Sunday, December 25, 2011

words Words WORDS...

POST - (I)

Silver Rains :
Will you ever stop being mad?
Dreamer:
Yes!
Silver Rains :
When?
Dreamer:
When you stop calling me mad!
Silver Rains :
“I think that I am going mad, I don't recall my name
I think I must be going mad, I really feel insane
I really know I'm going mad, hear voices in my brain
So maybe I am going mad, but maybe you're the same!”
Dreamer:
Madness indeed is reflective ! And now I love you more ….
Silver Rains :
And you love me more…. But honey, what is love?
Dreamer:
Love?
....No this is not what this post was intended for; this post was intended for words, pure and simple words. Words exactly what they should exude and no back ground, fore ground and all that jazz! But words are not tears; they don’t come pouring out of the blue like July rains!
You, the one with words, had painted all my childhood dreams, my first poem, my thoughts and my clouds....
But today even though I try so hard, I am losing out on words, I am sitting for hours watching the computer screen without moving my eyes. With the cursor in my hand I am flirting with the desktop, tripping on the old, elapsed corridors and lonesome roads and alleys of Calcutta (precisely Behala) sitting on the desk near the window at my office in NID.... It’s Christmas afternoon and sleep comes breezing through the timeless Sabarmati; waving a lazy sepia dream in my eyes, making me nostalgic. Maybe I need a smoke!

....continued

And with the smoke I blow away the afternoon, blow away the afternoon to a sepia evening! My fingers smell of liberty, as I blow out the smoke and try to rub away the sleep. Harp on those words! Harp on what madness is! Harp on how I have fretted my freedom away, what all had not I tried to trade for madness. I think of the Mad Mortician. I think of the Mute Maya, who also thinks I am Mad!
....and my chain of thought is again broken as my phone blinks!
Silver Rains :
How lovely is love Dreamer ?
Dreamer:
I don’t know!
Silver Rains :
“The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?”
Dreamer:
How madly is madness ?
Silver Rains :
I don’t know.
Dreamer:
“Sometimes when I'm alone, I wonder
Is there a spell that I am under
Keeping me from seeing the real thing?
Love hurts...
But sometimes it's a good hurt
And it feels like I'm alive.
Love sings,
When it transcends the bad things.
Have a heart and try me,
'cause without love I won't survive.”
Silver Rains :
I am reminded of Alice!
Dreamer:
Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?
Silver Rains :
'But I don’t want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can’t help that,' said the Cat. 'We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.'
'How do you know I’m mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,” said the Cat. 'or you wouldn’t have come here.'
Dreamer:
That fades away all inscrutabilities and life goes explicated....
:)

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Bhalo aachi, bhalo theko….

Jhora pata:
"swopnobilashi se ek udash baul,koto sohoshro alokborsho dhore , pothe lokaloye takei cholechi khuje…."
Megh balok:
?
Jhora pata:
"kono bosonte makhabo tomay rong, swopne amar chupi chupi geche bole
bosonto ashe bosonto phire jaye, biborno ami boshey achi dwar khule…."
Megh balok:
kaaj kommo nei tor?
Jhora pata:
"somajer chokhe dwicharini, khoti nei , sotitwo kobe swopner khoj rakhe?
swopner dake sotitwo bhese jak, dwicharok mon faguner rong makhe…."
Megh balok:
onek kaaj aachey, tor kamona bashonar goppo shonar shomoy nei amar
Jhora pata:
ektu nahoy shunli boshey…. pagoler prolap….
Megh balok:
ami toh onnyo kichu cheyechilam
Jhora pata:
tobey tor jonnye thak premiker golap
Megh balok:
saaper beesh
Jhora pata:
aar beesher prem….
Megh balok:
bhoy paina
Jhora pata:
hah hah hah ….bhalobashish?
Megh balok:
na bashina!
Jhora pata:
tobe aar ki…. khela sesh!
Megh balok:
kon khela?
Jhora pata:
sesh aar surur khela….
Megh balok:
naa! khela bhangbar khela….
Jhora pata:
kabbyi korish na, ghor dupurey!
Megh balok:
kabbyi korar odhikaar bujhi tor ekar?
Jhora pata:
tui akhono shei rokom e aachish, sob shomoy raag….
Megh balok:
paltey gele tor bhalo lagbey?
Jhora pata:
janina
Megh balok:
naki jantey chash na ?
Jhora pata:
bhule gechi
Megh balok:
tor je dekhi boroi bhulo monn
Jhora pata:
tui aachish toh! monn e korabi na?
Megh balok:
ami ki tor “Sonchoita” na “Geetobitaan”?
Jhora pata:
janina, shudhu jani amar gaaner sob hodish tor kachey
Megh balok:
shobbonassh !
Jhora pata:
thattha korchish?
Megh balok:
eto spordhya amar nei
Jhora pata:
ki aachey tor?
Megh balok:
cholona aachey, cholona….
Jhora pata:
ta ki chawlaa kawlaa janish, amakeo shekha na rey….
Megh balok:
dhere khoka aaj amar kachey sikkha chaichey!
tor shaddyer bairey…. parbi ditey Guru dokshina ?
Jhora pata:
aaoawj dichchish?
Megh balok:
niriho proshner niriho uttor dilum, aaoawj debo keno? ami ja bolar onek bar bolechi tokey, bekar keno birokto korchish amake ?
Jhora pata:
ektu baad e class aachey….
?
Tui chup keno ?
Megh balok:
tokey toh kew aatke rakheni, aar amar kon kotha e ba tor kobey bhalo lage je aaj ami chup bole tor gaye bajchchey?
Jhora pata:
tui toh aamake kono din o jete baron korish na, tor ki kono din o ichchey korey na amake aatkate?
Megh balok:
ami aatkaale tui thakbi?
Jhora pata:
aatkei dekhtish!
Megh balok:
parbi na, ami jani…. onek shahosh laage tar jonnye, tor seh shahosh nei….
Jhora pata:
aar ki janish?
Megh balok:
sob kichu ki tokey boltey hobey naki? keno? keno? onek din toh holo, eto bochor por notun korey shei prono kotha bolbar kono ichchey aamar nei…. bhabtam amar kichu kichu ichcher mullyo aachey aajo tor kachey! Jaak…. seta amar e bhul….
Jhora pata:
bolish na, kintu ekta kotha…. tui lekha chhere diyechish keno? tui taake chharli na seh tokey chhere gelo? tor kichu kobita chhilo amar kachhe, amar aalor utso, amar jyokkhyo purir ek chiltey aalo. aaj firiye ditey chai tokey….
....ami jai! Aar hyan…. shon, dorjata kholai thak, notun alor borat niye eshe kew jeno phirey na jaye….
Megh balok:
ei baatlaam gulo college er bachcha der dishh, ora mughdho hoye shunbe….
Jhora pata:
tui toh janish, ora amar student, aar ami tor!
Megh balok:
tor na class aachey, bachcha gulo apekkhya korchey, 02.45 baje
Jhora pata:
sob e baje, shudhu kono din bajena amar dorjaye ekta koda…. bhalo thakish!
Megh balok:
"bhangchhe samoy, agun jwele, purchhe kichhu, batil chithi
notun khatay, notun lekha, purono cup, notun coffee….
chokher patay, thnoter chnoya, ankchhe agun, bhalobasa
purono chhai, urchhe haoaye, bondhu ekhon, neel dhnoyasha...."

….ami bhalo aachi!

Friday, November 18, 2011

Wishes for the MORTICIAN !

Even before destiny got them together the DREAMER had known the MORTICIAN; he had known her through the eyes of someone else. Someone else whom he had loved and she also had loved no less. To him she had then been that crazy psychotic creature who incessantly spoke of love and other sad dreams; smart and intelligent with a razor sharp memory; addicted to games of words and mind, wrote gothic poems, read tarot and her favourite colour, black. She was completely crazy; getting musical notes inked on her body hoping to find harmony. Horribly screwed up in life, frustrated, she threw tantrums on everyone around and he was warned and asked to keep safe distance. He knew he would be a real lucky dog if he could manage to be in her good books or else Gods save him. That’s the picture he had of her a year back and so he had all the reasons to avoid her.

But things changed as they propelled away from the shore and started their journey. Patching grief with proverbs two strangers started sailing, hoping to find a new shore somewhere.... Often you open the wardrobe thinking of something and then find something which you have never thought of, but you end up with a smile; and life indeed is beautiful with such little wonders. She is one such precious wonders in his life.

....He usually bakes a cake on all his friend’s birthdays. Last December he wanted to bake a cake for her as well. But he did not. They were not so close and he knew her through the lunatic that time. He was scared what will every one think. May be baking a cake and getting that for her would unnecessarily draw every one’s attention and evoke controversy; that’s what he thought and with the terror of being exposed and the fear of the lunatic altogether rejected the idea. He was scared, too scared and anxious to loose the lunatic at any cost. Later on when she had come home on Christmas, he had baked two cakes instead of one, somewhere in the subterranean of his heart he wanted to compensate. Compensate for not baking a cake for her on her birthday, compensate for everything and nothing that happened between them!

….A lot actually happened between them after that and how they both survived the precarious catch of the dream seller. For him, it was those wine sweet days of attention. The joy of being desired; the naughty fun of being watched and not letting oneself touched…. How he smiles with a smirk when he recollects those days now. He had called her up from the far away land to wish Good Night; when she told him about her new found love, the dream seller. A flurry of quandary flooded the high fortifications of fortitude, while the shapeless words got mute at his throat as they found way through his eyes and rolled down his cheek. The past was revisited and he was shrouded with memories that he should not have had. On the other side of the phone she could hear him panting for air standing on the balcony of the crummy hotel in the suburb; and soon he found himself giving her the biggest truth of his life. The truth, that he had been carefully hiding all his life. Strong as she always had been, hugged him with her words and promised to be there with him. They both did it, trapped the trap of the dream seller!

