Confession

waiting for death

like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"
Hank won't
answer.

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

 

-Charles Bukowski

A Comedy

As the patter of raindrops danced around the smooth pitch of the main road in the yellow streetlights and gathered in little poodles like afterthoughts, she sat quietly on the softness of her bed and yawned. She wanted to lean against the wall and cry, but it was too cold, like a piece of cruel slate staring blank and icy in the dark. It was well past midnight. No sound but those occasional whooshes of cars could be heard over the sound of rain. Even the neighborhood dogs were quiet, it seemed that they had stopped copulating for the day. The windows were all closed. But she could see the night in ruptured flashes.

Her lover never knew how she had awaken from her sleepless languor and fled, how she had moved away from her side of the bed and fled, how she had stood naked beside the closed bedroom window and fled. He slept peacefully oblivious of those irregular rhythms of pulsations or rain drops lying so close by that it would have hurt had he been awake. He just slept on. Her body moved around the small apartment like a noiseless phantom that was haunted by itself. Sometimes she stood before the mirror and dressed. Sometimes she stood before the mirror and undressed. Sometimes she watched muted telebrand commercials on T.V. sometimes she opened that unfinished book to read by the faint yellow streetlight. If too restless, she would eat chips alone on the sofa, curling her cold toes beneath her broad, overweight buttocks. Sometimes she would even bring out the half finished bottle of vodka and sip it neat. It kept her warm and dizzy. Yet, had it been a film, one could actually see those minute Goosebumps along the curve of her fleshy naked back.

But mornings never bear traces of nights.

Every morning found her fast asleep beside her lover, blissful and happy at the beauty of conjugality. She was just a furry little cat in a blanket— warm, cozy and cute. Yellow lights no longer clung to her hair. The rain no longer pattered with her breath. The mirror lay under a thin coat of dust. The unfinished book stood in full closure of the shelf. The T.V. stood in a vanity of disuse. The vodka bottle stood at it was, on the lowermost rung of the kitchen closet. Even the sofa never bore any signs of her body heat, or the little hole that she dug up for herself every night and sank into.

Even if it had been a film, one could never actually see her every dawn, moving away from the mirror. Or putting the unnamable pain of a book back into the propriety of order. Or switching off the T.V. Or throwing away the empty box of chips. Or putting in the vodka bottle behind tons of other stuff in the closet. Or puffing the cushions right and smoothening out the usual sofa nest.

No need of overemphasizing the subtexts. There was no reason for it not to be a comedy anyway.

I lost a very dear old friend yesterday. Such is life. Such will life be.

More or Less

the limp in her right feet settled down quite well. like the puddles did all over the raw, dug streets after the shower. she took a painkiller but then, she takes painkillers like mint, so they now refused to intoxicate her hurt nerves as they used to, before. it might not be nerves, maybe just bones or even better, muscles. but the base of a toe is a very odd place to ache. and tremble. and throb crazily as she lies on her bed every night staring at the moist, yellow streetlight kissing her toenails.

there is no pain as intense as ear-pain. so she glared at her right foot in disgust. pressing, punching or tickling it didn't help. and she went on spending her static days within those blue sheets that now became a part of her body. when she turned, they turned. when she twisted, they twisted, when she cringed, they cringed. maybe it was the painkillers, but she felt a dumb all day. reading seemed pointless. watching movies, too harsh on the eyes. even important phone calls ceased to matter. there she lay, motionless and silent, her glance piercing through the ceiling towards the sky.

it was a cloudy day. it was a cloudy season. every single cloud seemed like a tight waterballoon- very steady at one moment and bursting into rain the very next. most of the times she curled her neck to get a view of the rains through the bedside window even while lying down. at others, she would drag her body up towards the window sill and lean against the wall. now she could see the big pink flat opposite to theirs' standing like an insoluble candyfloss in the rain. she could see girls of the neighbourhood school staring out of their green windows even during class hours. she could see open umbrellas tossing and turning in the wind just like in films. but most close to her, she could see her undergarments drying on the window sill. drying, yes they were, for the past seven days, but now turned into a lump of wet, soaking black and blue. she wondered if there was any point of rescuing them now. she doesn't even wear them anymore. for a really long time. the bed did not mind her flabby loose lady parts. so she just let it pass.

the little baby boy that smothered her dead last autumn did not come back again. but now an old couple lives there. she could see the old lady standing in the balcony half wet and her husband making tea in the kitchen. there he is, moving away from the kitchen window and then appearing on the balcony, two cups on a tray...

the little baby boy is dead. but she felt she could cry now. more or less.

Those Six Women

Dole premer dolon-chnapa hridoy akashey, dole dole

Dol-phaguner chander aloy, shudhaye makha shey, dole dole

The cool of the March night was slowly closing up on us. The moon was silver and full and bright. So bright that we could almost see the other side of Kopai. Faint beats of the madol came floating in from across the shallow shaal-bon. “Oi dike Snaotal graam”, Chandana Mashi said pointing backwards. I wanted to imagine what the place would be like at night… Santhal men treating themselves to generous helpings of mohua and hnariya and exotic santhal women, in their turmeric yellow saris dancing to slow beats of madol as if in a drunken languor. But no matter how much I peered from this side of the shaal-bon, nothing could be seen. Except of course, the ochre lights of bulbs shining like fireflies amidst the distant darkness.

