My buttons got pushed

==================================================================
Your Mom

Things don't have to be new to hurt.
Things don't have to be old to matter.
Beauty and history are different things --
Shooting stars last
Barely for a minute.

My glimmer of hope;
My gales of unexpected comfort;
My struggle to keep my feet on the ground
Just how he would have liked
Because intelligent intellectual modern men
Like stable women sure of their worth,
Because intelligent intellectual modern men
Should like the woman I want to be...!
My discomfort
With who I sometimes am not
Fits nowhere.
Men of yore will stifle and ask for surrender,
Men of now will drown you in rightful care,
Men in the middle will laugh --

And I haven't hugged a woman in ages.
I haven't felt solidarity
Because we all hide vulnerability
Because vulnerability is feminine and feminine is hate.
Weak women are subhuman toys for the boys.
Strong women are superhuman machines
Whose existence is evidence that we don't need feminism.

Your mother raised you to speak your mind to men and women alike
And so the whole world must be fine now for women like me
Because equality is warped to mean we all must hide our souls.
Respected women are women who act like the men of yore
And other women,
Like the one disgusted you sometimes suspects I am,
Are your guilty muses,
To be moulded into art or sculpture or fantasy or bedclothes
Or queens or goddesses or porn
Or your mother --

And I say it should be simpler.
No rules to laugh, rules to speak,
Rules around
Who to be around,
About the right amount of fear,
Whom to let yourself be near,
Rules to hug, to shed a tear,
Rules to love.
Love
Should be allowed:
On both sides, and as it is;
On both sides, crazy or sane;
On both sides, brave and sweet --

And a man should be allowed
To be swept off his feet.
==================================================================

I wrote this a long time ago after binging on slam poetry videos. I didn't think it was any good but I kept it. Today, I wanted to post because it's been a while, and had nothing else to post, so I finally folded and posted the longest complete piece from my Google Keep.

I Would Start A Series But I Do Not Trust My Creativity

=============================================
Divergence

I picked you up, sweet test of faith,
In the vagrant days
When good old friend ruination and I
Ambled 'long our ways.
The halls of black and cowering rage
Would tremble in your wake
And I stepped off my brazen trail
For expectation's sake.

I held you close, my safest place,
When you had lost your own
And here, like branches forever twined,
Twistedly we have grown.
How much they spoke, the sightless beasts!
How much they spat and clawed!
Oh, how seethed the angered men,
And women deathly awed!

And then your hand, my solitude,
In mine I softly pressed;
Knew I, as ruination and I
Lay in bed undressed --
'Tis in faith our bravery lies,
And our encumbrance all;
And tremble will, these halls of pain,
From your inheritance tall.
=============================================

Don't you cry for me.

Disturbed

With this, I'm out of publishable poems again.

======================================================================

St. Jude

Paper cuts in a million places, pen is mightier than the sword,

Sticks and stones will break your bones and so will potent spoken word.

Ink will fail to hold the faith you put in stroke and slant each day.

Rainbows will yield gold and, yet, your master's brush will paint in grey.

Warm will be your summer wine and cold will be your winter mead!

Scorch you may the land, but forests still will spring from springtime seed!

Light will be the blade you lift, their blood to spill, their hearts to cleave;

Weighted sins will lift your pride but you will die by songs they leave.

======================================================================

I still write

It had been a while since I'd last written, and then suddenly I ended up writing three poems in one sleepless stretch. This is the first one.

====================================================
Survey

I live in wet country, where it rains without warning,
Where clouds arrive without wind on their tails
And leave without promising sunshine;

I live in war-torn country,
Where anticipation of disaster kills
More than disaster itself --
And more blood is shed in dreams than in reality.

I live in a land that is awake in what it knows
And asleep in what it does;
Certain in what it wants, yet wavering
In who it wants from, or for.

Loyal as I am to all that is familiar,
I return to history that I trust to repeat itself.
I track the whims of weather, scars of conflict, trails of truth.
I become a broken map
Of my imperfect home.
====================================================

This Could Well Be The Limit

=================================================
Convergence

A tiny spirit lurked
Where you used to be
Not entirely you, and yet
Not quite a part of me.

Sometimes, the wispy ghost
Laughed the way you did --
Head thrown back, eyes closed in mirth,
As would a gleeful kid;

Many a starry restful night
A shyly prodding finger
Of a smoky form touched my heart,
Resembling yours, dead ringer.

