Soumya Scribbles...

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...