The guilt and the pain would not be gone, but they survived. They consoled each other saying the trap was a boon in disguise; and realized how more close they have become after the catastrophe. They survived, but the poison is still in their wounds and the wounds are open. The wounds are dormant but not extinct and they have still NOT learnt not to presume the permanence of any relationship!

….Raw and uncovered they both stand under the night sky and the blue moon watches them as they pacify each other every night. Now parked in the crater they talk about their flight across the moon in the past. The Heartless Casanova, the Thoughtless Spineless Lunatic, the Cruel Dream Seller, the Funny Little Hill Boy and the Mysterious Maya often twinkle in their nights. Two brunt neon night skies of the two far away cities…. The distance, the void between them is filled with songs; the notes float around in sepia undertones as they go back to the past again…. ”Dnariye aacho tumi amar gaaner opare!”
DREAMER – tui gaaner kon paarey?
MORTICIAN – ami gaaner majkhane!
DREAMER – shei bhalo, gaaner kono eipaar-opar nei. Shudhu aayinar oparer manush tai thake, aar kew thakena, kew kotha rakhena!
MORTICIAN – abar tui swopno dekhchish meenshey!
DREAMER – bol khelaghor bnadhchi! Swopno shottyi eishob niye naiba bhabli meye….
MORTICIAN – aachcha, tui Hemnolinir doley na Komolar doley?
DREAMER – tui bidhoba Binodinir doley na oi notun boutar doley, proshnota onekta oirokom holo na….
MORTICIAN – je jaar nijer jwalaye jwolchey rey!
DREAMER – jwoloner o onek moja, tui ki janbi rey mukhpuri!

Sometimes when she thought she didn't need to do it anymore, times when she thought she was done with it. She liked having the ability to inflict pain whenever she wanted, and she liked that she could stop it. Not that she really wanted to. She would ask herself if this was happiness, and told herself that if it was, she hated it. Cutting made her feel different than everyone else, but she also knew that other people did it for the same reasons, which made her feel that she was a part of something. Then there were times when the tears from her eyes burned a path down her cheek, and her throat was so tight she couldn't scream no matter how much she tried. Those times she would find relief only by cutting up her skin and bleeding out all the painful screams. The pain of living altogether flowed from one simple cut. She didn't care where she cut, arms, legs, stomach, or wrists. As long as she keeps cutting she can live to tomorrow.

Today while he reads her letter; thinks of writing to her, a gust of dilemma floods the high walls of determination, everything seems muddled to his stupid mind and all reason seems pointless. He feels like sharing with her all that he had left unsaid at the most tempting moment; that fistful of lesser significant nothings! How he suffered, how he cried, when he first read her letter and he thought this is the real punishment. How does one stop thinking of someone one used to love? How does one stop remembering? It is something they both got used to, it happens all the time.... Days passes empty like the days before. He has forgotten who he was, whom he loved and all other obligations and many a times knowingly unknowingly she rubs chillies on his wounds, but he never holds that against her; he knows she is doing that to herself and not to him. She is miserably trying to build a wall of defence to protect the faint heart and trying hard to make him see reason. Though sense hardly makes sense at such situations; he has learnt he could not be simple; he has no business to be simple and live in this world and know nothing about its cruel ways.

...and it rained during the busiest time of the day in the crazy city. DREAMER and his letter, she never thought life comes in small pockets of emotions!
She looks for that stupid boy from “Aarshi-Nagar“ insanely when she cries. Now, that Aarshi is broken...the Nagar is filled with void and the ruthless girl keeps on walking in the debris to find the little remaining pieces of them, together. The stars, the hatred, the pain, the anger - everything makes her a motley of a cold blanket. At night when she unmasks herself, she sits alone with a Marley Joint and wonders where the lost DREAMER is, whom she once hated so much. She has forgotten what love is all about! She doesn't feel the feeling. She looks for Dreamer in every face that she meets, post work when she crosses the street she looks for him perpetually and every time she fails. There's no one to hold her hands while crossing the road. She gets scared even now while crossing those busy routes. She doesn't have him by her side; the thought makes her feel miserable. No, he doesn't make her cry, he makes her feel angry, ANGER - that's the only thing she has. She doesn’t go to the coffee shop - the by lanes and dark corners bring him back to her though she knows he is NOT there anymore.

MAYA calls her and asks her to take care of herself. Though the she knows even MAYA doesn't know what 'taking care' means. The closet, the warmth in the call, the feeling of belonging, the wait - another blanket of fondness that MAYA gives; she takes all of it with deep breath and happy heart though she knows, she's alone - just like the way they are!

She takes the last puff from the joint, wipes her tears and smiles. As the dreamer once said, "Rest everything is fine. Just Fine!"

Her words still hover on his head and he wonders what is it that made a MORTICIAN out of a LOVER. May be Love indeed is too young to know what conscience is....

The past one long year had been a witness to a thousand oscillations…. And it’s the MORTICIAN’s birthday again. Opps! The LOVER’S birth day again! He wishes he could be there with her, with the little girl who would find it difficult to cross the road while coming home after getting drunk on her birthday!

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Rest everything is fine, it’s just fine!

This place is politically very sensitive because of Tribal Militants. They kill people, burn trains and rape women. Children here play with AK47-doppelganger toys and innocence is nowhere to be found. People here live with suspicion and fear; the fear of death. Some say they are fighting for truth, fighting for their birth right. Some call them Terrorists. I don’t understand what exactly is going on in here; neither do I want to. The community of weavers I work with belong to the same tribe in question. The love and warmth they have showered me with, the way they have taken care of me while on my field-work, the way they have helped me whenever needed, I am deeply touched. I have put up in the District’s Circuit House. Every night when I return after work, I thank god because I came back safe.

Many a times I feel like asking Maya and Mortician to come down for a short trip, but then I stop myself, thinking why should I risk their lives just because I miss them. Old life recedes further and further away and I console myself saying that they are just a few digits away. Though I call Mortician frequently I never call Maya. Strange thoughts plague me and I feel that the gulf between me and Maya would never be bridged; what if Maya does not pick up the call, what if Maya does all that the lunatic left me to suffer with.... I often feel like spreading out all my anguish at Maya’s feet, I often feel like giving all my secrets to Maya, but then I step back. No Maya, why should I burden you with my heartaches when you have enough of your own? Also what if Maya turns out to be like one of them! It’s not that I don’t trust Maya; I can’t trust anyone for that matter. Thanks to the lunatic, that word is lost in my dictionary.... and I like a fool had lain awake nights wondering why.... Sometimes I would wish that.... but what do I wish? Reconciliation and humiliation? All these thoughts keep splitting me in two equally unacceptable pieces.

Maya came down to Calcutta to meet me before I left the city. I was happy, incredulously happy, as happy as happiness could be, but I could not properly ever tell that to Maya. Back at home I used to wait for the weekends for Maya to come down but now in this exile, I don’t even have that luxury of pleasing myself by waiting for the weekends. Four months seem ever so long. I don’t know exactly what is it that’s disquieting me so much; I don’t know what I am so scared of. I know for sure I am not scared of Maya; maybe it’s my own self I am so scared of. All I know is that I wait for Maya and I don’t know why. I know I wait for Maya like I never have waited for anyone. My soul revolts and torment increases with each passing day. It is helpless, crying is no good, it is the faith I live by; the thoughts imprinted on my mind, my heart and my soul so strongly that I live in a shadowy insubstantial land.... and life goes on with everything else a little faded at the back of my mind.

There are police check posts at every turning of the roads. On our way to work, they stop our cab and check our papers every day. This morning while clicking photographs in the village bazar an old tea shop lady started hissing at us with her face puckered with distress; “Amar chele taake toh liye gelo rey ! Amar ghor ta jwaliye dilo rey! Akhon abar salara chobi nitey eshechey ken rey! (“They killed my son! They brunt my home! For what joy do the assholes now want to click photographs?“) Seeing her rage I was shocked and surprised at the same time. My whole body tightened with tension. She wasn’t ready to listen to us; neither did she wait for us to explain to her what actually we were there for. I have never faced such circumstances before. For some strange and unknown reason I felt guilty and ashamed, I felt as if I could not live with myself. I did not have any word to console her neither did I know how to react when all the eyes in the bazar got glued to us as a result of her screaming. I felt brutally helpless standing there in the market like a callous and facing the red eyes of those people there; I felt out of place, an out caste amongst all these people. I again thought of Maya who came down to meet me and I told myself that I should be satisfied with that. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I somehow hurried to drag myself towards the cab, and soon while it started for the next village, I fixed my gaze on the moving world beyond the window. The scenery blurred as my eyes grew hot and started to prickle. The desolate woman’s screams are still echoing in my ears and hammering on my head, even while I am typing out this letter.

While returning from work the roads ran cutting through fields of fire flies; as if a hundred thousand stars were strewn about on my way. Nature is always a wonderful resort when one is disturbed, it always offers harmony. Absolute bliss! Beautiful! The vast open evening sky allowed me all the room for shying hopes, suppressed fears and speculations of the unacknowledged.... the beauty in the surroundings added to the pain and I ached with that nothingness gnawing inside me. I wanted Maya and Mortician to be there with me. I miss them the most when I am happy; I feel as if life is so meaningless if not shared with them.... but I guess the luxury of living, how and where one wants, is not for me anymore.

Later, this evening, after coming back from the remote village we gathered that a shopkeeper has been shot dead in the town-market. The shops were shut on the way and very few people were seen on the roads. The front gate was shut and we entered our den through the back door.... once again I thanked God.