It whispered in my ears at times
And played your games with me
And with your voice, just like you did,
The ghost begged to be free.

Tonight, the apparition
Decided it was through
And I said I was done pretending
That the wisp was you;

And so into the artist's night
The spirit sang and flew --
I said farewell, and watched my love
Slowly grow untrue.
=================================================

Monophobia 1 : Legacy

========================================
Legacy

Why do these keep coming back, Mummy?
Why won't they leave me alone?
There's a ton of things that I've gotta do
And the King of the World is on the phone!

I've had too many a heartbreak, Mummy,
And it's been a very long day;
It was hard to believe the numb machines
But I think I'm going their way.

I thought you'd touched my forehead, Mummy,
And I reached out to hold your hand
But your hand just changed to fairy tales
And you, to dreamland.

Mummy, it's a whole new world away,
But I've told the boys around here
That my Mummy is precious, and ferocious too,
And they've Heaven and Hell to fear.
========================================

There's Doctor Who, Pikachu, Batman, Runescape, Durgapur and CMI behind this poem. Don't ask.

Bijoya

Maa, it has been a while since the lights went off. The people have packed, and last night will be over soon. Not much happens -- yet, every time it does, it leaves a gaping hole inside me. You are supposed to inspire strength -- and yet you leave me so weak. I, they say, was given life by you -- yet all I feel is my life leaving slowly.

Did I waste our precious fortnight on being happy, Maa? Should I have been angry instead? Should I have been pure, unwavering, unafraid; and would it have got me all I want?

Maa, this year too, I have failed to be the slightest shadow of you. I have feared. I have loved. I have cried. I have lost, to your cosmos and your plans. Who am I fighting against, Maa, and for who? Where are my demons, and do my Gods even know that I exist?

Your way might, after all, not be mine, Maa. The collected patience, the inspired courage, the flawless adherence to the essence of yourself -- it all could be too much for me. And yet, a change of path is not an option -- because you, because me, and because who else will?

I will try again next year -- there will be another swing at inspired strength and other such malarkey from your collection. You can sit on my head and inspire me, and I will try not to cry.

Adulthood 8 : Safety

Some selfishness is mandatory.

=========================
Safety

Some water is blue,
Some water is green,
Some water is golden;
Who knows if it's clean?
Some water is black, for
That's all it's ever seen.
Some water is grey, because
That's how it's always been.

Yet water is just water
It has no colour true.
Water will be anything
You want, just for you.
=========================

Adulthood 6 : Method

================================
Method

You will fight your monsters, yet
There will be no lasting help
For your hungry, sleepless night.
Mother was always right.

You will stay behind to lose
Bloodless battles not your own
To unfair, unworthy might --
Mother was always right.

You will meet your angels, and
They will show you ways, but still
Don't let yourself out of sight:
Mother was always right.
================================

Adulthood 5 : Call To Order

Ah academic frustration, you inspirational thing.

===============================
Call To Order

In control of their lives
In the morning through the night
Of all the best of luck to all
Those who have been working right

Eight months in a year ago;
And I don't think I have to be
This, the only thing I have
To stop the bleeding, certainly.

Not at all the best regards
To those whom it may best concern.
I will have only the best
Of everything the wise discern.

What the problem is or was
Is no longer a mighty cause.
Hereafter it's day to day, now
You decide, you are the boss.
===============================

The dedication is left as an exercise.

Adulthood 1 : Dearth

New series. If you are failing at adult-ing, and overall being a through-and-through stinky poo, might as well get something deep out of it. Meh.

===============================================
Dearth

Unwashed woman:
Did you ever check how foul
You smell
Or how tired you look?
Women are wary of you
And tired, sweaty men,
(Perfectly good men, attracted to you!)
Are disgusted when they come close.
Woman, you are unclean;
You come back every night
Smelling of a different man
And the occasional nightly drink.
You look stale, spent, used -- and you are.
Stale, spent, used, that is.
Need you have given yourself
To every man (and woman!)
Who had asked for you,
Who had asked of you,
Who had just, just asked?

