Soumya Scribbles...

Trees lean against the wind, brunches clasping, they wait like mothers. There is no taking in chlorophylls.They are givers. So is the sea that goes blue till your eyes meet and then a shade of green. Like in relentless motion, colours are traded on dawns n dusks (with sky). Life travels through the veins of those trees at night, through the leaves, the weak hands, feeble vocal chords of plants. And it places itself in the loud resonance of seas - the authority in which it is calming, traversing a thousand sparkling salinity and reaches the shore - quick-feet, silent as the sand crabs. Dazzled the day is and restless the night, it moves, prays, grows and hums. That is, what is, we see and there is - as irrelevant and essential to name - us. We hang . .. [Life doesn't need a stanza, it flows. The last time I read it in a poetry, it was nude]

The sun rose with introvert rays. It is a different dawn - One that comes deep and wise, saying you to look within yourself. At that moment, as you bathe in its purity, there is a song. A song of life, of its fragility, its beauty and the nothingness. With a coffee cup in my hand and standing on a terrace where one is fortunate to see the horizon from a city, I gaze in awe. Pure, ambivalent in its intention the nature teaches me an important lesson then. The fisherman on the farthest corner of the Ganges, where She just travels quitely, is to be envied. When it is dawn for us, its a night over. There are tired fishes, yesterday's oyesters, excited snails and assured hyacinths in his net. From childhood, he has always wondered if tracing the Sunray to the distance will lead him to heaven. Someday, somewhere that journey will start.  There is her. Beautiful in frailty she lives through the better half of moon. She knows nights are like mothers - calm, restrained, q...

We all have our parts of the sky. Just the thought that we own it or no one else does is same way gratifying. There is a little soul inside us who goes to the roof every night. He counts stars and marks with white chalk, the boundaries. Time has passed. Rains have troubled the busy mornings, drizzled and soothed in the evening and rested at night in clouds. Waiting restlessly to claim my side of the sky again, I have realized, at some nights you just have to give in. In life, sometimes you won't get your part of the sky. There will be beautiful dawns. After long nights of darkened assumptions, there will be a time when with the drowsy, uninterested eye you will stroll to the roof and look up . The lines are not there. The stars are retiring, the counts are less. Still, at that time, there is a feeling of fondness... ... A fondness to have found life back. Rest is just a story of how you fall in love with yourself, all over again. - SoUmY@

Winds have stories to tell today; Silent, careless, burdened. It all comes in stream still. They whisper to the ears to the eyes, to skin. Seas have words to say. For long they have rushed in with quietness and returned memories to the trembled feet. Today, it will write a novel on me. There will be salt and sands. And, From within there is a voice; No questions, no qualms. Tonight it will look inside and discover the depth in black. Getting a few unanswered is also knowledge. Together, they will write a poetry. There is a lot of traveling in love. - Soumya

Silence had its own ego. That has been shredded last spring with the arrival of something deeper. Now there is a communion. An assured soul now sits in a blue painted room and lits up a cigar and doesn't smoke. Just the smell, and an even dwell between the fire and the ash. Worthlessness of words is not scary. You realize it when in a completely dark room, happy tears flow. Tears are aesthetics of compassion. Any word is a guest there, unwanted. One feels as if he can wait infinite moments before the tears stop and a sound is made. You can never replace a word said, even if you could, you can never bring back a slice of silence once it was broke. An old old city in India and the crowded streets, the dirt, the dust, the rickshaw pullers, roadside tea stalls with candles, shops semi-lit, hawkers invading footpaths, the hustle and the bustle - all of this chaos is so brilliantly canvased that you believe they are arranged. Through that bazaar of life, I have walked clutching onto som...

Bricks get burned to make a house. Red, rectangular they are. Never knowing that burning with siblings will comfort many a laughter, many a tears and much more. Women burn with jealousy. There is no comfort in that. It is red, squarish - even from each side. They are like camphors. they burn to get into ashes or into airs. Men burn in indifference. They never know when their souls were stoned and they made bricks out of it in fire - sheltering only themselves. Houses never become homes. Who is love? Feelings are funny. They have many a crossroads inside you than you know. The shortest route to reach a heart is a mathematics. But to stay there is humane. After making love, in the morning when you look at the walls and the bricks that burned themselves to let you have the comfort of a home, there is a woman who sleeps next to you wrapping herself up in a wrinkled bedsheet. At that point of time, there is a reality check. If the bricks were for that woman, that is love. There are secrets ...

