Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> 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...

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