Need you have told the boy
That he could come again,
Need you have told the man
That he could call again,
Need you have told the two women
That your doors were always open?
Need you, woman, come to your bed
Smelling of tears that you do not own,
Reeking of sweat from others' troubles
Slathered in laughter you extracted
Out of the mouths of adolescents?
Need you, sister, mother, lover, wife?

Be, above all,
Woman, woman.
Take a bath, brush your teeth, comb your hair;
Or next time, he won't look.
Next time, she won't come.
Next time, he won't call, she won't hug,
He will find another lap and shoulder,
You will not save any more men,
You will not help any more men,
You will not make any more women feel loved
Or any more children feel
Like a man or a woman;
Next time
They will find someone who loves themselves
Better.
(Yes, again,
Again they come to you, but
Surely not next time?)

Woman, how can you do it?
Unwashed, unclean, and uncaring
Your hair in knots (they might as well be short!),
Your feet un-groomed (they could be so pretty!),
Your body reeking (fetishized, but still!),
Your brain sleep-deprived (you know what they think?) --
How can you bear
The burden of pains
Entirely not your own
Night
After night after night (like some common woman)
And still be woman (even human maybe)!

Suppose then, stubborn woman, 
That you can and you do;
That your body odour somehow has something to do
With saved lives, healed hearts, and such --
But still, woman
Must you reek of those whose pains
Are not the ones I tell you of?
Must I feel them run through you?
Should you not hide them away?
And while we are at it, woman,
Must you always, each and every night,
Smell of that stale caffeine?
===============================================

Unrealistic expectations of emotional labour from female and feminine-presenting people; notions of symbolic purity; marginalisation of the 'unclean' woman. Go.

I think this qualifies as poetry

This poem was written at a rather low point. The circumstances are too private to reveal -- but I am glad to declare that they are over (persons in question are alive and well), and that now I have the courage to post this.

This one is not quite meant to be read from text, since it was written to be recited -- nonetheless, here goes.

==============================================
Big Dreams

Tell me destiny is
Where it pleases
Me the most
Where it ceases
To be the denouement
Of everything you're meant to be;
Tell me
That it's flexible,
That it is still feasible
To fix what's not quite broken yet;
Tell me I need not fret --
No worries about your health;
Tell me: destiny is dealt
To those that are weaker --
But you, you're a seeker
Of greater things in life!
Oh tell me, if you must,
That you'll take the picket fence,
Children, dog, husband, wife --
But not this!
Not the Kiss
Of the Dementor
Not collapsing so hard
Right, front and centre
That this is where you go.
You were grand, you were brave,
But now you've gone and sunk so low.
Tell me what to say
'Cos I don't know any more,
So,
Come back, angel, if you can,
Back where you belong
In the song
Of the sweet
And the righteous
In the ranks
Of the fighters
Tell me it's just a nightmare
That inside you, somewhere,
There is still the trusty mate,
The whitest wings! No twist of fate
Could make you turn around
On the dreams
That we had
Tell me
That I
Can still count
On that.
==============================================

Shorts 2

As I requested in the previous post, my LoudSpeak Listeners have come up with more cue-words for me to write about. Admittedly, not all of these are very short, but compared to the 1500+ words of rants I come up with when left to myself, I'd say they were microscopic.

The pioneering cue-word contributors of this series are:

• Sonakshi, a Physics research scholar from my college (CMI) who also happily turned out to have been associated with an activity from my far past -- The Statesman Voices. When not Physics-ing, Sonakshi paints and takes wonderful photographs, mostly natural compositions within the CMI campus. Since my first semester at CMI, she has been one of the regular supporters of my literary adventures.
• Nihal, a recurring character in this blog, who I believe needs no introduction to regular readers. To newcomers: Nihal volunteered with the Students' Council of HSMS when I was already a member, in Class 11. In Class 12, Nihal and I earned the top posts in the Council, those of Head Boy and Head Girl respectively. Let's just say he wasn't as bad as I thought he was. Across time and space, though no longer colleagues, we remain great friends.
• Ashmita-di, who I am yet to meet in real life. I know her through her mother who, as a teacher in HSMS, was instrumental to my short student life there. Ma'am introduced me to her daughter because she thought the interaction might be fruitful -- and so it was (only to me, I'm afraid) since Ashmita-di patiently reads everything I post and leaves me advice.

The following are my attempts at expanding their cue-words, in the order in which they are named.

