikhon years ago, which captured these fading fragments of life and culture—treasured artefacts of a time now almost erased from collective memory .

This discussion delves into professions lost to the currents of time.

With the inexorable march of history, societal norms, cultural practices, and socio-economic frameworks have undergone profound transformations. Naturally, the sphere of occupations has not remained untouched by these shifts. New professions have emerged in response to evolving circumstances, captivating individuals with their novelty, while traditional vocations have either been adapted, marginalised, or rendered obsolete altogether. This is the inexorable law of change.

One such example is the erstwhile sight of bhisti—water carriers—traversing the streets of Kolkata, bearing leather bags filled with water. However, Kolkata was not their sole domain; these bhistis were ubiquitous across northern India, in cities like Delhi, Uttar Pradesh, and Gujarat. The leather bags they carried, known as mashaks, were typically crafted from goat hide.

The term bhisti is etymologically derived from the Persian word behisht or bihisht, signifying "paradise." It is believed that the name commemorates the martyrdom of Hazrat Muhammad's grandson, Hussain (RA), who, while carrying water amidst the Battle of Karbala, succumbed to his injuries, attaining paradise. This historic association bestowed a spiritual and cultural resonance upon the vocation, with the bhistis traditionally bearing the surname Sheikh Abbasi.

During the British colonial era, bhistis were a familiar presence on Kolkata’s streets. Employed under the aegis of the Calcutta Municipal Corporation, they were entrusted with tasks such as cleaning roads and supplying water, earning regular monthly wages. Notably, they served key areas like the Anglo-Indian and Chinese colonies of Park Circus, where their dedication and efficiency garnered societal respect. Literary references further immortalised them—Rudyard Kipling’s poem Gunga Din and Sukumar Ray’s verse Nera Beltolay Jay Koybar both mention these water carriers, with Kipling’s work conferring a sort of literary immortality upon the bhistis.

However, their indispensability gradually waned with the advent of technological advancements. The introduction of roadside taps, hand pumps, municipal water pipelines, and water tankers rendered their services redundant. Today, the presence of bhistis is confined to just two areas of Kolkata—Bow Barracks and Bowbazar. Among these, their services are more prominent in Bow Barracks, particularly within the Anglo-Indian, Chinese, and Muslim quarters. Yet even here, their relevance is diminishing, as manual labour succumbs to the efficiency of mechanisation amidst rising urban demands.

Most bhistis have now abandoned their ancestral profession, resorting to daily wage labour for sustenance. A similar fate has befallen their counterparts in Old Delhi, where the plight of this community has grown dire. According to a report by The Indian Express, only one family in the Shah Dargah area near Meena Bazaar continues to uphold this tradition. However, even they now supply water to restaurants, hotels, and roadside eateries, earning a paltry sum of 15–20 rupees for 30 litres of water. It is evident from such accounts that the extinction of this age-old vocation is but a matter of time.

Much like the bhistis, the numbers of certain other traditional professions are dwindling within the urban landscape. While their condition is not quite as dire, their presence is increasingly restricted to specific areas in northern, central, and southern Kolkata. Nevertheless, these individuals remain an enduring symbol of Kolkata—after the iconic Howrah Bridge and the Victoria Memorial, they are perhaps the next most recognisable feature of the city’s identity. Clad in sweat-soaked vests, knee-high lungis, and gripping the vehicle they cherish, these men sometimes rest under its shade on scorching afternoons.

Hand-pulled rickshaws are a beloved subject of street photographers, offering a nostalgic glimpse of the past. These rickshaws were introduced to India in 1880, first appearing in Simla, the British summer capital. Inspired by Japanese designs, the rickshaw concept spread globally, and India was no exception. Kolkata witnessed the advent of hand-pulled rickshaws in the early 20th century, which challenged the exclusivity of the palki (palanquin) and became a practical mode of transport for the Bengali middle-class workforce. The wheels of these rickshaws were robustly crafted from durable wood, yet the physical labour required to operate them was immense. By the 1930s, three-wheeled cycle rickshaws began to emerge on Kolkata’s streets, followed by auto-rickshaws, pedicabs, totos, and even modern velotaxis.

Today, apart from Kolkata, hand-pulled rickshaws are found in only one other location in India—Matheran, a small, pollution-free hill station near Mumbai where motorised vehicles are prohibited. This unique setting ensures the survival of hand-pulled rickshaws for the time being, but their eventual consignment to the pages of history seems inevitable.

The decline of professions extends far beyond rickshaw pullers. Many vocations that once populated Bengali literature are now either obsolete or facing extinction. For instance, one such vanishing profession is that of the bahurupi—traditional performers who brought various characters to life through their artistry. These performers, often entire families, would roam villages and towns, enacting roles drawn from mythology or folklore. Some relied on elaborate masks, while others showcased their skills solely through makeup. In urban areas, they were colloquially referred to as song.