Scary stories of how outsiders had been often abducted in this territory are all known. I was never so scared of death.... recently I have realised that I am scared of death now. I want to live, I want to live again and I want to love again.... I want to love as if I have never been hurt. I get drunk and spoilt in the evenings all alone in the Circuit House and dream. Dreams that I have never dreamt before.... Mortician thinks it’s perilous. She warns me, gets upset, throws tantrums at times and calls me “silly’, calls me a “fool” and we talk ceaselessly about the layers of love, life and lunacy....

The endless soliloquies continue....

Some things come with their own punishments and do not change though life seems to have taken a new turn after I shifted from Calcutta. I know nobody here in this new town, nor does anyone know me. This is the life I had so asked for; a brand NEW life, where solitude would be tranquillity. No old ties! No old questions to be answered, no old acquaintances to be faced, no old songs to be sung! During my College days I had stayed alone, away from my place and had managed fairly well; I enjoyed the freedom, the independence. But this time being away from my city, away from my home, away from my household activities, away from my daily drama is not the same like before. Though this is the life I had been praying for till I managed to bag this Project, now the feeling is a little odd because how much ever I pretend to cope up, or try and actually understand, every moment I keep meeting the same wretched me of my past, and fail to cope up. I realize there is no escape. The joy in freedom is lost; the independence wreck less and dangerous. I am scared the newness of the new life is again tainted with the old wounds stifling me!

Lot of things though have changed; new faces around, new places, new roads, new rivers but often I am reminded of the Ganga while I walk along the banks of Gourang. Life here moves at a slow pace; we go to remote villages every day for work and I see how different their ways are from ours. These people in the villages are so poles apart from us, yet they are so like us, so known and so close. I talk to them, talk for hours. Try understanding them; delve deep into their lives, slowly and gradually, like peeling an old lover’s clothes. We talk about life, nature, society, poverty, miseries, happiness, fears and also about thousand other things; and with such natters the meaning of life seems perfectly simple. The respect, love and affection they show us are unadulterated.

Nature here is bountifully painted on the canvas of the mother planet; some of these villages we go for work are flanked by the Bhutan hills, blue and misty. But I don’t see the hills, I don’t look at the sky, the clouds don’t touch me; I want to come back and see them with Maya and Mortician. I walk down the hills hoping to see them waiting for me down the valley with their arms stretched apart. I wonder how long is too long while I wait for their much awaited arrival which never happens. At every turning of the road I wait for a miracle, I hope to see the faces I long for. The darkness under the saal trees, the bits and pieces of winter sky through the canopy of branches and the gusts of cold wind rustling the leaves make me wonder how cold must have been the winters there this time. The corner couch at the coffee shop would still be warmed up, Black Coffee with sugar-free in a take away pack would still be Black Coffee, would have the same rich aroma and Maya would call it the bitter sweet symphony…. Few lesser significance of life! And now I long for them even more. Back home I had so long waited to run away from the city, and now I wait for my city here; all I know is to wait…. the wait, again! I see kids in the villages, they run after our car in the evening on the dusty roads with the setting sun on the horizon in the backdrop.... and in all their faces I look for Maya and Mortician.

Rest everything is fine, it’s just fine!

Kokrajhar (17.10.2011)

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Exile....

Many a time I have left Calcutta but never I have felt like this before; this time I am at a real loss of words to express how exactly I am feeling. It feels like I am being uprooted but not completely, some parts of me are still here while I am forcibly dragging myself to a far away land which I have never felt like I belonged to, which I never loved, which I never considered my own. The whole idea of uprooting one’s self from the land one has so loved is not at all easy; it’s difficult, it’s dangerous and also very absurd. But I am doing it; I am doing it because I have to, because I don’t have any other option. I have hoped against hope to look for light but I can’t afford to live with the darkness any more. My roots have seeped deep into the soil of this city, my veins carry the city’s best blood and my lungs the dirtily delicious stench of petrol and non-bourgeois (?) silk-cut cigarettes. The heat, the dust, the pollution, the loud honking of the cars, the hideous traffic, the phuchkas, the rolls, the merciless painful claustrophobic afternoons before rains, the pools and ponds in the middle of the roads after rains.... I have loved them; I have loved them all. The tea coloured evenings, friends, enemies, families and thousand other ties.... All that tied me to this city or may be all that I tried to tie myself to are floating at the back of my mind, making it hollow and void asking me not to grow up. Not at least this September.
I don’t know how much I am leaving behind for all of it seems to be piling with me. Too many memories and the baggage too heavy but I need to move on.
It’s Viswakarma Puja today and I had hired a car from my place to the airport in the morning. The driver had been a very sweet guy. He kept on playing Radio Mirchi while last moment exchanging of songs, poems, farewell notes and all that jazz kept me busy. While I got down from the car, the driver took out a paper box and handed out a sondesh (Bengali sweet) to me with a smile. With the fresh sandalwood paste and vermillion smeared on his forehead, it was evident that he had taken his car to be worshipped in the morning before I hired him. While I took the piece of sweet he kept on telling me “etogulo bag aapni kikorey samlaben? sabdhane jaben dada, sabdhane” (“how will you manage so many luggage? Take care, please take care”). He does not even know me, but the concern and warmth in his voice made me feel better in a way. May be life is not that bad, may be the world is not that bad, maybe there are still some nice people left; or may be sometimes we do not notice all these little nice things that happen to us every now and then, worrying about bigger troubles in life....
And now even before I have boarded the air plane, it feels like I have already propelled away to some unknown sky. I feel extremely helpless and lost holding the boarding pass in one hand and trying to call Mortician with the other; while she does not pick up the call.... The security check is over and my flight has been announced. I don’t have much time left and I am feeling paranoid, but she does not pick up the call; maybe she is also trying to get used to the absence. May be she is also failing miserably to cope up with the impotent wrath of letting go of her friend. This deliberate and desperate absence of the Mortician is difficult for me to handle and my brain has stopped functioning; so all I have managed is to text a small note to Maya before switching off the phone and getting up on the flight....

Calcutta (18. 09. 2011)

No, Ahmadabad has not changed; it is the same; intact the way I had left this city three years back. It seems like everything have been preserved carefully for me to return. I am happy seeing old faces, seeing old places and old alleys but somehow strangely a constant guilt feeling is mingled with my joy.... it is that guilt of resorting to that city I have always neglected, I have always cursed, I have always hated so much.

Ahmadabad (19. 09. 20011)

It’s raining in Guwahati.... You are not here but you are here; I am having coffee and vegetable thukpa at Silk Route.... the road across the glass window is hazy in the rains. With smell of dumplings in the air, music in my head and chopsticks in my hand I am wondering what you do these days, whom you call while having the morning cigarette, I am wondering if Maya at all ever misses me....

Guwahati (23. 09. 2011)

They change the bed sheets every morning in the hotel and I have a new story every morning. Last night Hill boy handed me all the gifts of the Mortician. I loved them, loved all of them. Nobody ever has written me such touching letters; I feel needed when I read those letters.... words and emotions are such strange things.... You are so right Mortician; life, death, love, hate, happiness, sadness all pivots on the tip of the tongue indeed!
p.s: I have decided to forgive Maya for not calling me up and yeah HAPPY BIRTH DAY to me !

Guwahati (26. 09. 2011)

I wished Rumyum this morning. It’s her birth day and the whole team is dressed in their Sunday best to celebrate. She smiled back when I wished her and asked me to kiss her; I gently had put a peck on her cheek and hugged her trying to smile with moist eyes. Rumyum does not know that she shares her birthday with the lunatic but I am at awe how my eyes got moist. There were many people in the room but she asked only me to kiss her; I wonder if she had read my thoughts that moment. Thinking of the incident, it feels strange. Last year on today’s date I had baked a cake for the lunatic; and prayed in my heart. We got happily drunk that evening, singing to our glory. The lunatic sang aloud while I sang in my head. I took a cab back home and thanked God for everything and nothing; the night breeze hit me smoothly on the face while I stared out of the cab window and the drunk lunatic sang to me on the phone.... life seemed perfect and I was happy. Leaving behind rows of buildings and trees, leaving behind people and light posts the car speeded and I speeded with it leaving behind twenty six useless years of my life.... life seemed beautiful and I smiled with moist eyes like I did this morning.
But things CHANGE! And HOW!
I bake no more cakes but I still pray for the lunatic.... “May you stay Forever Young“

Guwahati (02.10.2011)

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Decked in azure mascara and purple nail paint, bold night awaits the return of the colour flamboyant....
They all who got drenched in the rain, they all who claimed to have measured the pain;
Do they know that turn on the road, where a painted heart was cheaply sold?
The secrets, the bleached bones of a story so layered; of a heart that was once desired....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

.... The lonely prey walked from there; conch shells, wind chimes and blank stares,
Whistle of the ship from the long lost past; those scarlet days paid with blames and rust....
Rust coloured songs and a rust sour smell; is all that you get if you believe in fairy tales.
Fairies leave, fairies vanish and fairies fade ....the heart left for the demons to trade.
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Scarlet days that were woven with bliss, bubbles and roses and clouds and kiss....
The river still flows inside the heart; the prey has now learnt how to act of mirth.
The sheets new, the doors latched, the bed shared ....but the scars never stripped;
Strangers come, strangers go ....nobody knows, nobody will ever know....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Counting heartaches in the head, old violin floats on the dead, on the red....
The azure mascara is just another coat; the river in the heart still has a paper boat,
The black eyes melt, breakup, makeup, dust.... rotten flesh and some more rust....
The songs tainted, no solace anymore; the prey is quiet from the deepest core....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

The time pass lovers, the time pass losers, the strangers in the night,
Changes every day, and the sky is littered with so many new kites....
But that kite running soul who painted a dream, of passion, of mists, of colours, of hue....
What happened to it? Who knows? Neither me nor you....
The poems raped; words killed, home burnt....