------------------------------

Pencil Box

Sometime in high school, I realised that if I wanted, my mother would buy me that fancy quadruple-decker that came with sharpener and eraser-case, and also magnet, compass, pinball, vacuum cleaner, AK-47. When changing schools in Class 11, she asked me to get a good pencil box for the new school, and I knew that financially, it was no big deal to ask for a properly swanky version of the utility (as long as I didn't ask too often). Yet the swanky pencil box never happened, for there was a snag -- I was way too attached to my (t)rusted free gift from Horlicks. For ages, I carried it through school years and board exams. I leaked ink into it until the stains wouldn't go, I hoarded pencil shavings and spent refills in it during my phase of making art with them; its lid was always the makeshift water holder when we 'legally bunked' class to paint charts for school events. My teachers and fellow students made fun of me for carrying it around and not getting a new one, leaving no holds barred including jabs at my socio-economic status -- and I wondered how I would have felt if I really couldn't afford a new pencil box, and how their behaviour contradicted everything we were taught in school about judging people by how fancy their things were.

Eventually, though carried to college and kept as a box for sketch pens and post-its, the old Horlicks box, now discoloured beyond recognition from the old blue-orange-silver and sports pictures, was finally too beaten up to hold its own against the most basic of travel bumps -- and, guilty of spilling all my stationery into my bag about twenty times (and being too small to hold new grown-up things like a stapler and binder clips which I'd never owned separately from my mother's stash before), the Horlicks box was replaced by a double-decker procured by Maa from Navalur -- a neutral-coloured one with an easily removable (as I promptly did) silly sticker. The new one now accompanies me on every academic trip, and is proudly set beside my pillow in ISI Kolkata, basking in glory that I know to be superficial. The old one sits somewhere in my cupboard in CMI, waiting for me to return to it, as we both know I always will.

------------------------------

Debt

debt. noun.

noun: debt; plural noun: debts.

• a sum of money that is owed or due. "Nihal paid off his debts to me for last week's Diet Chewda and juice". synonyms: bill, account, money owed, amount due.
• (in -- debt) the state of owing money. "Nihal bought me ice-cream, so now I am in his debt for ten rupees." synonyms: owing money, in arrears, overdrawn. antonyms: in credit.
• a feeling of gratitude for a service or favour. "I would like to acknowledge my debt to my friend and former colleague Nihal Singh, for being a steadfast sounding board in tumultuous times, for pushing himself to learn a new job, and succeeding spectacularly in cutting in half the phenomenal workload I had come to expect would be mine as Head Girl of HSMS. While a Head Boy did exist, sorry, buddy, but I underestimated you grossly. I underestimated you as a colleague and as a friend, despite having seen the lengths you go to when you put your mind to something (the poor Samsung Champ still weeps at times) -- jokes apart, while life in CMI and its ups and downs may put you out of my mind at times, you are remembered every time I rally a group of people to get something done, because the best times spent doing that job were as a team, with you. Lives do grow larger, with new knowledge and adventure, new achievements and pitfalls -- for that is in the nature of lives; and try as we may, friendships sometimes spread themselves a bit thin over life's ever-expanding canvas. Yet, a daub here and there via the occasional reunion is enough to prevent it from ripping altogether, given that we hold dear the insurmountable debt that comes with being comrades-in-arms and partners-in-crime, a debt that transcends all repayment, all definition, all clarification. As J.K. Rowling aptly writes (of the lead trio in Harry Potter): 'There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.' While I'd not go so far as to compare our adversaries in Council work with mountain trolls, I dare say that the daily grind and frustration of the rather thankless work we had was another of those friendship-cementing things Rowling mentions." synonyms: obligation, liability, gratitude, appreciation, thanks. "I learned much by working with you, and grew much in having you as my friend -- and so you have my lasting gratitude. As I do every year from time to sentimental time, I now wish you good luck for your life in the years to come -- and since there will be no better chance (I have probably exhausted my creative appreciation skills for the week), I wish you a happy birthday in advance. Thanks for everything, buddy! (Fist-bump)"