Early mornings have their own essence. It owns people and places. Fog that reluctantly fades away not knowing if it should come back, people who walk to celebrate life, the old chaiwala who sells tea with a nonchalant but smiling face, the red brick house from where the oldest of songs are played on a dying radio - All of it is so perfect and yet casual. It is like the essence that comes with your deepest of emotions in the beginning. The softness that percolates through the souls, resonates with others and hears itself playing a beautiful tune. The perception of the world is in its diffused happiness, then. A gentle breeze and just that. With the day's burns, comes the sweat. Even a realization is annoyance then. You wish it will pass but it stays back. Hours threaten and hangs until the soul tires. There is no secrecy. It is a time when you lose your personal belongings. There is the sea of humanity. You go and mix. Its when the magic heads downstream. Keeps are worth selling. Ni...

With darkness comes a fragility. Nights flatter your shell and a human is born, from within. Conjugal stains, marital sobs, hushed tones, hurried breathings, excited laughs and polar winks - they conveniently enter at nights and exit silently on another dawn. That is the time we talk of stars, the displaced, breathing moon. We hold hands or leave them. A strange wine that is a moment. We cherish as used less; More? and then we are used to. From the wiseness of an owl, the silent autocracy of dark and the rebellion of emotions comes sweet decadence. If you have always waited for the Sun, the life was only half full. SoUmY@

There are islands inside all of us. Uneven in size, floating, drifting towards or away from each other they are, in an ocean. The thickness is a mystery. You never know how much is inside that deep blue water. The inches that float above the level is just a layer one would fathom. Assuring in its kind, it serves another purpose. You never let two islands come close. Between them lies the ocean - split, convenient in its flexibility. It trespasses onto and around everything. That is why we keep our secrets inside it. Treasured deep they are. On quiet nights I dive in the freezing cold and warm myself with my pasts hidden at the center of the earth. Now that you have an ocean inside you, there are stormy nights when the memories surface to sea level and touch islands. Curious souls pick them up and return to you, breaking or savouring. For some, the sea is rough, repetitive. For me, its quiet, its blue and just that. For a relation, principles are like that thickness of an island. You ...

23, Kashi Bose Lane, Calcutta, then. This is about a time when Calcutta was still colonial, atleast by name. A time when hand-pulled rickshaw and its chime used to define the sounds of the city, a time when communism was still red, seasons were still interested in being theatrical. Relations were earthened by writing letters, rhymed and novice poems. Festivals then were celebration of life, first. They had souls. That was the time, more or less, all the cities like our emotions were simple, unambitious and honest. It was before options decayed life into ashes. On festivals like Durga puja, we would gather in our grandpa's house. I remember our parents were uncomplaining that way. They knew the quiet maturity of gatherings. The long verandah with black and white squared tiles, that has seen generations crawling, walking, running over it, was wise. Even during the summers, it would be cold, thus. Men, all wearing kurta pajama would sit on it and play cards, talk business, futures a...

There is a sadness in the eyes of a river when it stealthily, so quietly eats up the soft earth at night. Inch by inch. The earth is soulful, silent. It is like that lover who welcomes his decadence on a coin. There are two sides - reluctant and willing. They flip. All in the name of love. His sacrifice is not pitiable but respecting. That is why men made earth their homes and not water. Erosion is attached to soil. Much to the surprise, it relates to soul, too. Love is the most simple word in existence. To our convenience, it is ambiguous. There is decay in emotions too. Feelings have conflicts like utensils. They are loud even at subtle moments. And one day, it discovers the gradual unreeling of soul. The realization is as penetrating as an aggressive river to its bank. You then know, belongings were lost. What remains is a map. That stays. Words are humane. Their sensitivity comes from a different dimension. They are used, misplaced, misinterpreted and often excessed. That is why if...

And there will be deathless souls Screaming and piercing the sky like white owls as they journey to the moon. Lovers beckon, thirsty as the dried up river that shies below the draughted earth. Above, they kiss holding breaths and the unending moisture wets. A cactus is born with red rose. To this Dhansiri riverside, where the nostalgic Shalik looks back with dark eyes, you may yearn for a return to the place that you have searched for, with a life. If you come back, tiptoeing, unassumingly as a stranger, that you have always been, Poet, you may see, they still remember a woman by her hair, they still love each other by eyes. Poet, Natore is still the new bride you had seen. The ghaats and the owls and the boats and the crows hear the steps that had brought rains once. Banalata waits to be loved again. - Soumya :) Jibanananda Dash will be very special to me for more reasons than one. He was the only one who could have his own route despite being somewhat contemporary to Tagore, ...