Monday, September 5, 2011

Unfinished....

MORTICIAN:

Toke aaj ekta kotha boli, may be I will never say such things ever afterwards.
I shall be missing you Dreamer when you are not here. I won't have anyone who will listen to my late night blabber.... My endless grumbling about something called 'your career'. How horrible was that. To my every nonsense you have been an active listener, all my tantrums you have dealt with forbearance and a happy face. What would I do without you I really wonder, my sudden day's escapade to the famous "Aarshi-Nagar" with cups of black tea/coffee, nico puffs and endless meaningless banter with child like photo shoots. I shall miss these greater halves of my life! I never found someone like you, who's always there donning that 'ready to die for' dimpled smile. Ah! The smile indeed; an escapade to my lunacy...Hori-dar cha-er dokan-e mosha-r bhyan bhyanani aar tui, Vivekananda Parker unchu unchu ghas peyire bench ta dokhol kora, hothat kore gaan geye kende phela, othoba "MORTICIAN tumi kintu bodle jeo na..."
You gave me all that I always WANTED in this wreck-less life.
There are times, when I scream at you. Just like a little girl who screeches in the middle of the night after seeing a nightmare. There are times when I ask you not to cry, your tears scare me and I ask you quite brutally to stop it. Though I know within, that these drops of eyes, are hard to resist. There are times when I look out of the window or read a book as you call and I say " I don't wanna talk anymore..." I do it all, everything that can justify me to be an inhumane. But behind every savage act there lies a subtle love, something that only I can feel and you can understand!
In 12 days time you shall be off to the Gujju Land with your life covered with strangers, some of them might also be your friend. And here I shall be all by myself thinking about your Assam expeditions. But that is life I guess...that is the ONLY way to remain with someone with a handful of memories.
My secret keeper, my friend, my masochistic angel; be happy as happiness could be, be strong like the rocks can be and remain JUST the way you are .... ‘Cause you are a BLESSING for people like US! I Love you!
Live well, drink and be merry DREAMER, with or without me! :)

DREAMER:

Yes I will be off to the dry state of Gujarat, pay five times the price for drinking, get lost in the folds of the Himalayas, call up Bihu-man, throw tantrums at him and sulk about how horrible Assamese foods are.... all these I will do, but somewhere deep down a bit of the Mortician would also be there doing all these with me.
I will miss the scared hands that always held me tight while crossing the roads making me realise that I better grow up and learn to take charges. I will have fun in the weekends but the joy of having you at the “Aarshinogor” would always be longed for. I will meet many new people, see new rivers but in my mind I will always hum the same old river songs that you always sang for me. The steps of Bihu would be echoing in my ears and hammering on my head, the solace won’t be there, because there would be no Mortician or Maya to drag me to sing.
With every taambul that I will chew I know for sure I will be missing Ruu and her funny ways of blaming me for having paan alone.
I will wear the white Tee that you have gifted me for my birth day. And yes may be I will also miss the Lunatic thinking of my last birth day....
I will be missing you all....

MORTICIAN:

We spend most of our time talking about nothing but I just want to let you know that all these nothings mean so much more to me than so many somethings. I don’t regret the rain or the nights I felt the pain or the tears I had to cry some of those times along the way. If you’re leaving, take me with you. If you’re running away, take me too. If you’re jumping off, hold my hand as you do...But these good byes are painful!
Life takes a different run, each time I read your thoughts. Yes, I can READ them all. And then those endless telephonic conversation that determine 'how we should be or how we are'. Life goes on, as it never ends! With Maya by my side, and Ruu on another, I shall be living YOUR life, here, in this reckless city, where life refuses to gain momentum.
Think what you have while I narrate this life story to you, so that you can also have time to smile a bit and say, "Life is short, but this time it was bigger"!

DREAMER:

You have never accepted a second rate life story, so have I tried following your footsteps. But none of us have seen the end, we know not what we are, what life is, how the ending is like.... no one knows the end before the end....
You and Maya always ask me to grow up. You scream and shout at me, I remain quiet; not because I don’t have answers, not because I don’t want to piss you off; it’s because I know I need to be shouted at, the child in me always feels safe with you around. The screeching and scolding gets surpassed with the love and affection you have unconditionally showered on me. I never had to ask for anything, but you have given me all that I had so longed for....
Grown up Maya often says we are all alone. I bargain saying “we still love to act as if we are not alone”. I shut Maya up, I shut you up; but at one point I see a reflection of this Dreamer in both of you. So yeah, we all are sailing the same boat, through the "shorbonasher nodi" hoping "lagbey tori kusum bonn e...." I can’t promise you anything, because I really can’t afford to break the promise if I make one. I know how it feels when promises are broken. I don’t know exactly how short life is, and this time how big it had been like. All that I know for sure is that some short stories are ever so long.... "sesh hoiya hoilo na sesh...."

MORTICIAN:

Ever wondered how will my trips to the cemeteries be? They shall be as ghost-like as the graves themselves. I will be carrying the same camera, with a bottle of lemonade and few note books in my bag. But the charm of these little excursions will vaporise, with each passing day. I don't know whom to call when I need a smoke in the middle of something; I don't know who will hold my hand as I walk the streets gallantly while talking to one of my friends over the phone.
Rita mashi'r cha-er dokan will have one empty space, Indthalia will have one chair free, Nandan-Academy will have a spare place to sit, Cafe Lounge and Cha Bar will serve one person less, the cinema-hall Ajanta will have just one more ticket to sell, CCD, Barista, Maharani'r Kochuri, the ol' alleys of the New Market to the unpredictable "Sinful Afternoons", everything will miss one more part of this worthless Mortician. And I will be missing, my most beloved half, YOU – The dreamer.
The regular walks from Lake Road to Rashbehari, the sudden afternoon showers, lazy clicking sound of the camera, the occasional shopping, my encounter with Robi Thakur, those unending midnight conversations, your love for Love and my hatred for the same or the smoke with whiskey filled glasses will never be the same!
You are the world-class fool indeed! Cause you in turn befooled the world!
....Till we meet AGAIN!

DREAMER:

Don’t get distressed when I cry, let me cry and feel sorry for myself.... many a times we have called each other up complaining about the over cast sky or the traffic on the roads or the hiking up of the prices of cigarettes.... and then consoled ourselves with the thought of there is always a tomorrow. It’s just that this time the night would be a little prolonged before tomorrow comes.
I promise to come back as soon as possible. You just promise me to be the same Mortician you always have been to this Dreamer.
.... I would just be a phone call away.... and yeah I am sure dirty Santa’s would not sleep switching off their mobiles this Christmas.

MORTICIAN:

Remember Me..?
Am your sanity...
We used to walk hand in hand
But you could no more stand
The incisions of life
And chose to stay the horrid way....
In a life of illusions
And smokey repentance...!!!

Remember me.....???
Or should I believe
U've lost your head drawing pictures,
Scribbling things that dont make any sense
Waiting for the Eternal Death...!

I shall be writing such a History. :)

DREAMER:

:)

Monday, August 29, 2011

To the girl with the lizard tattoo, from the boy in fishermen pants.

Dearest,
Often when I lie down and stare at the ceiling, or sit near the window in the cab while coming back from work, I wish I could tell you all that is untold. Certain things in life are best shared with none but the self; certain things in life can’t just be expressed or rather they are way too difficult to be put into words. Once in my life I had lied to you, yes I had lied to you that night when you had hurled upon me a thousand questions which I never thought would come from you, at least not at that point of time. Babai was absconding and Mesho was in the nursing home that night, I was confused and helpless. You being the closest one trying to talk to me about my problems were very normal for you, but I got extremely scared of you that moment. Before you get to know it from someone else; I want to let you know, that YES you guessed it right!

Mesho passed away the next morning and I left my job after a week. You know I had never seen death so closely before that. I was never very close to Mesho but somehow his death changed the life of three of us in this house. I felt I grew up overnight. May be sometimes the aftermath of death and memory of a person touch so much more than what life had. Now often when I look at Masimoni; I catch myself thinking of her happy face with Mesho around. I can’t look at her anymore; the loneliness springing from her life reflects in her endeavours to smile vacantly all the time. It’s catastrophic. She has shifted to her new Behala-flat but alone; her sylvan retreat to be shared with none but herself. Life indeed is too short to let go, to make enough mistakes, to make up and to break up!

Babai retired, two weeks after I left the stupid export-house job. Babai being ever busy I have never got a fair chance to spend much time with him. I thought his retirement would be an excuse for us to hold him back at home; but no he made himself busier with works after his retirement. Mum-mum stays in her own world of daily soaps and news papers. I really don’t know much how it feels to spend time with family. I often ask myself what a family means; Is it just an identity? Is it just an address? Or is it just a house? We literally stay like three islands in this house; silent and isolated. I feel very rootless and detached at times. My parents have never left a chance for me to complain. They have tried their level best; sent me to the best schools and colleges of the city, and gave me all that they thought I needed. But these are things that I had never asked for. All I needed was some understanding. Sharing the same roof does not always equate to sharing the same heart; its dangerous and not at all easy when you are loved so much but understood so little.

