Soumya Scribbles...

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@