Monologue

I lingered for eons,
To find peace with will and reason,
Mother, you created me
Tonight – I stand in your courtroom
Realizing what I lost.

Mother, cut short this book of life,
Make my bleak house brief,
As I care for it no more.
All knowledge is theory,
Life is far fetched now.

Mother, hurt me not,
With words elixir pure,
I am base, baser I grow
No Achilles to meet now
In happy isles – I know.

Yet I stand for forgiveness,
For deeds I dare not pronounce
I shiver in cold to be awake
I repent, in hope to forsake

Forsaken by a dream I saw,
Ebbed by time’s sarcastic claw,
Mother, neither me nor my soul can pass,
Cursed,
Not to be free from this tree of life.
I am caged.
Yet, I am alive in my dark silhouette.

Hutus,

A child, whom I saw growing up alone with his mother. You brought back to me, my childhood, my innocence, and my memoies. I will always be indebted to you. You dont known how much i miss you. Isnt it strange - your mother saw me growing up, rebelling, screaming, outraging and even hurting at times, and i saw you in the same way? I miss you a lot. I still remember, the short and long interludes I enjoyed with you and your mother. The squabbles, the ego fights, and the silent evenings of isolation. Take care, with loads of love, grow up not to be me ; although we are same in many ways................................. love, Hutus.

Calcutta, I cried yesterday

The streets were buried by the creases of anxiety. You could find the children in uniform stand in the queue of perplexity. Their eyes narrated the stories of dreams that they live everyday in this city. There were spiraling lines of vehicles emitting the black manna under the sky of hatred. Hatred of illusion? Hatred of oneself? Or hatred of fellow beings? Can we remember the book fair, the film festivals, the Durga Puja and many more? The city has witnessed numerous motifs of political demonstration, but none like it before. Nothing scared me; I walked from my professional fortress to the mundane.

The mundane was standstill. Dotted with inertia everywhere, it faced the division bell of times that are changing. And the next day the city was again in her familiar identity. There was no burning effigy, no lines of sublimed philosophy, no rhetoric of Nandigram. There was mundane in the flow of drums, following the idol of some Indian goddess, there were crackers, children with safe innocence. There were the men in uniform in the tunes of banter over a steaming late tea. This is the Calcutta, I have known.

This was the Calcutta, we all have known for years.

A home breathing safety;
To live in mind
In our pen
In our poem - is not a child’s play.

Live Calcutta in my highs
Take away our tears and
-- a mother’s cries;
We belong to you.

Calcutta is my innocence,
Don’t let us walk on burning fence.
Don’t let the ideals bury in debris,
Rack and ruin, let us dismiss.

The city that shares my memories cannot die in the wrath of anonymity.

A long awaited reply

Have you ever felt the wings of monsoon clouds? The grey, and sleepy ones? Have you? I am asking, yes you? I have today. I have seen my madness interacting with me. The plate of conversation was passed from the table of reality to my imagination. The scent of sandalwood, of the slight red one tickled the curtains of memories. The happiness was wedded to tears. They washed the different shades of time and I could see my detachment still sitting. I wish to be a child free from the pangs of mirth, care and of affection. I wish to die, leaving everything behind. I wish to continue in my death with a sole treasure named - memory.

A Prayer

Today I pray to be free
Free from the obligations
Salvation in the purpose
Of this freedom

My prayers are for a soul
the soul that gives me
the strength to progress
Like a traveler

The traveler is predestined
to abide the rules of life
My prayers are for you
Living in detachment

Far away
In the terrain of my silences
I look upto this soul
In life, love and promises

Thirsty

Today I stand like a traveler looking for a well, sees it, but wont be able to drink the manna; as the drops are not for the knowledge seeker. The destiny has other stories to narrate for the traveler.

Something

Something that gives me my pain
Something that shows back to reality
Something that loves to hide
From tomorrow
From yester years
From the magic of time

Something matures in soreness
No law can repudiate this thing
This is my living
My salvation
My treasure
My identity

Clouds

Clouds when they rain, after a night’s darkness and a days sail. They remind me of a moist September evening when secret languages of a home coming bird are heard. The September was long and dry, even with clouds. The clouds remind of the earliest wheel of sensation. My senses rustle through the crowded pathway of monotony. The clouds seem to house them. The clouds strive to nurture them, making a difference in opinion. However, the prejudice can not be twisted. They remain like hail to come down in one of the soundless evenings of September.

