That is what a granny is

Little Suprotik had been to his granny after a long time. His dad had dropped him there before going to office. Rupali had packed in his bag a packet of chocochips and muffins.
'Give them to granny and tell her to come to us, if possible, this weekend'
Rupali had told him.
'I will mom, don't you worry!'
Suprotik had said.

Granny was waiting for him at the porch. On her recliner, she was sitting when Devarghya dropped him.

'O my heart's joy! Come to me child!'
Granny took him to her arms, the moment he climbed up to the porch.
Suprotik after a long time got that familiar smell of granny, her betel leaf smell mixed with smell of turmeric, cinnamon and vegetables.
'Take these, mom sent'em for you'
Suprotik handed granny the packets of chocochips and muffins.

'Ma, I will take him on my way back home...'
Devarghya had said.
'O...will you not stay for awhile and have brunch with us?'
Granny asked.
'No ma, I got works...'
Devarghya smiled.
'Couldn't Rupu come?'
'No, ma, she got works too, you know...'

'O yes... I tend to forget...'
Granny nodded her head.
'Come child...'

Soon granny took Suprotik to her kitchen.
Granny's kitchen always kept Suprotik full of wonders.
Entering it he was at once gripped with aroma of spices. There was no kitchenette , no chimney, no water purifier,no cabinets. But there was that grand chulla of a kind. It was run on wood and charcoal.
The rotis made there always had that peculiar smell of charcoal.
And those grilled mushroom and paneer cubes.

Suprotik delved into the plate given to him by granny. A simple chinaware, no fancy stuff, but he noted every time he would come to granny's , she would serve him on that particular plate.
'Why do you serve me on this plate, every time, granny?'
Suprotik had asked.
'Cause your dad used to have his food from this one...'
Granny said.

Post lunch, granny took him to her garden.
A beauty of a garden it was!
The bunches of marigolds and roses and chrysanthemums greeted Suprotik at once with their trembling petals.
'Want to take any?'
Granny asked.
Suprotik looked at granny's face.
She looked so beautiful in her white saree with thin embroidered border. Her face was resplendent. She looked like an angel almost.
'Okay... As you wish...'
Granny picked up few marigolds and roses, tied them with a twine and gave them to him.
Suprotik took a deep smell.
'They are so beautiful...'
'Nothing like you dear!'
Granny gave a mild pinch to his cheek.
'Why don't you go and stay with us, gran?'
Suprotik asked.
'If I go, who will take care of my garden?'

'But then you said there is nothing like me?'
Suprotik asked back.

Granny signaled Suprotik to sit down on her lap.
'Want to listen to a story?'

'Yay!'
Suprotik clapped.

'Once there lived a tree who wanted to be the most worthy. He prayed to God. Despite his prayers the woodcutters came and chopped him off. The tree thought he was unworthy. But still he prayed. The log was kept for weathering for few months. Then one day, a carpenter came and turned the wood into a beautiful box. That box was sold to a poor couple. The couple put all their dirty linen in the box. But after some months when they were blessed with a child, they cleaned the box and put him there. Then the tree realised God's benediction. So see, all the trees that I had planted here, are for my God, whom I worship. So I can't leave them. And you know who my God is?'
Granny asked.
Suprotik, who was listening to the story with rapt attention, couldn't at once answer granny's query.

'It is you...for you bring me all the hope to work for...I take care of this house, this garden, only with the hope that you will come...'

Granny had said.

'Okay, I promise to come to you...every week...'

'That's great!'
Granny had said.

Late in the afternoon, Devarghya came to take Suprotik.
Granny gave him the bunch of flowers and a jar of pickles.
'You can have the pickles all the year round...'

While he was returning home, through the window the slanted rays of the setting sun with its own superb spring time hue were caressing the face of little Suprotik.
He was holding on to the bunch of flowers tied by a twine.
'I would love to be at granny's every weekend!'
He suddenly demanded.
'Why? For those flowers? Or stories?'
Devarghya asked.
'For both!'