When I was a kid, every summer Babai used to take us to his “desher-bari” (village). I faintly remember those days. One of those few cherished memories is how every morning Babai and Mum-mum used to take me for a walk to the local railway station through the narrow pathway flanked by the paddy fields and buy me omelettes and tea from a roadside joint near the station. There was no electricity in the village; kerosene lamps, hand fans and fishing lines were things that I could spot only there in my summer breaks to the village. I also remember how Mum-mum and I used to get amused and exchange secret glances hearing the local dialect, half of which we could never comprehend that Babai spoke to the relatives in the village. Why I am telling you all these; is because this is only when I got Babai close to us. Rest I have always seen Babai and Mum-mum fighting most of the times. Or maybe it’s only the fight that I have seen and not the love behind it. Life is really weird, painted in strange colours.... makes you remember strange things at strange moments. If I have ten memories of the village, I have ten thousand memories with you. And I am sure those memories are not illusion; cause they say reality itself is illusory! One of my friends says that it’s all about perceptions. The line between reality and illusion is very thin. We see only what we want to see, hear what we want to hear, believe what we want to believe and speak what we do not want to speak. What we see is our world, what we believe is our truth! I am not judging any truth, neither I am interested in any calculation.... I just wonder if emotional values, faith, trust and sentiments also depreciate with changing times! I time and again question why anyone doesn’t comprehend that sensitive people are just folks with special needs. Why is it so wrong to be emotional and to want some understanding once in every while? Why is it so conveniently scripted that being non pragmatic is akin to having a communicable disease? - you get avoided, or worse you have to conform or get out, or much worse, you have to pretend to conform and live with it. This is quintessentially damaging to the human spirit.

I am standing at such a cross road of life, where paths travel in all directions. I myself don’t know which nowhere I am leading to. The hollow sound of my own footsteps often scares me when I walk on the terrace every night. The silence that has been standing in between both of us like some unwanted stranger disturbs me every moment. I did not want to disturb you, but I had to tell you this because I know you will be more hurt when you come to know about it from someone else. May be we have hurt each other enough not to hurt anymore. I always wanted to tell you the truth but I was scared if you start loving me less after that. If you take back all that love you had given me. I couldn’t afford to loose your love. I was too selfish to let go of you. After we stopped talking, I often told myself the worst is over. But now I feel the worst has just started.

Life might take us to two different cities, but we have always been a heartbeat away or at least preferred to think so. It’s the thinking that’s make all the difference, that’s what makes you you and me me. I am at a real loss of words to explain how my thoughts are all so jumbled up and entangled. The images are all shaken in my head, each time I see it’s not the same, a bit of that image gets shattered; each time trust is betrayed! Shocking it is. The seed that was planted has grown into a mammoth tree, not to give me shade but to entangle me more in the disastrous roots. Reasons lost in time; the internal conflict continues, change and acceptance are after all not same! I know how difficult it is to lead a life bereft of trust, I know how difficult it is to live with that humiliation of being cheated and fooled around. We have always been friends, or may be a little more than friends, shared all the little secrets, screamed and screeched at each other, scolded each other, fought, loved, drank, doped.... you have always been my partner in the crimes.... the shoulder I could cry on, the smile I could look up to.... you have always told me about how vulnerable and emotionally insecure you are when it comes to your closed ones. I could never open up, but yeah I had been very insecure about you. Your madness, your cravings for freedom, your restlessness all that which attracted me towards you, actually somewhere deep down made me insecure about you.

I had been extremely insecure about everything, be it my parents, be it my friends and be it my relationships. Now when I look back I feel it was because I was never very secure and comfortable about myself; I could not accept myself. I have learnt my lesson, I have made myself distant from friends like you, and I am still paying the price.I am NOT writing you this letter because I want to get your sympathy, but yeah I feel this much honesty you deserve from me. I guess distance always has kept us better.... let’s not mess it up once more.

I owed you an apology for denying your right to truth.
And so here it goes my bravest post ever,
Love as always,
Your boy in fishermen pants.

Scribbles - i





COULROPHOBIA of a clown!

(1)
My new office is not bad; I am getting paid for watching movie and writing long mails to friends from my cabin. But the place being far away from my residence the journey is taking its toll on me every day.

People in this city are mad. They shout and scream in the bus, fight with the conductor for change and they talk as loud as everyone around is deaf. Weird conversations everywhere, they don't get tired of discussing the prices of vegetables and fishes every day. Most people have an intellectual hangover and they don't know what they are talking about. They discuss politics with lot of enthusiasm and the funniest thing is that they start talking in English (off course with that special bong accent, as if they have rosogullas stuck in their mouth while talking) when they have a point to prove. I don't know much if the switching of language adds to the value of the matter but it definitely adds to free entertainment for me....old uncles give me dirty looks probably because they are not so used to seeing men with so many piercings; so many finger rings and block printed shirts. (By the way I have a chin piercing now, got it done few days back). Some look at me as if I am an untouchable. Aunties make weird comments to me; someone would ask why I carry such a huge bag to the office while the others would be very shocked and bothered to see the unbuttoned neckline of my shirt and would advice me to button it up till the neck....Such weird people....

There is a chai-wala down stairs in front of the office; I go to his shack every day with one of my colleagues. Somewhere I miss the canteen’s horrible tea and the sinful gossips and sweet bitching sessions with my class mates back at college. But on the other hand, I am really excited that Post Graduation is over. I am kind of happy that I am out of that place. It was such a prison for me.

When I come back from work sometimes I walk a distance on the way, it feels nice sometimes to walk in a crowded city. Memories of schooldays come floating back with the smell of jhalmuri and phuchka in the office vicinity. I see kids holding hands and returning from school, sometimes I wish there had been someone to hold my hand too. I come back from home only because I have to; I know no one is waiting for me at home. Mum-mum and Babai are at home but they are busy in their own world, busy with things more important than waiting for me. I lock myself up in my room and do my own little things. Eat because I have to, switch on the television but never watch it, nothing interests me. I feel very empty. I try finding new excuses to go out every evening after office, most of the days I land up at New Market and pick up something or the other to pamper myself. Strangely, the oldest market complex in this city is known as New Market for some unknown reason. On the days I am left with nowhere to go I sit on the terrace after coming back from office. The evening breeze hits me on the terrace and with it hangs a hundred little unanswered questions of life. Again sometimes I sit with my laptop; but don’t know how I spend the evening hours in front of the laptop and not do anything.

(2)
I often sleep on the terrace at night. I stare at the night sky and catch myself lost in arbitrary thoughts. Few days back I met one of my friends, who had schizophrenia. She is better now but somehow not the same person she used to be when she was normal. Since I met her a very strange thought had been swaying my mind; what if I too have schizophrenia? Every night I go to sleep, with the same dreams tattooed on my eyes, but wake up with the same merciless and painful reality. The alarm rings and warns me to get up, but I feel like lazing around for some more time. I wish someone would have been there who would ask me not to leave the bed, someone who would ask me to bunk the office and go for a movie. But life has its own plans. Life goes on.... and I wait for something. No one ever stops by and asks what I am waiting for. Or maybe everything is just perfect and right from all angles; it’s me who is expecting too much out of life. Maybe it’s just some more time that I need for myself. I just fail to realize. Maybe this is where the problem is, I always end up expecting too much out of life.

One thing I have realized after coming back. Not exactly after coming back; this time when I was at the hostel looking for a diploma project, when everyone had left, nobody around, I used to think and reflect a lot. Actually though I am very different from my parents and everyone else in the family, somewhere deep inside, my values are also very middle class like them. Though I don't think the way they do, or my choices are very different from them at some point the values are very middle class; may be because of my upbringing, and that is the reason I chose to come back to this city. I can’t live without this place. My friends have always told me how I should go out of this god damn forsaken city and seriously give a second thought but I really don't regret the decision. I always had a gap between me and my parents, which used to bother me severely, and I was desperate to cover it up since I thought it was high time. I have learnt the hard way that there is nothing much one can do sitting in a different state and trying to fix things at home; don't know whether I would succeed but no harm trying.

(3)
So long I had often wondered if I create my own problems. Maybe I am too jobless and so I like feeling sorry for myself and depressed about anything and everything. But no; it’s not like that, I have always hoped against hope to get a normal life which I never had in my house. I need to know what was actually wrong, whether the troubles are self- made or due to something else. I have been living without trust and it’s difficult for me, every time my emotions are raped and feasted upon. It has not happened over night, the problems are an outcome of several years. On the other hand my parents also need help; more than what I need. I don't want to blame my parents for anything; I know they are also suffering. But now being here with my family, I know what has caused all the problems. Actually so long I was never sure about how to handle the things in the home front. I am trying my level best to cope with life and start things afresh.

The fun-loving person the world had known for the past twenty-five years was just pretence, and I am tired of pretending. I am tired of acting. I had always put up the show that I don’t care about anything, but actually I do, it’s all pretence, all pretence....
2008

(4)
This is what I had written three years back when I had come back after finishing my Post Graduations. It had not been smooth sailing since then, but things are looking up. I guess I knew my priorities. At least I know I took the initiative to sort things out instead of backing out. Sometimes we have to go against what is RIGHT according to the world and look at home and people. Many a times we forget that and end up hurting ourselves and people close to us. Things have been nicely sorted out between me and my parents, but the rest of my life have tainted.

These three years were never too long, time flew in no time. This city now torments me. There is too much of memory and too much of baggage and I need to move on. The pain would not be gone, the memories would never fade, they would linger back and haunt and the scars would always be there.

Life indeed is a circus, and I feel like a trapeze-clown with a broken body. The net underneath has gone haywire; and I have failed to catch the swinging bar at a moment of excitement. I am a very ordinary guy, stubborn and obstinate. I get upset, disturbed, bothered, melted and carried away. My thoughts kept me so busy that I missed the bar and ropes. There was a time I could trade what not to come back to this city, and today I just want to run away. Run away with life. Away to a place where no one would know me and I would know none. I want to get lost, so lost that I don’t find myself back. Mobile games and internet have replaced circuses. Thoughtlessness is the new happening cult. No one wants to see clowns anymore; I have no new tricks to perform. Maybe time has come for the old to be replaced. But the clown in me; I wonder what to do with him? Or am I still expecting too much out of life? They say once a clown is always a clown! .... a thoughtful clown with a broken body and tormented soul!