Summer night. The footpath lies in an awkward posture and keeps conscious like a newly married bride rehearsing her dresses, but casually. Upon it, like many layers of a metaphor, are shoes. Shoes of people who are walking with a purpose or not. There are no last lines of philosophies. Its only a disciplined rows of bricks pitifully cemented with each other without a choice. You never knew if they could fit, but none cared. A lot of lives walk on them. There is a black spider that weaves its web meticulously on the street lamp that won't glow again. That is convenience. The concentration on the spider's eyes is something to learn, to envy, to fear. We have some in our heads. They create webs when the purple shades of understanding meet the green compromises. Chemists say its dangerous in normal temperature. We still mix, being proud, each. They explode and/or they are called love. The ferry driver is a lonely soul to his last trip. The deep dark river holds beyond the emotions ...

There is an uneven shyness in unknown stations. You can relate to your deepest emotions with them. They are hesitant, withstanding the obvious and still oblivious of definiteness. Trains come, the starving lights blink at an uneasy corner. An old station master comes out from the dark and waves with a green flag. It's almost as not required as the train's presence there. But still they meet. Two inconspicuous characters breathe life, only then in the whole day. Traveling is beautiful, Journey is more wise. There is an independence in being a traveller. Self imposed duties come when you are doing the latter. There will be expectations of better places. The former is more bohemian of sorts. Its like the essence of love without the sense of future responsibilities. Traditionalists may curse. Riding a train at night is unassuming and so absurdly romantic. You look out of the window and there is nothing visible. Still there is a strange attraction as the moon sneaks out of the clou...

I dream colours. They come and create collage while I sleep. There is a nausea in not seeing black. You won't miss it until it is not there. It's almost as people who stand there in our lives, as shadows; And we forget them at nights. The mosaic in my floor teaches me the philosophy of life. In all this shine, I see my opaque face and feet, together in one square. I keep coloured scraps, glitter pens and emotional hues. On a rainy afternoon, when sadness is a guest To old bricks' house, I will paint on the roof. Mix oil pastel to rain waters then. It smells a lot like life. SoUmY@

There will be rings, and more. Perfectly formed, puffed with meticulous crime, they will burn out eventually. There will be the filters, blackened, hesitatingly finding newly made relatives inside the ashtray. And they will be washed off with detergents someday. Smokers won't care. They never did. There will be newer brands, colored filters, mild nicotine and taller specimens. They will walk away. No you and me in this piece. No 'I's, no 'WE's. Togetherness is something that pulls the strings in wrong places, or in wronged places. The times are never right. The most hated and used member at home is the clock in the living room. It reminds the four walls of screws that pierced through and are feeble now. It reminds others of the time they are always short of. It remembers that his engine is weak now and needs replacing. And starts getting slow, slowly. There will be old flowers. Sometimes adjectives sound strange. Never associate flowers with age. They die of shyness...

Today is Tuesday. Other days, I will write a poem perhaps. A prose was almost derogatory. I had fixed loans from my memory. Seas, trees and rains. I will mostly write about them. In an old Kolkata road, where I was born, heritage was sibling to cultures. A burden at times, too. Through the narrow lanes of neighbourhood, people will divide skies amongst themselves. Then at night, a romantic will sneak onto the roof and intrude into yours. Stars have always made me wondrous. They are far. We all gaze a distance by assumptions. There comes the consideration of space. It is almost like loving someone silently. You are on that feeble thread at the end of which the person stands. You do not know where to stop, how to space, when to get close. You do not know, if you are allowed to scream when you fall down. You may chuckle. 'Allowed' is indeed a funny word. Likewise, life. In the old alleys of childhood, there used to be a shop where antique perfumes were sold. The shopkeeper was as ...

There was a time when this woodpecker used to go to the Rhododendron trees and make holes to find insects. Then they will make a house for themselves and live. It never mattered to them as trees are uncomplaining. It never mattered to me as I used to find a much lower skin to peel and write my stories with white chalks. Finding a shelter was easier thus. Some winter, when an untimely storm blew my old friend, we both got homeless. I have wondered before. I was concerned about its ageing. Sometimes me and the woodpecker will look into each others eyes and read minds. Perhaps the mute companion of ours had a wave of understanding that he generously granted us. We would talk about our lost days, idle summers and explain our hearts the worthiness of it all, though vague. My father used to say, when there is no beauty in your sadness, go to a tree and wrap your arms around it and cry. Uncountable times, I have. It was inexplicable how it has soaked all of it. They say, grief has its own wa...

Every night I write a poem For you on my secret pages, where, the scent of our memories mixes with the old papyrus. And punctuates. My words are like semicolons; Misplaced, confused and necessitated. They are pre-grieved by the distance of ours, on maps. Human emotions are twins to latex. They shrink and float, expand and gloat. In all those fractional moons, lost metaphors, unbound seas and indifferent mountains You may have wondered, how had I lost myself into you when there was still fog. My poems have not seen you for ages. Still when it rains there, I open my wooden windows. My words search for your smell and that of earth's. SoUmY@