Some Days

Some days remind me of violet evenings. Of floating along smokes of cars, and taxis. Of plunging into the beautiful quicksand which breeds yearning in its depths. Of sweaty fingers clinging on to each other. Of breath beating in the rhythm of light. Of slender visions in pretty frames. Of meandering memories and smoggy sight.

Some days remind me of foamless waves. Of tears held inside tender shells with care. Of tampered, yellow pages full of love. Of fainting faith, flesh wetted, rot. Of humid breeze amidst long, wild hair.

Some days remind me of musical nights. Of words unsaid with gaps and smiles. Of covering and uncovering moments. Of passion bursting itself into fragments that spread along the clouds, empty streets, windows. Of trembling muscles that wept for distance. Of promises cremated and then showered by flowers.

Some days remind me of those eyes. Of the spark of togetherness that cuddled thoughts. Of that craving which can never be quenched. Of green glass bangles jingling, sublime in pain. Of unvisited crossroads without a name. Of a touch cleansed by an indifferent winter rain.

Some days remind me…

Of you.

That Time of the Year

That time of the year is back again. That time, when evenings spread around like melancholy mists and wrap into themselves the dying out light of January. In place of the dead sun, yellow streetlights shine like pyres ablaze. That time of the year is back again when night falls with the fall of withered leaves and the city heaves out a very fond nostalgia. Like a pain. Like a long awaited gift. Like sleep. Like blowing warm breath into frozen hands.

It was not this cold back in 1997, yet colder than ever. For, life had stopped then in ways more than one. Only sobs would erupt out of the huge volcano of silence that surrounded my inner self. I would sit alone inside the mosquito net and let my vacant sight wander into the pages of Tintin Comic Books. I would sit inside the mosquito net all day, all night. And think of nothing.

Then one day Dadu came and said that I will have to go back to school again.

I was a kid.

I had a very strange way of taking things in back then.

Horlicks. And seddho bhaat. And lots and lots and lots of books. Yes, this was my diet for everyday. I would make myself gulp in letters, words and sentences of Feluda. It did not matter whether I understood as long as I was absorbed enough to shut off my ear-drums to the talks of condolence and suggestions. I did not like Feluda or Tintin much. I did not like books where boys and men do all the stuff.

But still I read.

Drank Horlicks.

And slept.

Still, when I sit quietly under my lep at the dead of night and watch Maa’s nostrils beating along the rhythm of her breath as she sleeps, I hear those swallowed cries that entered my little heart as the bangles were broken.

A child broke that day. Along with the shankha. The pola. The loha.

That time of the year will always be back again. Evenings will always arrive like familiar fogs. Orange suns will always disappear without trace. Neon lights will always cast longish shadows. And a child will always sit by the dimly lit mosquito net and read alone.

All alone.

And yet again…

But it has been a long, long time since real tears actually overflowed from my bloody eyes. I carefully placed a thumb on the little pores of the mouthpiece of my mobile phone to stilfe any sound that might raise questions. I hate questions, I hate them more than my money-bag. And you talked. You talked and talked and talked and talked. Is silence that awkward?

I tried to find a poem the day before yesterday. But then what is the point of finding it if I cannot make it yours, was the fucking thought that stopped me. I put the book back and left. There was a smile in my eyes and a grit in my lips, I knew with more certainty than my life that I will be back here one day, caressing its pages, smelling its glue, smiling at the bright Times New Roman letters. I knew that I will go to you one day and shower the poem onto your chest like withered eucalyptus leaves and wash them with tears of esctasy.

Shit.

I am sorry that I never told you that I was on wait. That I wanted to earn those lines for you. That I would have loved to give you a little surprise and then see you break into a smile. I forgot completely, that tastes of lovers often coincide. I forgot.

I will keep those lines to myself. But I wish you fulfilment in desires that I had to strangle. And more, of course.

And before I cremate it, here is the poem for you.
Dead.
But yours.

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,

Where bashful flowers blow,

And blushing birds go down to drink,

And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows,

That any brook is there,

And yet your little draught of life

Is daily drunken there.

Then, look out for the little brook in March,

When the rivers overflow,

And the snows come hurrying from the hills,

And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be,

When the meadows parching lie,

Beware, lest this little brook of life,

Some burning noon go dry!

A Dream

I clutch my phone and go to sleep
My Nokia phone, my oldie-goldie
I fancy calls and weep-weep-weep.

The sky turns green, oh I love you
My torn loincloth will lie alone
Being together is long, long due.

Then it comes, the serpent long
Chasing myself out of me
All pink, all brown, all that strong.

I feel scared, Momma come to me
The snake will kill my girly-burly
Who has set that animal free?

Theatre halls will glittery glow
The sky is red with shame and fear
The serpent follows really slow.

Evenings pass by along a train
Beautiful wings might fall apart
I wince, I cry, I howl in pain.

Godard, Truffaut all flashing by
Antoine’s mother undid her socks
The Breathless hero must die, die, die.

Darkness fills my empty eyes
The serpent moves in fiendish joy
The sound will silence stifling sighs.

Momma, Momma, I miss your love
The snake will eat me everyday
And everyday I will look above.

I give it caress and give it care
And cry-cry-cry till dead
I give in to its slithering snare.

I want to do a merry-go-round
And have some pinky candyfloss
Till Papa comes and marks my ground.

My pillow is sticky, my pillow is wet
My loins all strained to soothe the snake
And if I fear Papa calls it fret.

It goes very sticky, it goes very thick
One, two, three, four even more
It makes me vomit, it makes me sick.

Look how it moves and how it groans
All vibrates with my fainted breath
And out of me it extracts moans.