I feel paralytic when the lights go dimmed. I need to be precise with time; they say time is the biggest healer. I again wonder; maybe the wounds are healed but what happens to the scars. The stench of wild animals on the ring makes me feel nauseated. The makeup on my face burns my skin. The sound of trumpets echo in my ears and I feel COULROPHOBIC!
2011

Thursday, August 25, 2011

....

Stories continue even if the words stop. One such story starts where they have lost words. Actually words are not lost, they are there.... unsaid, buried deep.... The sky is overcast with clouds; but the rain maker still stuck in the boring office desk.... this is not a life the dreamer had asked for. Often on rainy days like these, the dreamer wonders what the lunatic does. Does it still sit near the big window every evening with a glass of whisky? Though it’s incredulously absurd, sometimes it also tries to guess if the lunatic still bunks office to dream; loiter around in the house and sing loudly on the side veranda when the light goes away after hours of rain.... Sometimes the dreamer wonders what can be more beautiful than making sense out of complete nonsense.... Wise friends (specially the Mortician) get irritated with this habit of the dreamer; they are successful people of the world; they are pragmatic and sane. They keep on warning the dreamer.

Sometimes the dreamer thinks to retaliate; but honestly how does it matter to them if the dreamer loves nonsense? Or rather the question is what matters? The dreamer has a world of its own, where no one has place except the lunatic.... and that’s what matters may be.... Let them think whatever they think, lets revert to our dreamer. The dreamer runs around in the room, closes the windows before the droplets hit the den, lights candles; and recalls how much the lunatic loves scented candles.... the room gets filled with the sick sweet smell of those strawberry candles which the lunatic had got from the city mall last year.... the dreamer is numb and submerged in oblivion and continues dreaming.... the silence is unperturbed with occasional barks of street dogs form the narrow lanes of south Calcutta. The sound of the pendulum echoes and swings and with it swings the past and the present.... the dreamer is torn apart; the helpless merciless pain plagues him.... the barrage is broken, the flood gates open, tears have found way amidst the perplexed helplessness of the dreamer. Salty tears drench the night, but the rain doesn’t pour....

Three years ago when the dreamer had shifted back, it had a very big dream; it had dreamt of finding love in this city. This is the city the dreamer always wanted to come back to. This is the city the dreamer was born in. Childhood, school days, gawky years of adolescence, carefree years of college; in the breaths of this city are the witness to those days. It felt the search had ended when it met the lunatic. Little did the dreamer know that it was just the beginning.

The dreamer rediscovered the city with the lunatic’s eye. Bus rides, Tram rides, auto rickshaws, underground metros all became more fun with the lunatic. The dreamer often caught itself dreaming of walking down the streets of the city barefoot with the lunatic.... Caffeine stained evenings, colourful nights, encounters with Tagore and Mohiner ghoraguli, and clandestine games with the little lunatic of the dreamer.... Colours changed and life seemed beautiful; reality was better than dreams; happiness was crowned with melody and marshmallow clouds. The dreamer thought it had met a friend for life. It was that sense of being attached that transformed the life of the dreamer. It was a walk in a trance. Million little things started making meaning. Time flew quickly....

Two little streams flew together, grew into big rivers flowing towards the same NOWHERE....
Suddenly the blanket of love is wiped aside for the skeleton to come out of the wardrobe....
separate ways, separate worlds, so close yet so far, so right yet so wrong....
blank eyes, open doors, roofless rooms, blood stains, acid rains,
a sky shaped hole in the universe....

Now, every evening the dreamer meets the Mortician over coffee. They talk of love, life, lunacy, legacy, leisure, loss, laments, lullabies and every other possible thing. Sometimes the dreamer quietly listens and does not speak. The Mortician knows the dreamer deeply; so it does not get upset. The dreamer often thinks of explaining it to the mortician; for her its one single ball of grief. But for the dreamer it’s even more complex. The dreamer does not even know what plagues him more ....the loss of friendship? ....the loss of love? ...the fact that the lunatic does not love the dreamer? or the fact that the lunatic has only the balls , but no backbone to support the balls. The cat is out of the box gloriously. The lunatic has miserably failed but still lies to the dreamer, even though it knows that everyone knows the truth. Who needs pity more than a man in self denial !

The Mortician blames the dreamer, she tries to convey how disastrous songs are and how perilous are the assets of sentiments and faith. She calls the dreamer her “little masochistic angel”. She feels the dreamer overreacts and is lousily cheesy in bargaining when it comes to EMOTIONS. The dreamer wonders what EMOTIONS are....

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Smell of freedom

Pleasured and hurt,
all night ourselves,
till dawn did us part !
Such was the arrogance, or may be ignorance?
You still smell of whiskey and I smell of freedom....

:-)

I will never poke you in my life,
will never write you songs,
will never sing you lullabies,
will never meet you for coffee,
will never meet you for booze,
will never call you up when I am stoned,
will love you less and will miss you less
if you don't come online right now!

Sunday, July 3, 2011

All my saved up prayers and smiles....

One hand on the horizon, the other on mine,
A tapestry of dewdrops and purple sunshine....
Threads woven rare, threads woven fine, threads that join
The depths of the unknown void between your’s and mine....
All my saved up prayers and smiles....

Doll faced dimples and tick tack toe,
Dream coloured puddle and rain shower snow....
Snow of the first spring; drizzles in the heart
Snow forever and some more, but we never drift apart....
All my saved up prayers and smiles....

A cloud blue poem on a pink summer day,
Like childhood tree-friends recalled in May....
Memories we make blue-black-red-green, all standing in a row,
Lovely floats the song with the memory of the snow....
All my saved up prayers and smiles....

Quenching thirst in the solace of your shadow,
Evening whispers that are a lovely lemon yellow....
Sunsets, yellow soaring birds and barefoot walks
The lake of passion rippling the rustles of our sweet talks....
All my saved up prayers and smiles....

Words everlasting words strewn in the air
Words and patterns forming shapes everywhere....
Painted flame and the nights wrapped in song
May love you stay forever young, forever young....
All my saved up prayers and smiles....

Thursday, May 12, 2011

The MORTICIAN & The DREAMER (rendezvous)

(1)
MORTICIAN:
Life is too short to make enough mistakes
DREAMER:
Some mistakes are too sweet not to be mistaken
.....................................................................................
(2)
DREAMER:
The Mortician blames the dreamer, she tries to convey how disastrous songs are and how perilous are the assets of sentiments and faith. She calls the dreamer her “little masochistic angel”. She feels the dreamer overreacts and is lousily cheesy in bargaining when it comes to EMOTIONS. The dreamer wonders what EMOTIONS are....
MORTICIAN:
The Mortician conducted an expensive funeral...she buried herself with a note saying " Do NOT R.I.P." and now she sees the Dreamer is infested with the Royal Disease and she has only ONE funeral to make!
.....................................................................................
(3)
MORTICIAN:
You are my prohibited corner in a flamboyant city love !
DREAMER:
You are my bare foot walks on the sidewalks of life !
MORTICIAN:
Love doesn't limit itself to relationships. It is a celebration of life !
DREAMER:
I dont celebrate life I celebrate lunacy!
MORTICIAN:
‎That is also a part of life!
DREAMER:
Sorry; wrong you are, life is just a little part of lunacy!
MORTICIAN:
Lunacy is a state of mind darling!
.....................................................................................
(3)
MORTICIAN:
It is hard to believe a man is telling the truth when you know that you’d lie if you were in his place
DREAMER:
And then there are some who lies to you, even though they know that you know the truth
MORTICIAN:
Enjoy every minute darling, There’s plenty of time to be dead
DREAMER:
Hah hah hah .... like you have always said, I am not the show stopper, I conduct the show, I am the MORTICIAN!
MORTICIAN:
Awww.... thanks hon, its like
We are all either fools or undiscovered geniuses, now the rest is upto the rest to decide!
DREAMER:
As of now lets just rest and watch!
MORTICIAN:
Always remember darling; The man who can smile when things go wrong has thought of someone else he can blame it on!
DREAMER:
Facts are many but TRUTH is one.... blame game does not help much
MORTICIAN:
Hmmm....
.....................................................................................
(4)
DREAMER:
Often strangling works better with songs !
MORTICIAN:
Songs are poison.What is YOUR song?
DREAMER:
I would prefer to have a million enemies than to have a friend like you!
MORTICIAN:
Dare you try to run away without giving me your song; is your song from the hills?
DREAMER:
Nopes, I don't have my songs in the hills, what echos there is a lonely haiku.
MORTICIAN:
Hmmm....Tomar gaan ta kintu ami pelam na bacha!
DREAMER:
Sob pele nosto jibon....
MORTICIAN:
Ami to noshto-e!
DREAMER:
Cholo dujon e aaro ettu nostami kori taholey!
MORTICIAN:
Amar ghora bhotti aarr noshtami korle cholke pore jabe je!
DREAMER:
Jodi maaro kolshir kana, tabole ki prem debona....
MORTICIAN:
Ami to prem chai na...ami chai tomar gaan
DREAMER:
They all have dumped me, whomever I have given a song
MORTICIAN:
Strange aint it...?! you gift them a song and they show you the DOORS....
DREAMER:
I often pity them, cause those rooms had doors but no ceiling!
MORTICIAN:
Still a room is a room, you bloody vagabond!
DREAMER:
Ontorey tey lalon amar, dorshonetey nai, paapi ami tomaye pete, poth hariye jai....
.....................................................................................
(5)
MORTICIAN:
Let me take this awkward saw
And run it against your thighs
Cut some flesh away
I'll carry this piece of you with me
Because all I can say tonight
Is that I hate you...
DREAMER:
Well I see you there with a rose in your teeth, One more thin gypsy thief....
MORTICIAN:
People love you when they know you're leaving soon
DREAMER:
Yes. I will leave, but I will always carry you in my heart
MORTICIAN:
I feel like a quote out of context!
DREAMER:
Contextualization and de-contextualization
MORTICIAN:
Don’t quote me ,boy, I ain’t said shit!
DREAMER:
Do we really know the context, do we know what we actually want?
MORTICIAN:
I do, and I know so do YOU!
DREAMER:
What else do we know?
MORTICIAN:
Never thought anything lasts forever
Hanging on every word
Hold the cards in tight
But your killing me with sincerity
And I'd make any move tonight
DREAMER:
bingo i got a song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7f7Pm5uZXnM&feature=related