------------------------------

Apathy

There are those that are blinded by light, and those that are afraid of the dark, and then there are those whose eyes are forever closed to external stimuli -- not the physical eye, perhaps; no, there seems to be no difficulty in paying the rickshaw-puller, answering emails, fixing a meal, making the bed... and at some point paying the rickshaw-puller again -- but the eye that can find light in souls brighter than one's own, the eye that can selfishly pick out the dark souls to shun for the fear of losing one's own brightness, is glossed over in disuse.
These curiously afflicted ones are creatures of the twilight -- they have minds like empty fields, where unfounded machinations grow. They create emotion for sport and necessity (for they have forgotten how to feel them), to store and use in perfect wisdom. Warmth and touch and ice and flowers are all products of the machine that churns out existence, cog grinding on dreary cog, gliding on the vast knowledge of all that is to be felt in order to be human, in order to make others feel just enough to let you live. There is routine, rules, destinations, deadlines -- and so all can see -- but deep beneath the surface of the creature's mind, unseen to all the world, a perverse glory begins to fester. The creature that is stoic to the world swells inside, the glory of knowing all rising until the superficial joy of understanding the known no longer excites. The shoulders stay squared, the chin stays up, the eyes stay bright and the smile shines like there's no tomorrow -- for so the machine crafts the creature's skin, for so the machine knows the creature has to be -- and so the creature lives, quietly swelling with the glory of impervious nothingness.
At times, of course, there are breaches -- holes that break containment and let in frivolities like seeing, believing, liking, loving, dissecting, debating, understanding -- they are quickly filled in with wisdom, of course, for they are no match for the machine and all the things it knows.

------------------------------

Much thanks to the cue-word providers, and I hope I have done justice to your ideas. As always, more ideas are invited.

Possible Series Premiere

==================
Chennai Man

Breakfast bustle;
Cafeteria man
Straining muscle
The best he can.
Girl walks in;
She has a fan,
Flexing muscle
The best he can
(Mathematician man).
Women cleaning
Floors and plates;
Man with water
Strains his brain
On dirty plates
The best he can.
Keyboard debates,
Gamer man;
Keyboard debates,
Music man;
Math debates
What man can..!
Woman survives
(The best she can)
Chennai heat, and
Chennai Man.
==================

Of The Toxic Algorithm of Relationships

What happened to star-crossed lovers? What happened to best friends across borders, brothers and sisters across oceans, kindred souls that meet but once? Definitions are important, and so are geography and the many practicalities of life; but so are our instinctive love and compassion, our ability to care deeply for others sans validation, sans benefit, sans labels and rituals and norms. To avoid hurting and being hurt, our species has succeeded in building a web of etiquette, law and jargon behind which to hide our souls. Respectability has taken undue priority: we seek lawful approval from the abstraction that is social norm for our littlest, most innocent loves and hurts and moments and cares. Over the centuries, we have reached a place where lovers are defined by set patterns of shared commercial over-consumption and a complex tangle of descriptive to define who they are to one another; brothers and sisters are limited to deoxyribonucleic acid and/or outdated sexist ritual; and friends are measured in frivolous similarities of aesthetic taste, homework assignments and entertainment preference.

I am a big fan of self-determination, mutual respect and the politically accurate collective determination that follows. However, I still believe that we all need some people in our lives -- be they friends, family, lovers, anything -- with whom the frequency of contact does not affect care and concern, labels don't affect love, etiquette does not bar us from being as bawdy and/or silly and/or unreasonable as we like! Consequently, I believe that when we find such people in our lives, the validation machine should just let us be. If any definitions and norms we choose to place on ourselves do make it outside, we should simply be believed; and unless we explicitly seek approval, it should neither be offered nor refused!

People I find attractive are not, to me, a string of romantic and sexual encounters coupled with expensive food and dim lighting; and that should be okay. Brothers I conjure out of thin air because I genetically have none don't, to me or to them, mean people to tie ritualistic threads and dab ritualistic paste on; and that should be okay. My friends, to me, don't mean a sequence of parties and gifts and food and notes, as long as we are with each other at bad times...

...and that should be okay.

Identity 4 : Marks

=============================================
Marks

You have seen so many lands
And trod on many stars --
Always bitten, forever shy;
The road has left its marks.

Your father's cuff-links, stained with ink;
Your mother's burning heart
Have made you, destiny's own child,
Your people's work of art.

Marbled glass in dreamlike hues
Hit the ground and squeal;
But, in the cloud of holy smoke,
The Chosen One is still.
=============================================

Identity 2 : Lost In Translation

==================================
Lost In Translation

To stare at backs of necks
And wonder what could be,
To raise a hand that never lands,
Believing, c'est la vie.