A vivid waiting

'Such a mist filled dew laden morn...'
Paromita thought as she went out.
She got works to do today. The interior design assignment was to be fed into the computer today. She had meticulously drawn every detail of the office space, how would the lobby look, where the silver pots with indoor plants would be placed, which paintings and pictures would be hung at which walls, how would the cubicles be arranged. Only she had not found a suitable art work that was to be purportedly displayed at centre of the lobby. It had to be something extraordinarily beautiful yet not very much startling, something subtle yet conspicuous.
'A hard find...'
Paromita thought.
Near the triangular traffic crossing, where the car stopped at the signal, she noticed school children waiting for their bus. They were dressed in pullovers of different colors- red, pink, yellow, orange, violet which made them look like a bunch of blossoms, vibrant and stark in the mist.
The digital clock at the signal showed thirty seconds' time of waiting.
Thirty seconds seemed really long.
Paromita had to reach office as quickly as she could. The client would be there soon.
And the art work at the lobby would have to be finalised, drawn and put into the Software aided design.
But this traffic signal stop.
Twenty five seconds it showed still to go.
A vivid waiting.
Paromita peered out a little. The air had the moisture.
It was dewy.
The hydrant near the bus stop was spraying water.
The bunch of school children were giggling. They were waving at the passing vehicles. The standing vehicles, like Paromita's were also getting their attention. Free and uninhibited as they were like a morning of a day.
A known tune of Rabindra sangeet was being played at the signal stop.
Suddenly Paromita remembered she had never tried shooting any photo using her newly acquired smartphone. She bought it recently only going by its manufacturer's advert claiming high resolution camera and superior lens.
She brought out the phone.
The signal would keep her and others waiting for another ten seconds, probably.
Paromita pointed at the busstop. Some of the children were hopping, some were hanging from the iron railings.
A happy bunch of blossoms almost.
A misty dewy morn.
A month of love.
Paromita took the snap.
She thought she would install a busstop, school children, blooming trees, water jet and railings at the centre of the lobby.
It wouldn't be out of place.
After all life at a lobby is always a 'waiting for something,' and is there any better waiting than waiting for the school bus or the waiting of the blossoms for their turn of perfect blooming?

Love, have i ever told you

Love, have I ever told you
How much I love you?
How much I had worked
Days nights and evenings
As they passed through me
Like beautiful waves of the sea,
How much I prayed for your words
Words which come only to move me forward
Words which could make me paint pictures
Words which can evoke the scriptures,
Words which can make me a short story
Words which can make me kneel at your glory,

Love, have I ever told you
how much I love you,
Love that can help me to withstand
The gales, the storms, the flood and sands,
Love that can make me love the self and all
Love that can make leaves to sprout in spring
Love that in late autumn misty sunshine brings,
Love that is true to all cuts and gores
Love that takes me after a voyage ashore
Love that is for a bud as potent
As it holds true for the remainder and the quotient,
Love that is fictional full of colors of mind
Love that is poetic all encompassing kind,

Love, have I ever told you
How much I love you?

Valentinus, Julia and the almond tree

'Nay!'
Said Valentinus,
'How can I forego what the Lord hath me asked?
How can I worship by your dictates?
How can I forget His psalms and bless?'

Hearing this the Roman King
Asked his men to before him bring
That obstinate kind hearted man
'You would be sent to gallows!'
Threatened Claudius, munching marshmallows,

And so Valentinus took his berth
In the dingy cell the darkest on earth
And there one day by some providence turned
Came Julia who wanted to learn
How the world was created, and what is man
What is the essence of being in a sacred land,
Who made the universe to follow its patterns
Which rule governs the light to turn,
Why are we here and what is life?
Why there is happiness and also strife?'

Valentinus hearing all these queries
Told Julia to find the field of berries
Within her and nowhere else
And then it is said, she got the trace
Of how light could even happen in the dark
Of how could within one , one find a spark
Of something so holy so full of peace
That Julia cried and the prison's soil she kissed,

Many years after Valentinus went to space
a pink blossomed almond tree Juila did place
At the gate of the cell with all her Love,

And it is said there grew a nest of doves.