The bahurupi have been immortalised in literature—most notably in Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Srikanta, where the amusing tale of the performer Srinath captivates readers, as well as in the works of Abanindranath Tagore's grandson, Mohanlal Gangopadhyay. However, as new forms of entertainment gained prominence, such as fixed-stage jatra, group theatre, and ultimately cinema, the bahurupi faded into obscurity. Although a handful of performers can still be found in rural areas like Birbhum, their numbers are dwindling. For instance, in the village of Bishaypur, the Chowdhury family continues to preserve this ancestral craft, with members of all ages dedicated to their vocation. Their performances, primarily based on mythological narratives, are their only source of livelihood, as they lack agricultural land. Yet many former bahurupi performers have abandoned their craft under the pressures of modernisation.

Similar to the bahurupi, another profession fading into oblivion is that of the compounder. Once the indispensable assistants to physicians, compounders prepared medicinal mixtures, applied bandages, and provided basic medical care. In smaller towns, suburbs, and villages, they were often the go-to individuals for primary healthcare when doctors were unavailable. Locals would address them with deference as "Compounder Babu." However, with the advent of pharmacy degrees and specialised training programmes, the role of compounders has been replaced by professional pharmacists, relegating this once-essential vocation to the annals of history.

Among women, too, several traditional professions have vanished. Historically, lower-class women engaged in specific occupations, often within the confines of affluent households. One such profession was that of the napitani—wives of barbers who specialised in applying alta (a red dye) to the feet of aristocratic women. In joint families, young girls and married women alike would adorn their feet with intricate designs of alta, applied with care by the napitani. Over time, as societal norms evolved and middle-class values took precedence, such practices became obsolete, relegated to the occasional wedding or religious festival. The profession of the napitani has long since disappeared.

Two other female-dominated professions tied to the domestic sphere were those of the dhai-ma (midwife) and dudh-ma (wet nurse). The term dhai originates from the Sanskrit word dhatri, meaning "nurturer." In earlier times, childbirth occurred at home, with the dhai-ma supervising deliveries in designated birth chambers (aatur ghar). Equipped with sterilised knives or bamboo slivers for cutting the umbilical cord, these midwives also tended to the newborn for several days post-delivery. In royal households, dhai-mas were entrusted with the long-term upbringing of children, but this practice was rare in ordinary Indian families. Notably, male newborns often fetched higher tips for dhai-mas than female infants—a stark reminder of the patriarchal biases of the time.

In contemporary society, home births have been replaced by institutionalised medical care, and childcare responsibilities are often outsourced to nannies or governesses. While the term dhai-ma endures in some regions, its scope has narrowed significantly, with its primary function now subsumed by modern healthcare systems.

The Dastangoiya

Dastangars, or storytellers, were once the harbingers of oral narratives, captivating audiences in bustling marketplaces with tales of kings, emperors, and folklore. With a mastery of eloquent storytelling, they transported listeners to mythical realms through their vibrant narrations. This profession, akin to street theatre, faded with the advent of cinema and digital media. A parallel can be drawn to the advent of the bioscope, where visual storytelling combined static imagery to enthral the audience. However, it is crucial to distinguish Dastangars from pothi-pathaks (script reciters), who would gather communities at night to read sacred manuscripts. Unlike the Dastangars, pothi-pathaks performed without monetary recompense, serving instead as cultural custodians of their times.

The Palki Bearers

The palanquin, a quintessentially traditional mode of transport in Bengal, was reserved for the affluent and aristocratic classes. Palki bearers, who carried these ornate carriages, were once integral to the cultural fabric, facilitating ceremonial processions, including weddings. However, the advent of modern vehicles has rendered this once-revered mode of transport obsolete.

The Pankha Pullers

The pankha-pullers, professionals tasked with manually operating large hand fans known as aranis or smaller ones called arbakis, have long disappeared. Their services were a symbol of luxury in the courts of kings and feudal lords, signifying opulence and servitude. Modern mechanised fans and air-conditioning systems have reduced this occupation to a relic of the past.

The Snake Charmers

Snake charmers, or sapures, played a dual role in the urban and rural landscapes of Bengal during the Mughal and British periods. While they were primarily employed to remove venomous serpents from human habitations, they also doubled as entertainers, showcasing their art in public spaces. Today, this profession has diminished, largely replaced by pest control services, and its practitioners, often referred to as Bedes, are now known for different trades that deviate from their traditional roots.

The Cotton Carders (Dhunaris)

The craft of cotton carding, an age-old profession, was integral to the making of mattresses, quilts, and cushions. The dhunaris would travel door-to-door, armed with their tools to fluff raw cotton. Over time, this skilled occupation declined as industrialised production of bedding took precedence. Today, descendants of the dhunaris work as labourers in large-scale mattress manufacturing units, far removed from their artisanal past.