There's grandeur to be found
In meeting fate's decree,
In playing the old violin,
Singing, for c'est la vie.

A better woman leaps
For faith can set you free;
And here I am, flying because
Someone said, c'est la vie.
==================================

Our movie club screened Vivre Sa Vie. It was interesting. Review may or may not follow.

Just a poem

==============================
Vows

I will swear to hate
The ones I once had loved.
I will fail, and learn,
That hate is burdensome.
I will grow to love
The arms that hold me back;
I will lift above
The hands that pull me down;
I will be the one,
'Cause no one else will,
To learn how to forgive
The ones that hurt me still.
==============================

Small and Scared

#7

I won't die tomorrow. I won't, I won't, I won't.

It's 1 a.m., and my brain is cooking up a thousand ways in which I might. Between going to bed and falling asleep, I have vicariously lived through car crashes, natural disasters, blazing buildings, jilted lovers, fallen flower-pots and masked strangers. I have lain paralyzed as all the grenades and rifles and handguns in the world are pointed at me from somewhere between my eyelids and my mind.

But I won't die tomorrow, because all this is in my head, and I can make a difference in the lives of those for whom all this is real. Yes, the world is dangerous. Yes, saying no a to man is (should not be, but is) asking for rape and violent disfigurement and death. But I will step out, I will live.

I am human. My life is precious. I have too much to live for. So I will. Live, that is. I still don't think I can sleep -- of all those scenarios, the one I fear the most is dying in my sleep; dying without knowing. Another is dying from sickness, as my body and mind fade away.

I have decided that if I die, I want it to be clean and quick; and, if possible, painless.

But I say that only because dying is a possibility. I don't want to die. No way. Not right now, anyway.

Maatribhasha for aagun things (Crossposted from Facebook)

ছুটির ঘন্টা বাজার দরকার নেই, বাজুক কর্মযোগের দুন্দুভি। জেগে উঠুক পৃথিবী জুড়ে যত রক্ত-গরম যুবক-যুবতী, যাদের কাছ থেকে ধার্মিক, শালীন পূর্বপ্রজন্মের কোনো আশা নেই। নিজের পায়ে দাঁড়িয়ে, নিজের ঘাম ছুটিয়ে, চিনুক তারা নিজেদেরকে। শীতের রাত্রে লেপের তলায় প্রেমের গল্প ছাড়াও আরও কিছু ভাবুক, ইন্টারনেটে ব'সে হৃদয় ছাড়া আরও কিছু নিয়ে করুক আলোর গতিতে লোফালুফি -- চ্যাটবক্সে শুরু হোক আগামী দিনকে সুন্দর করার প্রচেষ্টা।

বন্ধুরা, আমরা চঞ্চল, আমরা অদ্ভূত, আমরা আসছি : আসছি এই প্রতিজ্ঞা নিয়ে যে, চারিদিকে  পূর্বপ্রজন্মের যেসব জ্ঞানী-গুণীরা নারী-পুরুষ, উত্তর-দক্ষিন-পূর্ব-পশ্চিম, ধনী-দরিদ্র ইত্যাদি কৃত্রিম ভেদাভেদে দেশটাকে (এবং পৃথিবীটাকে) ছারখার করার প্রচেষ্টা চালাচ্ছেন, যারা মানুষের দারিদ্রজনিত অজ্ঞতার সুযোগ নিয়ে নিজকল্যাণে ব্যস্ত আছেন, তাঁরা সহজে নির্মূল না হলেও আগামী আমলে, আমাদের আমলে, তাঁদেরকে একটু কম দেখতে পাবেন আপনারা। আমরা ফেসবুক প্রজন্ম -- আমরা ছেড়ে কথা বলতে শিখিনি। বাচাল বা অশ্লীল মনে হলে ক্ষমা-ঘেন্না করে দেবেন। এখনো ছোট আছি, আপনাদের প্রজন্মের মত বড়-বড় ভাবনা ভাবতে শিখিনি -- কেবল যেদিকে তাকাই সেদিকেই নিজের একটি ভাই বা বোনকে কষ্ট পেতে দেখি তো, তাই হামেশা-হামেশাই মনে বড় ব্যথা পেতে শিখেছি।