Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Dec 8, 2011

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 -


We hang

[Life doesn't need a stanza, it flows. The last time I read it in a poetry, it was nude]


A Different Dawn

>> Nov 12, 2011

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, quiet. And with the morning comes a patriarch. Morning is always too much knowledge to her. She remembers faces that look upto, wantingly, the ones who seek to be understood, in despair. Dawn to her has been quiet mountains - knowing her loved one is asleep in the valley. They have taught her that tears have meanings; they are the words that queued up like poor immigrants. They did not have a map to be.

And dawns are like this - from the city, to the river, to the moon. Somewhere it touches yesterday's coffee stains, shivering old fish-boat and the window by the desk where she sleeps.

It touches and leaves. Just.




>> Sep 21, 2011

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@



>> Aug 1, 2011

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.

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


Tale of Two

>> Jul 11, 2011

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 someone's fingers. Sometimes you wonder how beautiful it is to be the contrast. In that pandemonium, your quietness is still heard. You just look at the eyes that have all the shades of light present there and forget about time. No need to say anything. Hold her hand and mix in the crowd. At times you feel good as you were not too special to be alone.

Life - in words or in its quietude, in crying or laughing about it - was still breathing. You just waited for the face that would assure you of yours. Share a splash of your life. It is always worth living after.



Finding a Reason

>> Jun 26, 2011

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 in our eyes. Ones that ironically crave to be read but hide themselves in shyness. Someone told me you need a storm to read it. I have always preferred quietness - the pauses of it, the screaming of it. So I preferred a prism. Love is about absorbing all its reflections. Its so beautiful that you won't like to touch and feel lusty. You will be ruining a ray if you do that. we wait. That is the softest part of it.

The bricks, the love, the mind - we all are builders of our world in ways. Its a triangle that balances the geometry we choose to live for.

That whole part of it is called, finding a reason.



A Day's Tale

>> Jun 15, 2011

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.

Nights are extremes. Either they come with a lot of fears or sits serene. Black is a color of introverts. It absorbs and blots and hides all the feelings one has, or had. The best of romantics could dream looking at the stars and the moon. The best of fears come after two weeks. Most of the emotions are defined in their own territories of wanting to be addressed. Either you do or you lose yourself. Feelings are shy. They grow when no one could see. Touch, and you will know. Emotions die without crying.

You can never believe in a night, the lovers say. Hours peel themselves down seducing moments. One after the other. As it reaches the deepest - I have seen the glowing eyes, I have seen the wet pupils.

Then it dawns - Some slept in peace, some awaiting a morning. Eavesdrop and you will hear sobs or happy breaths. Fears and happiness have shapes. Look at a sleeping woman and trace the mark of her tears on her face - you will know.

Then there is a void. A void that is either happy or sad. The void between the dawn and the morning. The difference between your best of dreams and your shrieking alarm clock. The difference between what happened and what would. The difference between a life and another.

There is no better philosophy than to wish to live a better day. And fulfilling it.




>> May 7, 2011

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.



Of Love

>> Apr 21, 2011

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 never are sure when to use one, or to say, that you used. It is amusing indeed. But then, our deepest feelings are wondrous. They travel like clouds over a night sea when the stars and the moon observe.

Nothing is stationary. The oceans move, so does your treasure inside it and the islands that emote a thousand you into quietness of nights or the brightness of a morning. There, while traveling that eternity, an ocean is shared.

Little matters beyond. on a very beautiful moment you realize, someone has intruded into yours and stolen an island.

Sea meets a sea.




>> Apr 12, 2011

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 and ofcourse cricket. There was never a hurry. Technology was still pregnant with 3G and mobile phones. People were slow, quiet and understanding. They won't excuse themselves from elders. Relations were proud and respectful, those days.

Women had their own warmth and vibes. I used to wonder, how a double bedded cot could accommodate all my aunts and mom happily. Their noise was undisturbing. They will laugh, talk proudly of family, whisper new recipes and remember and resurface every tiny moment that had impacted them in the last year. Waves of emotions had a symmetry. Their sixth senses used to create the high and low notes of resonance miraculously affecting none.

The festival and its schedules and celebrations had dedicated followers in all. Us, cousins will keep memories like gifted story books, secretly. There was a heart that used to make us aware of the specialty of the moments and that they may not be continuing forever. There were moisture in the air during the end. We have seen men with wet eyes, then.

23, Kashi Bose Lane, Kolkata, now.

There are no stereo-typical comparisons to be drawn. We still get the blue inland letter from the above address, in a shaky handwriting, every year. An invitation that calls us to our roots. Conveniently we ignore the postbox at times.

We gather once in a while and play cards on the old verandah, Spouses gather and secretly talk bout their changing priorities and busyness, we excuse ourselves frequently from each other. On the last day we go to the same room and follow the traditions of showing respect to grandma.

There, just there, in a squarish room, under a dim lit bulb, infront of a weak 70 year old soul - engineers, doctors, lawyers cry silently. Guilty they are may be. That living soul puts her hand on our heads to bless. The warm touch assure us of forgetting. It assures us of forgiving.

Quietude performs a different resonance then. While leaving, We regret the times we have pretended to be busy.