MORTICIAN:
Do songs act miracle?
DREAMER:
I dont know, singers know
MORTICIAN:
Then why do you LIVE on them?
DREAMER:
Cause the piper plays on my grave.... sorry, I had to quote you
MORTICIAN:
And he can't understand how everyone goes on breathing when true love ends
DREAMER:
True love never ends!
MORTICIAN:
It's like the feeling at the end of a page when you realize you don't know what you just read!
DREAMER:
But still you turn the page wishing a miracle to happen.... the vicious circle continues....
.....................................................................................
(6)
DREAMER:
No honey, you don't know me, for that matter you don't know anybody or anything, cause you still don't know yourself!
MORTICIAN:
Reality BITES *ouch*
DREAMER:
And for the ones who desperately run away from it?
MORTICIAN:
Escapism is a basic trait of cowards darling!
DREAMER:
Often wonder whom the coward is escaping from?
MORTICIAN:
Him/Her self love!
DREAMER:
scary it is....
MORTICIAN:
They are infested from within. I wish their quick recovery though I know they will never recover.
DREAMER:
You may call me cheesy, or may be "dude", but you know it also evokes unreality, this being in a parallel world. It's surreal a world that seems exotic but it’s not ashamed, it's confused between what is real and illusory, displaced; and when you are part of such a world of someone it hurts!
MORTICIAN:
lol.... the " Illusionist"
DREAMER:
The problem is I know it more than it knows itself! Wonder why don't I die with so much knowledge....
MORTICIAN:
Die!
DREAMER:
Let me drown in your laughter
Let me DIE in your arms!
MORTICIAN:
Its not that easy honey!
DREAMER:
ssshhhhhhh....
andhera Pagal hain
kitna ghanera hain
chubhta hain, dasta hain
phir bhi woh mera hain!
.....................................................................................

The MORTICIAN & The DREAMER (& MAYA MEM SAAB) - rendezvous

(1)
DREAMER:
You know something, you are extremely strange and crazy, but I love your weirdness :) Please don't change, and if you ever do so, write me a letter before hand, so that I get some time to manage myself, hugs.... muawh!
MORTICIAN:
Open your veins so we can make a pool and bathe and see if anyone complains of the stain. Let's strip you down so we can see you old scars. Now you're gonna feel it....
.....................................................................................
(2)
DREAMER:
Tumi amake kono din kichu jiggesh koroni, tai ami sure aaj o tumi jantey chaibe na keno ami hothath tomake likhlam.
I often wonder if I could leave the world unquestioned! :)
MORTICIAN:
Shob kothar proshno korlei bujhi uttor paowa jay?! :P
boka chele :)
DREAMER:
Let there be no answers as long as there is whiskey :P
MORTICIAN:
Thik jemon deformed cupid ta thik khunje neye etta masochistic angel :P
.....................................................................................
(3)
DREAMER:
I know you know why I find it insane to be sane.
MORTICIAN:
Okay I know you love me too much ;)
Your eyes are captivating...your words are soothing.. I can fly a thousand miles to get a glimpse of you and then shall never return !
DREAMER:
When insanity takes its toll, I am always ready with the right change .... bang on baby :)
MORTICIAN:
I like to dwell here. A broken fantasy land of silent dreams; here we sell words which cost thousands and shadows of fantasy still remain unsold! I dwell in a city where the tears replace the figures. I live in a city where the ILLUSIONISTS are considered to be GODS !
DREAMER:
If my anger is my wounds gone mad , this city is indeed a fool's garden!
MORTICIAN:
I wonder WHY, I wonder HOW !
DREAMER:
I too wonder, and my mind wanders in the valley of your curves....
I wait for the rains, and my body gets drenched in your thoughts....
.....................................................................................
(4)
DREAMER:
Bolo dekhaa hain kabhee, tumne muzhe udte huye?
MORTICIAN:
Kaaner goray mere fNuu diye uriye debo. Dekhbi ??!! :|
DREAMER:
fNuu er koto jor tomar !
MORTICIAN
‎:D
(MAYA MEMSAAB enters the scene)
MAYA MEMSAAB now you are forcing me to talk though I wanted to remain the Idiot of the day ;)
MAYA:
O ami ki korlaam?
MORTICIAN:
Oije amay oshkale :| eita ki uchit holo ?
DREAMER:
Uff kono kota bolar jo nei, kew uskoye, kew chulkoye ami je ki kori na :(
MAYA:
Ki kore? kakhon? ki bhabe? keno? *looking here and there*
DREAMER:
MORTICIAN fast.... MAYA MEMSAAB awaits reply :)
MORTICIAN:
Run MAYA MEMSAAB Run! People are suffering from lunacy in every minute! * make an escape act*
MAYA:
O lunacy... what wouldn't I trade for you. Sigh!
DREAMER:
Yeh toh aapna biradari ka nikla :P
MORTICIAN:
Duh! Doesn't anybody stay in one place any more? :|
MAYA:
They seem to fly away :P *makes an aerial escape act*
MORTICIAN:
Fly away, to the rainbow in the sky
Gold is at the end for each of us to find
There the road begins, where another one will end
Here the four winds know who will break and who will bend
All to be the Master of the Wind
MAYA:
:)
DREAMER:
The wind beneath my wings !
MAYA:
4 baar Fnu debe bolchhey!
MORTICIAN:
‎...with the sky above! Road to escape darling ;)
DREAMER:
dana bhainga poirlam ami koilkatar upor, tumra amaye chino ni ....
MORTICIAN:
MAYA is this the beginning of a new ending ? :P
MAYA :
Apekkhya korte hobe, dekhte hobe, bujhte hobe.... jodio bhoy hoy ei dekha-bojha antoheen
MORTICIAN:
Love Is A Many Splendored Thing Darling :)
MAYA:
Only when put to music.
DREAMER:
MORTICIAN dekho na, amar kata ghaye tata salt dichchey lokjon aaj kaal :P
MORTICIAN:
Violence is the NEW thing ;)
MAYA :
Lonkabata chhilo na haater kachhe.
BTW, didi jeno jaante na paare ota tata salt chhilo....
koilkatay daana bhenge pora bandho kore debe :P
DREAMER:
Seshey jwaliye marben :P
Ki jug elo ?
MORTICIAN:
Pepper Spray? othoba Deo? cholbe?
DREAMER:
MORTICIAN tor moto bondhur theke amar shottur o bhalo rey!
MAYA:
Poribartoner jug! Ishhh! kissu jaane na!
Pepper spray sounds good.
Khoka bagol tule dnarao....
MORTICIAN:
Shottur ra jhogra kore, jol e dubiye khoon kore na bondhuder moton :)
MAYA:
Ei to pepper spray chhilo, hothat watersport? ki variety babah!
Khoka bogol tuley dnarao....
DREAMER:
Shei bogol na tulley ki aar SHONAR GOUR sara den ....
MORTICIAN:
Bidaay! :D
DREAMER:
Bhalota kintu amakei bashish rey mukhpuri :)
MORTICIAN:
‎:P
.....................................................................................
(5)
MORTICIAN:
How I justify failures?
DREAMER:
You dont need to justify, just give random stories about how you have succeeded and how others failed; make use of stories my story teller , i am sure you are smart enough in making nice stories, and will make it believable enough for the world! That's the new IN THING baby!
MORTICIAN:
Am stuck in a voluptuous tornado of semi-truths and half-lies. When I write, they own the words and switch on my sanity. I can't write if there is peace, I cant write if there is tranquility and happiness. Give me more of the hatred and a lot more of poisoned delight !I am a story teller, a writer in the past....
DREAMER:
One little advice to my story teller friends : If you succeed in selling your stories, don't think the buyer is a fool. Rather realize that it trusted you more than you deserved :)
Wilde had said; "hatred is blind, so is love" .... once you are enlightened with the realization you won't be stuck any more! :)
hugs :)
MORTICIAN:
We sell stories to take the readers in a make belief world hon! Now, if the reader cages him/herself there, its not the story tellers fault! A true story won't even let you realise that its a story, you being a reader should keep your six senses alert.... and love?! well I call it a spoon of sperms and a disease. If the reader falls in love with the story teller, the fault again goes to the reader darling! Sigh! how I wish!
And the buyers is a fool once he/she opts for it. Again its a matter of choice :)
DREAMER:
Indeed its all make belief! How I wish the world a quick recovery !
MORTICIAN:
Why you want to recover? Why you keep on cursing the make belief world? Just because you may be at one time wasn't comfortable there? Just because there were no princesses, princes and fairies? Just because you are you and the writer is a writer?! Look beyond the peripheri.... there's NOTHING caled love, its all about the temporary hormonal dis balances :)
.... And you named it LOVE!
DREAMER:
When I look back at what I sometimes call ‘our story’; I can only see myself walking aimlessly in this city, singing to myself an old gypsy song.... the fairy wasnt ever there!
If I could mother the thoughts with all care, if I could live with the stories, and fight with the world to go with the flow, I am capable enough to dump the stories in the dustbin :)
Don't underestimate darling!.... And like they always say; Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a lover scorned....
How much more hatred do u want darling MORTICIAN? :)
MORTICIAN:
Satisfied :D
....................................................................................
(6)
DREAMER:
When characters are for grown ups why not one dwell in a fairy tale ?
MORTICIAN:
Not all fairy tales are meant to be ever after darling! Not always! :)
....................................................................................
(7)
MORTICIAN:
One of my ex once said, " even your lies are as flawless as your truths, wish you were just a plain Jane."
Kothata jodi sheidin seriously nitam, aaj tahole aarr tor theke dori-kolshi chaitam na! :)
DREAMER:
Dori kolshir o daam lagey, chailei ami debo na tomaye!
MORTICIAN:
Tor premer moton tui-o dekhi boro expensive!
DREAMER:
Exactly honey, every thing comes with a price tag.... if you could feast on the sweet slut I had been, you also need to see the crazy bitch in me....
I wont spare you so easily!
I am not just expensive, I maintain my standards!
....................................................................................
(8)
DREAMER:
There is a thin line between quality humor and slapstick, exactly the way having a pair of balls does not equate to be man enough !
Thank you :)
MORTICIAN:
Chele boro hoyeche
DREAMER:
It pains when you have to grow over night even if you don't want....
I wish the one I meant it for stays "forever young" :)
MORTICIAN:
Ahem! water and hair dye!
....the 'Thank you' in the end adds a new dimension!
DREAMER:
How can I not thank those, who made THIS out of me? I can be anything but I can never be ungrateful!
....................................................................................
(9)
DREAMER:
"It takes courage to dare What no other will share,
To be standing alone, One whom no one will own,
To be ready to stake for another man’s sake.
It takes courage to be true...."
MORTICIAN:
“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”
-Plato
DREAMER:
I love u more now MORTICIAN ♥
MORTICIAN:
Everything that deceives may be said to enchant....DREAMER ♥
DREAMER:
Arghhhh! The vicious circle again !
MORTICIAN:
Love cannot endure indifference. It needs to be wanted. Like a lamp, it needs to be fed out of the oil of another's heart, or its flame burns low.
DREAMER:
Tomar notun bondhu MAYAMEMSAAB er sathey ebar dekhchi tomakeo BLOCK kortey hobey amake :P
Jokes apart, indifference I guess is still tolerable but not deceit!
MORTICIAN:
Moron tao jeno aajkal bilasheeta :|
DREAMER:
"bhirer majhe tomay khnuji ami
amay khnujo tomar bhalo lagay
tomar moner andho kuthurite
din gunchhi din bodoler ashay...."
.... prem chara ki din bodoler gaan shonano jaye MORTICIAN ?
MORTICIAN:
Ami prem ki jani ne.... tai bolte parbo ne bacha....
onnyo kaure jiggesh koro :|
DREAMER:
"moner kotha
hoyna bola
chupkothara
songi amar
buker bhetor kothar pahar
bolbona ar bolbona ar
tor sathe aj arii...."
.... toke chara kake jiggesh korbo ?
MORTICIAN:
Mrityu-r kache pran bhikkye chaichish?
DREAMER:
Sob e toh ek, premiker kachey prem chawoya, premer kachey premik chaoya !
DREAMER:
There is enough time left to die MAYAMEMSAAB.... whats the hurry in life? :P
MAYA:
None. Just as there is no good reason to tarry either. Let us toss a coin to choose between hurry and tarry :)
DREAMER:
hah hah hah ....
they say the coin actually doesnt decide, the moment u flip it in the air, u get the answer :)
MAYA:
I know :)
DREAMER:
Tui toh gyan pakhi rey :P
MAYA:
I know that too :)
DREAMER:
Aar ki ki janish tui ? :)
MAYA:
I need a fag. And I shall live to see tomorrow :)
DREAMER:
"After all, tomorrow is another day" :)
.....................................................................................
(10)
MORTICIAN:
Love is wrong, and they are FUCKING EVIL!
DREAMER:
Talk in a language that I understand!
MORTICIAN:
Lol...and they call you DUMB! :P
DREAMER:
Oder shobar bhalo hok :P
MORTICIAN:
Maybe you need affection, I'd like to help you but I can't stand when you're around: fuck you very much.
.....................................................................................