Sonali's peepul tree

Sonali stopped the car just where that peepul tree stood. The morning had that happy breeze flowing through the meadows in which the tree stood like a statue. Sonali got down from the car. She had driven some forty five kilometres to reach that spot. She thought it was the only thing she could do for Arko.
The breeze made its way through her hair. The horizon now being lit by the glow of the sun, looked like a painting, crimson yellow. Sonali knew Arko would never return running through the meadows as he used to do.

Being at the outskirts of the city, from here, Sonali could see the towering things reaching out to the vast sky, like bar code blocks. Sonali looked at the Peepul tree. It had grown taller and a bit thicker. As she stood near the tree, she felt its lucid presence. She felt how it had remained as the lone witness to her rendezvous.
She thought she would never miss Arko.

The Peepul tree would not let her miss him.

A piece of silk,

Parineeta at first couldn't make out
What that elderly woman said to her,in a language alien.
It sounded like a mixture of Hindi and Nepali and she being definitely a 'bong' with working knowledge in Hindi, English and a bit of Bengali, was at a confounded state.
'What is she saying?'
She asked the teenaged girl who stood by the woman,at the shop at the market. The girl with marks of frostbites on her face, smiled.
'She's my granny...and she says that she wants to gift you a piece of cloth...'
'But why? Why dear?'
Parineeta asked, amused as she was.
The girl asked her granny something, in their own dialect. The granny smacked her own forehead twice and blurted something out.
Parineeta stood, waiting to know with suppressed eagerness, what transpired between the elderly woman and her granddaughter.
The girl smiled at her.
'What?'
Parineeta was getting impatient.
'Well she claims that she knows you by heart, for she had taken care of you, nursed you, nurtured you, like a big tree takes care of a little one... She had been your nanny. She knew your mother. She was by her side after she gave birth to you. Then your father, mother and you moved away. Your father got a posting to another place... But you see, now that you've come again to our place, on your sojourn, and the Lord had made a plan to make you meet her, she recognised you, even after so many years...'

The girl took a heave of a breath, saying all these at one go. She seemed to be elated , as if she knew Parineeta too!

Parineeta was dumbstruck.
She thought she heard a flute somewhere being played. It might be a local boy  playing it. The tune suddenly appeared very much known to Parineeta. Suddenly the place appeared to be so well known. She felt the gentle murmur of leaves, she felt the air of spring in her heart.
The world it seemed so beautiful.

'Where's that piece of cloth?'
Parineeta asked.
The elderly woman brought out a silk garment. It had the color of leaves and pollen grains.
Parineeta took it in her trembling hands.
She kissed the old woman's wrinkled cheeks.
'But how can I take it, without paying you ?'
Parineeta asked, tears choking her words almost.
'You can never pay for it...can you?'
The teenaged girl asked her.
'No! Dear me! I never can!'
Parineeta said, and smiled as she held both the elderly woman and her granddaughter in her warm embrace.

Almost like a day of spring

Heard a song of cuckoo,
Somewhere perched,
And the mild yellow hue
On the grassland, just beside an avenue
Struck me beautiful,
Almost like day of spring,

Seeing young hearts
Walking hands in hands,
Buying bunches of roses,
And garlands of marigold,

Thought it was surely
A day of a spring,

And I thought of you,
Your growing into a saree,
your first time blush, before me,

Your throwing flowers
At the feet of the deity,
And a few petals
Just on my shoulders,

Like your flippant writings
On scraps of paper,

I thought
It was all part of me,

On a day of spring
Just like today.