My Nokia phone is ringing aloud
I jump awake to take the call
But all I find are bits of cloud.

I lie alone, I look above
Thank god the dream is gone
Yet I crave an unknown love.

Five, six, seven, eight and nine
I will get up, wash my face
Count till ten, and I am fine.

The Fall

Winding along the breadth of pavements

Inflating lungs with wistful smokes

Of coffee shops and burning fuel

Painting life with carefree strokes

The winds run aimless

Yellow leaves will shed their shell

Somewhere among the huddling dins

My city bids autumn farewell...

Hawkers shouting bidden price

Tea-stalls filled with clinks of glass

The beggar woman cajoles her child

Here and there, the buyers pass.

Eateries, hotels big and small

Cinema-houses dead or old

The lovers’ eyes as bright as light

Trickling heat against the cold.

Skies have not been deeper blue

Dust parts rise with kicking feet

A few more hours, the sun subsides

Wayside slums all dimly lit.

The film of fog now whispers in

The yellow leaves are crimson set

A tender chill runs down one’s spine

All delicate lips are Vaseline-wet.

My city turns round; it’s time for home

Toes well sunk in blankets soft

The little bird comes flying alone

Its humble nest held soaring aloft.

Leaves have filled all grounds with sighs

Their rustle mutters a pensive note

Deep in, memories slither awake

In books, in beds, in a tattered coat.

Beauty, pain, raptures unknown

Each will cast its span of spell

Somewhere in a twilight moon

My city bids autumn farewell...

Things Fall Apart

দেখেছি রূপসাগরে মনের মানুষ

কাঁচা সোনা,

তারে ধরি ধরি মনে করি

ধরতে গেলে আর পাবো না...

Dekhechhi roopsagore moner manush

Kancha sona,

Tare dhori dhori mone kori

Dhorte gele r pabo na…

How vain, how futile I have been, trying to capture curves and shadows in a digital camera, trying to sink my finger deep into the autumn sky and revolve and revolve and revolve it until spring. How silly it was to imagine of controllable happiness, of tears welling up and melting away at regulated intervals, of eternal bliss curling up my doorstep through bottomless bonds of domestic love.

Oh fuck!! Oh bloody fuck!

How do I move ahead? How, with full knowledge of self-disintegration into a mass of heavy, unchangeable, predictable, stationary, peaceful lump of contentment? And discontentment? I do not know. Probably, the usual inertia keeps me on the move. It is this concoction of love, repentance, pathos, desire and hope that stirs behind my eyelids every night when I sleep and wakes me up and then again lulls me back to a state of drowsy semi-consciousness. Difficult. Very, very difficult indeed, to be unable to pretend happiness in front of people who want to see you smile, very difficult to be filled with the colorless sky when expected to stare at someone’s eyes instead, very difficult to talk without being able to persuade yourself to enter into a conversation, very difficult to touch without tactile sensations, very difficult to master an encouraging word or two when the sun of undoubted conviction sets ablaze your naked neck and ears.

I do not know what lies ahead, what time has written on a sheet of whiteness and blown away with neglect. I do not know whether I will ever have enough strength to drift away. Neither do I know whether I am blessed with the rare ability to divide myself into distinctly different and well-constructed pieces of one integrated identity, each to be cherished and lived for its own sake even in incompletion.

How inane, how ignorant I have been in trying to find fulfillment for more than a moment. In trying to round up happiness with repeated strokes of a delicate paintbrush. In trying to sew together all the beautiful threads of life. In trying to bring the wilderness of my spirit under the control of an idyllic bond.

I will break free.

I must not die.

Thoughts...

Nope. That will be too much of a pain. Ugly, eh? What is beautiful? Arcs chiseled out of marble and rubbed and nipped and polished and turned into glass? Wow! How delicate! How brittle! How lovely! Yes, one might stare enthralled, the lower jaw hanging loose, the tongue pink and slimy, drenched in excessively overflowing salivation- I know it feels natural that way. But I would rather have the saliva inside my mouth, thank you, around the bit of white gum playing inside, the flavor of mint painting my lips dull.

Jafran is also sweet. Expensive though. They charge it very high in the restaurants. Along with the rice, or mutton, or aloo, or other palatable delicacies. The scent of garlic remains for ages after the tummy has been vacated and new smells have filled the olfactory lobes afresh. Garlic never stinks!! Who said so? Then rose water stinks too. And onions. And vanilla essence. Or say, sandalwood.

Yet, sandalwood incense sticks are so nauseating! My head aches. But then, aches are a cliché too. Every poet talks it wild. Talks and talks and talks it until you drop dead. Death is a little weird thing to deal with. All the dying, crying, being sad, fasting, grief, tears, photographs, garlands, flashbacks, whiteness, grayness, sepia, clothes, bed sheets, diaries, rooms, discussions, silences, strange implications meant to be understood…

Do yawns give everyone a double chin?

Skin-deep beauty is quite costly. But a good chin is a god’s gift. I don’t know his name. But gods are always he and goddesses she. Or is it not so? I don’t care! We don’t have to learn the genders any more.

I told you that I did not want more. I forgot to tell you that I simply detested less. And it is always less. Not always, but often. Many times. At least sometimes.

Sometimes I stand by the window too long. And catch cold in the incoming gusts of rain-wind. It cools my reddened ears. The veins in my eyes relax. And I passionately dig my nose for little chunks of toxins filtered by the hair.

No way. I cannot be pretty. We are too poor for this. And moreover I cannot endure too much pain. Ugly beauty is less painful and more affordable. Can I have a bit of that, mister?