Soumya Scribbles...

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@