If thou be that swan

if thou be that swan,
who hath flown over
deserts, mountains,
and acres of lands,

make me your words,
and tell me to write
music as bright
as the one which
can only preach
peace, love and
benevolence,

And I know
It can never be so
For a mortal like me,
Ever a thing easy,

but then
only a poet
can claim
immortality,

for even if he dies
his words will fly,

if thou be that swan
make me a song,
a song that can fill

hearts with air,
veins with blood,
souls with Love.

just like Ithaca

You would say whether I had been
to Ithaca, and if so whether I lived enchanted
Seeing it so humble and so green,
As did Ulysses perhaps upon arriving
to that place of Odyssey,

I would say it had been always so,
I had lived with you
and I found Homer too,
in your eyes.

from Kashmir,

A friend of mine
coming back from Kashmir,
thought to narrate the story of a poet,
who was born there and there bred,
who had seen the guns and the bayonets
from his attic where he hid
to help himself and others bid
farewell to noises of rattling steel,

there as he told, he read Anne Frank,
there as he told, he drew petals on plank
of wood, dried by the sun which rose,
there, as he told, he his God chose,
drew his garden of Hope,
and declared if there was something to cherish,
it was only his Love for those who had perished,
and that gave his garden all the moisture,
and that gave his garden all the flowers,
and when the buds bloomed,
he wrote he had been at their hearts.

for a bud,

once he spoke of his story,
an unfinished one,
it got a song of its own,
a song so full of pathos
that it could make a dove even
to seat for a while by his side,
and to weep for him,

it had a song of unmitigated suffering,
and the dove,
being drenched by his forbidden tears
wept too,

and that weeping,
being stored in oyester shells,
turned into pearls,
for that weeping
was straight from heart,
no glycerine,
no makeup.

a mere graffiti, Che

As I stood infront of the huge graffiti,

I thought of him,
and a poem,
a Sunil Ganguly,

'your death makes me guilty'
it said,
and it also said how we are getting away,
getting really
a w a y,

and then some would say,
It sounds like a cat,

and then some would say
where we have left our mats,

but then,
there was only one Che,

and only one Sunil.

(the picture attached is a graffiti pasted in the Bolivian Pavilion, Kolkata International Book Fair,2016)

Siberian Crane

Every year when the winter wanes
she comes to me, a snowy Crane,
she tells me how far has she flown,
from Siberia, straight to my town,
in her wings she carries shiny flakes
of poems written by her owner, a lake;

Every year when the winter wanes
she comes to me, a snowy Crane,
she tells me what she has done all those days,
how she has brought twigs to build her lays,
where from she's got that beauty of a mind,
how she for warmth longed and pined,

Every year when the winter wanes,
I find by my window a beauty of a Crane,
she tells me so many stories of her flight,
how she flew by the days and the nights,
how she got kissed by the sun's first rays,
how the cloud fairies kept her amazed,

Every year when the winter is about to go
and the spring is just to begin her show,
I think I find another reason to write
for that bird, her journeys, her visions and sights.

song for a traveler

only it was the other day
met a traveler from far away
he said he had walked a thousand miles
he said he thought of planting smiles
amidst the ruins of Mohenjodaro,
he said he saw twittering sparrows
he said he saw sanguine Palestine,
he said he uprooted covert landmines,
he claimed he found beauty like that truth
which in corn fields once sang one Ruth,

then he talked of that kind of Love
that could be found in the quiet of a cove,
he said he lazed by the trees and the sands
he said he found greenery in bloodsoaked lands,

it was only the other day
met a traveler from far away.

New Year's Eve

New year's Eve has come again

like it had come to my lane

every year with its beauty and grace

New year's Eve is another dress,

the chill in the air is like a song

it sings for me only happiness

yes, I know there's sadness around

but how can I forget Your bless?

it was You who told me soft

life is just a choice one makes

and now that I have chosen to write

make me wear Your snowy flakes,

I would be then that grand old man

and would sing a song for you

you would sit beside the fireplace

and tell me your worldly view,

how you struggled with your life

how it hurt when you lost your way

how once you thought of taking a dive

into the dark , from a long long quay,

then you would tell me about your love

Love that shone like a star lit sky

and you would tell me how with doves

you chose to bid your nights goodbye,

I would then talk about mine,

a traveler with only the wish to write

I would tell you how Auld Lang Syne 

gave me oft those fanciful flights,

I would sing for you and all

I would sing the New Year's Eve

you would say then 'we are blessed'

and I would say 'come, let's live'.