The Hookah Makers (Naichaband) and Stick Makers (Tikiawala)

During the heyday of the hookah, Dhaka was renowned as a hub for the finest hookah craftsmanship in the Indian subcontinent. Naichabands, who specialised in making hookah pipes, were predominantly Sylheti craftsmen who fashioned pipes from a variety of woods such as shishu, jam, and jarul. Similarly, the tikiawalas of Dhaka’s Tikatuli area elevated the craft of producing lightweight, high-quality hookah sticks to an art form. The shift in societal habits and the decline in hookah culture have all but erased these trades, leaving behind a legacy of intricate craftsmanship.

The Couriers (Runners)

The profession of the runner, immortalised in Sukanta Bhattacharya's iconic poem Runner, epitomises a bygone era of communication. Originating during the Mughal period, runners were entrusted with delivering messages, letters, and even money across vast distances. They relied solely on their physical endurance and impeccable integrity. The advent of telegraphs, telephones, and eventually email systems rendered this profession redundant, consigning it to history as a testament to human resilience and adaptability.

The professions discussed above, ranging from storytellers to midwives, serve as poignant reminders of the transient nature of human occupations. Driven by technological advancements and shifting societal norms, many trades have faded into obscurity, leaving behind a cultural void. The inexorable march of progress ensures that today’s flourishing professions may one day become mere footnotes in history, reinforcing the cyclical nature of obsolescence in human civilisation.

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Star friendship.— We were friends and have become estranged. But this was right, and we do not want to conceal and obscure it from ourselves as if we had reason to feel ashamed. We are two ships each of which has its goal and course; our paths may cross and we may celebrate a feast together, as we did—and then the good ships rested so quietly in one harbor and one sunshine that it may have looked as if they had reached their goal and as if they had one goal. But then the almighty force of our tasks drove us apart again into different seas and sunny zones, and perhaps we shall never see one another again,—perhaps we shall meet again but fail to recognize each other: our exposure to different seas and suns has changed us! That we have to become estranged is the law above us: by the same token we should also become more venerable for each other! And thus the memory of our former friendship should become more sacred! There is probably a tremendous but invisible stellar orbit in which our very different ways and goals may be included as small parts of this path,—let us rise up to this thought! But our life is too short and our power of vision too small for us to be more than friends in the sense of this sublime possibility.— Let us then believe in our star friendship even if we should be compelled to be earth enemies.

Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science: With a Prelude in Rhymes and an Appendix of Songs

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In the distant past, I encountered the poignant strains of a ghazal composed by the esteemed Makhdoom Mohiuddin, a lyrical masterpiece that continues to resonate within the recesses of my memory. Frequently, I am beset by an ineffable yearning, pondering whether, by some fortuitous circumstance, there exists within the vast expanse of this earthly realm an individual possessing the profound patience elucidated within those verses. To persevere in expectation, as he so eloquently articulated, is not merely an exercise in futility but rather a meticulous sculpting of hope upon the altar of another's existence – a selfless devotion unburdened by the shackles of guilt, untarnished by the corroding influence of remorse. One cannot but ponder: is the object of such unwavering anticipation even cognizant of the solitary figure who would willingly expend an entire lifetime in such pious vigil?

Within this ghazal, the nocturnal tableau unfolds with poignant intensity, wherein the lunar radiance, typically a harbinger of romantic reverie, is transmuted into a malevolent affliction. The stillness of the night, far from offering solace, metamorphoses into a palpable solitude – a cacophony of loneliness perceptible only to the soul ensnared within its suffocating embrace. Such is the paradoxical beauty of the nocturnal landscape: an arena of quiescence that pulsates with the agonizing rhythm of a desolate heart.

By a curious stroke of fate, I stumbled upon another ghazal, penned by the illustrious Faiz Ahmed Faiz, bearing the identical title as Mohiuddin's original composition. This masterful elegy, crafted in tender remembrance of the departed poet, serves as an exquisite testament to the enduring resonance of Mohiuddin’s verses. It would afford me immense pleasure to share this rare gem with all of you.

aap ki yaad aati rahi raat bhar

chandni dil dukhati rahi raat bhar

gah jalti hui gah bujhti hui

sham-e-gham jhilmilati rahi raat bhar

koi KHushbu badalti rahi pairahan

koi taswir gati rahi raat bhar

phir saba saya-e-shaKH-e-gul ke tale

koi qissa sunati rahi raat bhar

jo na aaya use koi zanjir-e-dar

har sada par bulati rahi raat bhar

ek ummid se dil bahalta raha

ek tamanna satati rahi raat bhar

Book : Nuskha Hai Wafa (Pg. 619)