September - the month of prosperity is lulled to sleep. The clouds have a word or two to tell. They float to narrate. They fly to create what September screams to be her right. Clouds pour down the blue plateful of water that becomes a part of life. Clouds breeds poetry in the heart of lakes. They make the green sand dunes to dance in a song unheard by mortality. And September bags away all glory! Clouds dwell in a moon country uninhabited by humans. Clouds have gone to the land of the lighthouse where they dream in the color of my recitation - called yesterday.

an evening sans me

Heard footsteps up and down
Felt their eyes
With creases of frown
In an evening without
me

Faces that pass
on the way
Smiles that dilute
when they pray
In an evening without
me

Hopes that sleep
On a frail reed
Calls a name
Denied of worldly
fame
In an evening without
me

The Morning Harmony

Days of intermittent monsoon
When the paper boat
is soaked in wishes
remains stranded
Along the trampled edges
Of my street

The paper boat looks at
A lost staircase
where no feet make noises
where no aimless paper floats

With showers again
The journey commences
The wishes must not drip
wishes are cared
they are nurtured
for the cup of conversation
in my long nights

Words

As the languages speak the soul, words deliver the emotions of language. Married to each other for so long, they have not grown out of each other. In the relation of acceptance, the oath still continues to live. If there is an ever after, it is in the bonding of words and its language. The empathy of this dependence has continued for eons and will continue for the eons to come. These identities are an endless repository of emotions and memoirs.

The connotation of words, its letter child martyrs their individuality to bring out trueness. This truth brings out the light of life. Life that dwells in the pages of a hard bound lexicon, to create versatility in the mind of the reasonable beings. The reasonable beings for whom the worth of life is similar to the “diminishing value” of material things. Words gave this prerogative to language to mould them accordingly. Their nuptial bonding gave birth to innumerable children; child in the form of relations, some grotesque and some healthy.

Words can both construct and deconstruct. The process of building and initiating labors psychological and material world. In the abstract world, human emotions crumble, crawl and walk. They crumble in the hope to grow and mature. Words define our efforts surpassing namelessness. Language builds in harmony between two different ideas. Ideas, which create, ripple bringing satiation of the mind.

A mind that flows underneath while, the river flows silently maintaining the current. Although there is no specific yardstick of the optimization level, yet certain plane needs to be established. The sarcastic smile of words, show its dark side when the heart of language tries to speak her emotions. To defy the emotion, in order to exist in a more rational world. A world that denies tender hands of tear drops; and never accepts selflessness of a pair of faltered eyes.

They make fashion statement in the Broadway, posing at different angels to the glossy magazines. Oh words aren’t you tired of limelight? As you flatter your yester years, your eyes visualize the scary possibilities of the future. The future holds your unknown vegetation from the carcass of a present. Present that slipped away stealthily from your hands. Leaving you wounded and bruised inside. I can see you quenching in thirst. I wait to offer you the manna of life which you forsake.

The esteemed words are dry. The deserts can not hide the droplets anymore.

Destination

My cup of “Last Supper”
Have drained out
Let the taught forget
Not healing the future
Unchain the fallacies
Free them to your cosmos
Leave the taught
To be winged
In the skin of blue
To be wounded
To grow with death
To be aware of known
Let the realization
Bring them to life

It was amazing to be alone at times , when mim was away from Calcutta. When Calcutta seemed to be sad to me for the first time in twenty six years. The late comings need not be explained , when sharing was not an obligation and i could reveal what i felt inside.

Yesterday

Yesterday left
To let the today be
Away, away
yesterday, the moon left us
To eclipse in the grey sky

I am waiting
from the arms of my yesterday
to vision the
pages of poetry
tattered by yesterday

My lexicon of life
is tired of
dying every day
Deliver me yesterday
I owe so much

a step to be taken

There, once worked a magic
Magic that inspired living
Living in the peace of a leaf
Autumn raped the leaf
Left it in an orb
Orb of a torment

Weeks, months ... even years
Continued in the ruins
Autumn brings life
A hope for the step
A step, now
Must be taken

Taken for reason
Taken to continue the task
Taken for the magic to end

Trust

What are trusts for? They are stars of a december sky. A sky that is clear, breeding illusion in a cloudy mind. Trust is a faint light that mocks at a sleepy soul. The roads that were not taken beckons me even today. From the half open doors of past, gleams the light that can no longer be taken by frail visions. The visions that taught me to read, read letters connoting a river that flows deep beneath the veins.
The self has two parts - one that is often compared to a mirror. This mirror adds to the derth of life from cosmos. In the cosmos there dwells the foetus of trust. A trust that takes the waves have to its beloved - the sands of our shore. The relation that never be denied. A relation that defies even the unspoken words of silences. The trusts are glow worms that bring a smile in a child's face. A face that norishes the soil of life. A life that secures trust , a life that mingles trust with yet another kind.
This kind will carry forward the lyrics of trust. A trust that binds the cosmos to the mortal beings , a trust that makes living more meaningful.