>> Mar 19, 2011

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 you don't choose them carefully, there can be strange noises. They come with no cost, they don't ask. And that is why, they are bright when used less.

Pause, reader.

Time is introvert. It always rotates, uniform in a pre-defined path. It is too shy to stop so that none notices. That is the irony. Same with the blind earth at night. It accepts its decay and wishes, someday she will realize and retract. Words wait when they will not be taken as granted, much as some quiet souls.

But the erosion continues - inch by inch, soul to soul, commas to colons. Someday with all hushed in, there will be grains dried up. They won't have eyes but you will know, there was only pity.

Bring me a rain, then.


To Dash

>> Mar 14, 2011

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.

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, for being the lonely poet he has been, for being reckless, ahead of time, tremendously passionate and same way poor. For he never had happiness but the yearning to find peace, in rural bengal, in insignificant things.

Dhansiri - a small river. Shalik - a bird, Banalata - Dash's love interest in literature, Natore - a small small place in Bengal.


Lives of Others

>> Mar 10, 2011

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 he can fathom. And there are a few reluctant people on the boat who avoid the river, the present, as they would, their dark and questioned past. Everyone wants a closure then. Hurried smiles exchanged, the ferry is run, as fast. The driver only knows he has to come back alone. He fears the dark. It has the memories of strangers.

Three dots, incoherent. They celebrate life by seeing others', by living the shares. Sometimes, while walking up the sea shore when you see snails and the transparent water that washes your feet, a thought ponders, you are but a part of the lives summed up,

just a part but an important part of lives of others.




>> Mar 2, 2011

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 cloud sometimes and gives you a peek to the root that lies like a snake and reaches the heart of the village. Or atleast you can not see where it ends. Anything incomprehensible to us, is either interesting or curious in itself. You will see stranger stations with abstract names fast approaching and departing. They are less casual than the unknown stations where trains stop. There is a surety and nonchalance in them. Life doesn't stop there. You feel sad, a little.

At dawn, when the Sun rises, there is an undoing in a traveller's eyes of yesterday's sleep. The miles that you have crossed, you discard. The moments you have seen the lost roads in faraway villages, you remember. And as the train shouts and runs towards the young Sun, you fall in love with your life for the first time. If it rains, stretch your arms and feel the rains as you meet new members of the clouds' descendants each moment.

Someone said, she could marry a station. I dream, one day I will wake up inside a train and there will be no tracks.



Smelling Salt

>> Feb 10, 2011

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.




>> Feb 3, 2011

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. Even if you find them in the garden,embarrassed, naked with petals betrayed, mellowed with losing fragrance, still, smile. With precision one has to grant euthanasia to the hopeful lot. Until they leave, there will not be a bright morning next. What goes around never comes around. Its just that, we are used to see-offs.

Then sparrows. They are like those tenants who make a family whole, fonding. At times their sense of understanding surpasses the boundaries of human flexes. They chirp according to the mood of the house. They will feed their children when the family sit around the dining table. One day, when someone breaks a sad news and all cry, they fly away. They sense the unwelcoming eyes, annoyed fists. Communist sympathies never reached the aves. Ventilators flow North and south wind again. Not that anyone ever cared.

Should there be a conclusion? There are no such words called Closure. But there is a word, resonance - The ticks, the chirps, the puffs and the colors.


[Note: Dedicate this to someone who has always inspired me to write on, no matter what. Has insisted, persisted, succeeded.]



>> Jan 25, 2011

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 archived. With different scents inside colorful glass bottles, they used to come out and dissolve in the air with every curious customer. Loyally they will be diffused in and around the ceiling and soothe and haunt. Every bottle had a lot of past in them, like ours. They will mix with each other and be never forgotten.

While walking across these lanes, I still smell the wet bricks from the last rain. When I sleep, the far away stars twinkle, invite me to measure the distance between us. The seas roar quietly. When I sleep, the roots of the trees around my house grow and meet each other. They make love.

It's still Tuesday and I have intruded into a stranger's sky.



Forgotten Woods

>> Jan 15, 2011

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 waves to reach others. I have not mistaken the woodpecker's sparkling eyes in a dark night for anything else. We three have cried, together.

At times when I have had reasons to laugh, I have run to the woods. There you laugh once and they join in. Physics was always mundane. It used to call the generous, an echo. Sound reflects, so do the emotions that you could never distinguish through any baro-paro-meter or a class X subject.

With all that as a memory and what we easily lock up in our furnished apartments, as past, I have slept with strangers, liquored myself, added zeroes on the right side and grown money-plants. Reaching at that phase of a life where you await a storm, today, I feel like remembering all those.

There is a moment where you feel lonely because you are urban. Then you think of all those toys you had left behind as they were poor, trees as you couldn't take them to your new place. You think about your mother and how you could have visited her one extra time and surprise her. You couldn't, as it never occurred to you for an annual leave was there to save, to earn. You think about how your father would have been happy if you had called him once and said, hello. Just that.

To repair all that happened in springs, I shall go and count the leaves and the holes someday. The losses, we will share.



To Someone

>> Jan 4, 2011

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.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

  © Blogger templates Romantico by 2008

Back to TOP