P.S: MAYA MEMSAAB er naam bodley BENIMADHOB korley kemon hobey ? :)

Thursday, April 21, 2011

of Blacks & whites
















The death of a song

The piper played of beauty and colours
The world overflowed with lovely flowers
Monsoon nights, melody and marshmallow shower
And for the piper, the dreamer had built a bower....

All of a sudden out of nowhere, the bower broke
The marshmallow melody faded and vanished into a smoke....

For all that the piper said and did; the dreamer had turned into a deformed cupid
What is right? What is wrong? Emotions fade but persists the song
The broken heart also beats; only to speculate how history repeats
The worse is over, the fear is breathed; the dreamer is dead but the heart pulsates
The dreamer’s epitaph smells of blood; the piper’s song had stained the spud
The perilous seed that the piper had sowed; has left the boat nowhere to be rowed
The deadly plant has spread its roots; the river is filled with ugly soot
Cries the dreamer inside the grave; for the song of lunacy, it could not save.....

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

PAUSE

A piper, a charmer and dreams of a dreamer
Beginning to end, Ending to begin....
Half the glass empty, half the glass filled
Margins overlap, lines seep.... PAUSE

What if I don’t pause the lullaby?
What if the piper plays the honey tune?
Half the colours empty, glass honey pieces
Edges don’t match.... PAUSE

I live on the edges; One edge sharpest
It’s red in colour; the charmers red eye
Dreamer’s dreams touched; dies the dreamer
A half sung death.... PAUSE

The lullaby returns when death half sung
The dreamer’s eye dead, the dreamer’s eye red
Now charmer plays, now charmer draws
But lines overlie, lines bleed.... PAUSE

The story is same the story very old
The piper the charmer the dreamer all known
The lullaby dreams; sharp edges and cones
A half sung line; half blue half red.... PAUSE

The piper the charmer conspire a line
The dreamer trapped, in the ravages of time
The time story swings a honey coloured dream
Half the dream dreamt, half the life lived.... PAUSE

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Paid Unpaid

With toenails painted in motley colours,
I’m running across the eternal pyres....
The ghosts of loneliness have filled the air
The smell so known, I am living with my fear...
Why does it rain when you are not here?
Is it I am avenged, because I still do care?

The pendulum swings, & with it swings
The past and the present....
Conspired against me by a part of me
Reminiscence indeed is vengeance....
Your thoughts have melted the night away
And I have fooled myself; have let me sway....

Swayed across the songs that we once had sung
The words still clear, the tune though lost
I am fumbling for the tune, I am paying the cost
The cost of life, the cost of living....
You know it all, you indeed know dear
I am paying with my sanity; I am living with my fear....

Friday, April 15, 2011

The flames and the flamingos

Hovering on the blue moon tonight
Is the red flamingo from my past?
I'm trying so hard to tell myself
The flamingo is gone, gone with the dusk....
Fire red flamingos fill the sky with screams
Burnt out ashes of sepia winters and scarlet dreams....

All flamingos have a story; all stories a story teller
The story teller whispers; the whispers cast shadows
Shadows are smokes; smoked post act
Giggles and gnaws are ingredients of the tact....
One flamingo is trapped at the bottom of the void
I am sleepless again I am again paranoid....

Flutters my curtain, flutters the blue moon
And in the hole on my blanket a flamingo flutters
This flamingo is black, its wings are heavy
Its panting for air, it’s never ever ready....
I stare at the ceiling, the ceiling full of soot
The black flamingo sings, sings of the root....

I think of the roots, ponder how they spread
Like songs of the black one, staining my mid night bread
The bread seems stale, stale like the ruffian
Who promised me letters but never wrote one....
I also have a bouquet of letters, which are all unsent
I still do remember for which flamingo they were meant....

The letters are now perched on the roof, on the lampshade
I have lived with the memory of a flamingo fire red
How long is the river? How far is the sky?
What are thoughts made of? .... I guess I am high....
The black flamingo song is been hummed in a loop
It’s just another conspiracy of the flamingo group

Much before I walked the roads, that lead me to the sky
I stepped on a forbidden cloud and I forgot to try
I forgot all the trials, all the error terror story
Another flamingo from the past narrated another long ago glory....
Flamingo songs and flamingo stories are all that is left
My heart and the blue moon would never be flamingo bereft....

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Tear drops on my pillow



Tearful blush and black satin dreams floating on the fire lake....
and all that you spoke
Of mists and colours, with echoes of the wild song
that had just been a private joke....
Forgotten Lullabies sprints frozen,
as I slouch in the stranger’s bed,
Reflect on gone by loves bought and sold....
and count heartaches in my head....
Quench off old flames, one by one
seek relieve in the frail embrace
And the insufferable sweet nothings
of a time-pass looser, making time-pass love....
I stealthily propel away from the shore;
because I still bunk work to dream of you
What’s the colour of your kite?
What’s the shape of your cloud?
Fly and dream, dream and fly....
I owe every word to you;
Learning to unlearn; trying to unlove,
I am happy to have sung the blues....
I am still stopping at your name!
I can merrily grow old, with all the blame!
I ask myself....
do all cherubs have the same story?
....do all wings have lost the glory?
I unearth it sweet in the not so sweet world....
And on some nights, I still weave dialogues,
I tell all that I would never tell,
and pretend to hear all that I would never hear....

I always thought I knew myself....
Thanks to you for proving me utterly wrong....