It was all quiet and empty on this side of Kopai. The six of us huddled close together for warmth and safety. It was hard to believe that the scorch of the morning had turned chilly even two hours before midnight. Maybe it felt colder because it was so empty and silent. During the Basanta Utsab we couldn’t see the program or listen to the songs well simply because of a certain frenzied, tasteless crowd that are found in any festival, anywhere. They shouted, made sexual jokes, and started playing with abir as soon as the probhat pheri got over. I was happy that my sari came out of the near-stampede situation, untorn. “Era je ki korte ashey! Nijera thik kore dekhbe na… jara dekhte chay, tader-o thik kore dekhte debe na!” Debjani Mashi muttered in disgust. Her mother was around 60 and had a really tough time coming out alive from all the hullaballoo. Even Bhalo Mashi had gotten scared. Has extremely unstable nerves, my Bhalo Mashi. The uncontrollable mob scared her to no extent. Although the crowd subsided somewhat right after the probhat pheri, I could sense that Bhalo Mashi still felt nervous and uncomfortable. She was sweating profusely despite all the soothing songs and her purplish umbrella.

But now, she seemed perfectly calm. Calm and confident. She even recited Obhishar. I sang a few folk songs and Debjani Mashi joined in. I was expecting that she would again burst into spontaneous dance rapture anytime, like she did in the aamro-kunjo during Basanta Utsab. But no. The moonlight of Birbhum humbled us down. All of us had grown still and uninterrupting to the natural flow of the moonlit solitude. Debjani Mashi’s mother Diya, went on singing one song after the other. Her voice bore the slight tremor of age, but her spirit soared into the cloudless sky. Chandana Mashi sat mesmerized on the grass, staring at the reflection of the moon in Kopai and listening to both the songs and the incessant natural music of crickets flying along the intoxicating breeze of spring. In fact, we were all captivated by the magic of the night. Even Titli, Debjani Mashi’s little daughter, exclaimed in wonder, “Dyakho! Oi dik tao puro dyakha jachhe!”

We sat there for quite a long time. The breeze played with our hair. Little mosquitoes played with our skin. The strong aroma of kamini flowers played with our olfactory lobes. The moon played with our passion. The entire enchantment of the night played with our senses.

But finally we came back to ourselves. We felt hungry and cold. We realized the clock-ly time. We felt exhausted and sleepy and began to long for rest. So we got up and strolled back to the Travera parked near the Kopai bridge. The car started to move, but none of us spoke, sang or yawned. It felt as if each of us had left her essence behind— six ethereal shadows haunting the grassland on the bank of the Kopai river on a full-moon night.

The thought, without doubt, was poetry. But I could guess that all we had actually left behind in the magic are just six different sized butt-prints on the grass.

My Bonny Friend

My friend was bonny

My friend was fun

We played with dolls

We played with guns

We painted together

Together we smiled

And as we grew older

Did many things wild

We talked about love

We pondered on sex

And together just knew

That life was complex

We laughed for each other

We made each other cry

No matter how much we fought

We always did try

Hours were spent on telephones

Letters were exchanged

We never knew how slowly

We both had grown estranged

New faces came sweeping in

Her smile went faint and faint

She stopped being my bonny friend

To be a distant saint

She said she wanted this and that

But those just weren’t my cake

We then lost the common smile

And were linked by bonds of ache

I thought someday we’ll know again

What the other was

But life got somewhat unforgiving

After that long, long pause

She too found a host of faces

Who filled up the places I had

There was nothing for me to do

But to sulk and be sad

I tried my best to grow up and smile

For all the happiness she found

We still talked over the telephone

And I cried without a sound

We wanted different things from life

Though she was my bonny friend

But our friendship was a broken mirror

Impossible to mend

Slowly the phonecalls ebbed away

The need to converse died

No longer I know what makes her happy

Or when was the last she cried

She says it’s nothing, it’s just her work

She says that we are fine

I never tell her that deep within

I sense a narrow line

She now lives on its other side

I am not allowed in

Things have changed eternally

Unnoticed, unforeseen.

My friend is bonny, my friend is gay

Now she lives in her world, far away.

Elomelo Sob Rastagulo

emni korei jodi baki somoy ta hush kore metror moto kolkatar edik theke odik chole jay? jodi harimati school theke mohini mohan kanjilal obdi ekta ichhe, tramline hoye okaron bichhiye dey nijeke? gariahat er footpath theke kena sosta deodrant gulor gondho jodi hothat kore shohid minar er niche chhoriye-chhitiye thaka jonjal theke uthe ase? kimba, metro-gali'r morer cold drink er dokan ta jodi hoye jay south city'r himshitol anach-kanach? howrah station er probol bhir katiye E-1 e uthe chokh bujlei jodi dekha jay GD Birla Sabhaghar... New Market... Sector 5 er jhna-chokchoke sob corporate imarot?

majhe majhe kemon sob guliye jete thake. ei je roj ami niyom kore auto dhori 8B-r ultodik theke, bag samle samne bose kaane phone dhore dial kori ekta nombor... ar sei jete jete je gaarir awaje praayosoi nije chup kore giye bokar moto cheye thaki baire... kimba garia neme rasta par howar somoy poolish er haat theke banchar jonye dhore thaka line ta chhere dewar bhan kore ek minute er jonye kaan theke phone ta soriye niy... 

toke ekta katha bolini konodin, ajke hothat habijabi likhte giye mathay elo.

tui ektu ektu kore kemon jyano amar shohor hoye jachhish, janish...!! jhilpar theke exide er haldirams... ITI er tram depot theke Aminia... triangular park theke milan mela... sob rong mishte mishte mishte mishte mishte mishte...

amar shohor.

"ami onyo kichhu bolbo bole tomar kachhe ese,

ami sibai, kebol sobai hoye jai..."