Kalboishakhi...

The gray whirlpool of the dead dust has leapt to life again. At last. At long, long last. A strange afternoon, I’d say, of swishing trees and fluttering plastic bags. And yes, the dimming lights of a faded day. It held many stories, mostly unknown, and some, half-forgotten among the everyday sweat… among a lull that brings anything but sleep… among the lifeless groan of tedium and monotony… among dreams that only enhance disenchantment.

The rain did not matter. Or may be, it mattered less than the wind, or the dust that revolved round a spirit of aggression; very characteristic; very familiar; yet enigmatic in a way that inspires nothing less of an unfathomable awe. In short, nature at its paramount in an indiscriminate brutality.
Every kalboishakhi is special. Each brings a different darkness. A different aroma. A different tinge in the psyche. A different solitude. A different rapture. A different whisper. The ruthlessness breeds ache and alleviation with the same intensity- twin sisters rocking in the cradle of quivering fervor with the sudden strikes of lightning thunder.

I let in the dust. Through my window. Through my eyes. I let in the storm… the lightning… the rain. As my body felt their cruel touch, I allowed my mind to soar into heights that seemed unreachable before. That seems unreachable every year before this moment… this dark… this music… this unrest.

It’s a moment of rebellion. Strong. Wild. Mysterious. Passionate. Beautiful.
I’m too moved… too feeble to resist…
I’m giving in…