Notebook Words

My pen brings pain on paper
Yet it brings life to words
Seeking freedom in creation
An original draft
A draft where you reside
As summer to plunge
In the gloden veil
Of sun - to swim
In the clouds of monsoon
The paper is tempted
To fly to its rainbow
The seven colors of dusk
Until it can reach
The destination of Aurora

Hi who am I?
I know not.
I trudge along the path of life
Hoping to meet sunshine and laughter
But eternal pain has set in me
Making my journey ever lonesome and bitter

Joy and love I had envisaged
Not the lonely road to darkness
Where all thoughts turn to agonyWidening the void in me.

take care with love

An answer to someone very dear to me .........who was with me for only few months.....

Who are you?
If ever I know through
In the alleyways of tale-true
In the leaves of heart and affection
Passing the days of deja-vu

Mirth and glee will surpass
Glide you to the calm mass
Where all visions will be bright
Providing you the strength to fight.

Changing Places

The terrain of hope will swim with the grey clouds taking dreams from one eyelid to another. The clouds paint the narratives of a child, lost in the hands of time. They carry words of pain and smile to places where the thirst of soil screams in the killing silence of night. The clouds sailed at the harbor of Kalidasa search for your silences. A silence that speaks when I am tired, when I am lonely and when I am lost in the wilderness of a full moon night.The evening falls on my shoulder, changing places to meet the little damsels with wings. The wings that take them from the fertile land of image and notion to paint imaginations. The subtle fingers of evening make my bed where I sleep to share a life, changing places. When the rainbow takes the flight from my terrain to yours, changing places to continue our episode of fantasy. A fantasy that dies the death of moment. Moments that curl like baby fingers to lose themselves in my dreams.

known and unknown

A child believes in the known, denying the unknown. The individual smile at the unknown to bring the droplets of happiness in life. The knowledge seeps in the tender mind to become known that "happiness" is a noah's arch. It is an oasis hidden by the alluring desert sands. The words of sands are demi messiahs who gift the taught "known".
Knowledge inter twines the unknown to the known. The known is "Lucifer" who even being the brightest star longs for the unknown. The innocence is golden, but is the known base ? Iron is base, yet the metal supports foundation of knowledge. The sun shines on the valley of the child's mind. Ra encourages known, a known that amputes ignorance. Ignorance that denies ego.
Ego that permeates in living offers satisfaction to the child's mind. A mind that knows one self , a self that defines language, philosophies and ideals. There is now only one kind of living, a life in the mind breathing in a mutilitated body.
This body is not the soil of the child's mind. The free flowing mind yet chooses a drecreased body - an act of fate - unknown self.

Time

Etymological relevance of the word "clock" is better known as "time". Time derides thoughts , thoughts that belong to my home of satiation. We all are mere puppets of time. Time constructs in its own mood till the deconstruction is complete. The time machine moves in all the direction irrespective of humane touch and pondering. One baby step towards "now" will labor the child of future. a future that is unheard. Time didnt even give the divine prerogative to assume the future of "its mysterious self".
Time belongs to no one. Time is neither here, nor can be there. Yet time is everywhere. Time can fly to belong to our cosmos. Time is reality ticking constantly to keep pace with the beating heart.

A home coming

Yesterday was a long day in Calcutta. I prefer this name than the newer one with a dash of Bengali tradition. The city of life was tired after an interlude of weekend. I didnt take the train to avoid the known faces.
These faces have once gifted the manna of silences. Now the silences are hard to take. They have aquired voices that haunts. Haunts me even in my sighs. Irked with the himesh numbers, i saw the life with a difference. The difference that created an emptiness.
There are certain reasons that dont have explanations. I dont try to seek them. Some answers dwell in the hearth of throat that can neither be swallowed nor can come out.
People are scared of loneliness, the loneliness that intervenes in your private self. A self that crawls with the diurnal courses of life. A loneliness that denies the urge to be with the recognized self of you and me.

July

July is the house of departure,
Not to abide the over whelming question of -
anonymity
July is the month of viola,
Covering the rain kissed hillocks.
July breeds pensive words,
To decay in a flooded mind.
July is you,
July is me.
It creates letters of Torah,
This seventh hearth of my year.
July lets me wounded-
Bleeding silently for more.
Yet July speaks,
In a language
I can never learn.

Immaturity

Immaturity

words that are neither here nor there
letters that fly from terrain to terrain
shall not pass the seal of life
the flow sans destination
is a flow called life
My days of last supper
Is coming back to life
My chalice is empty
Your words drown
in the twilight of distance
A distance that succumbs
My reason of life