vignettes of winter

winter has its own vignettes,
pickle jars and pigeons on terrace,

badminton courts, racquets,
pullovers, quilts and jackets,

cartwheels, bakery, yeast,
people having a grand feast,

son et luminere, Dominique,
festival of flicks, bearded critic,

fairs, handloom and crafts,
Samuel Beckett and Jean Paul Sarte,

cakes, toffees, regatta, jazz,
a session of poetry, Octavio Paz,

conclaves, picnics, Jacobean lit,
misty mornings, sparrows on streets,

dews on glasses, on lawns, windshields,
mild nip in the air and lemon peels,

freckled skin, dry and withered leaves,
moisturizers and northern breeze.

literary beings,

if you implore I can talk
not of that kind of love,
where we would become streets and lanes,
crossing each other like a tedious argument,
instead let me recite that love song
where tears of human race belong,
and human happiness too -
in finding Galapagos island;

and you will refer to Lazarus,
as your source of inspiration,
someone who can turn you to Epiphany,
you will talk of that occurance at Bethany,

from there you would begin perhaps
your writing of a poetic fiction, a verse,
you would say that was all you wanted to write,
you would talk of sobs that made watermarks on your pillow,
and I would say, people just come and go,
you would ask if they were like Michelangelo;

then there would be a pause,
you would try to find a cause,
and put it into a way to make
your statement of saying nothing,
your dearest possession, a stream,
that had rolled down the hills
and mountains to the plains,
your lyrical offering, to all who disdain
kindness and human oaths,
you would sing, love in your throat,
for all,making no discrimination,
you would become a boat,
and sail away guided by the flow,
you would just away go,

and I would say
people just come and go,
and you will ask
if they were Michelangelo;

I would talk of Prometheus,
and John Lennon and Beatles,
and would place flowers in bulletholes
as my tribute to friends, and to those
who had learnt to fight till the end,
risking death every moment,

you would ask if I have of late
grown a liking to any poet,

my answer would be an affirmation,

'Eliot, Donne, Browning, Tagore?'

'That could be a lethal combination'

'what's that then? who that could be?'

'no one, as such, between you and me'

from there we would turn to words,
from there we would become humanists,
you would talk of Renaissance, Yeats,
I would of paintings on the streets.

Dubliners, a leitmotif

                    I

It would have been perhaps
that part of a dusk
taken like a leaf out
from that vivid 'Dubliners',

                    II

there were no memoirs Irish
no forms of imperial gossip,
eastern guards they were not there,

                    III

only it seemed as it were
to say something
for some people to hear,
and for someone to let out
all that were kept like doubts,

                    IV

a lot can happen over talks,
wars, and our pieces too
broken and missed up cues,
bread, spinach green,
cold coffee , strawberry cream,

                         V

everything just over talks,
talks peppered with mustard sauce,
and forks resting beside knives,
cutlery exotic, plastic swipes,

                          VI

and then posters hanging on the wall
Stephen there about to weep for a girl,
a little flower claiming possibility
in crystal vase, stored for antiquity,

                          VII

have they all become metropolitan?
smart, clicking heels, stamping boots,
crumpled scrolls of unspoken truth,

                          VIII
Stephen remembered the poem recited
by his uncle in a drunken state,
to his aunt about something patriotic,
love for the land, in a tone charismatic,

                    
                            IX

the wheels moved at slumbering pace
passing posts making misty trace
on window firmly shuttered down,
it was a faraway town,

                             X

the sound of florins on the floor
making jingling noise broke the stupor,
'Dubliners' there on the table kept,
turned into a motif leit.

('Dubliners' is a collection of short stories by James Joyce, )

                           

the family photograph

'say cheese!' the man behind the lens
asked the assembly to flash grins,
and all of them did so in the sense
they tried their respective best,

the grandpa in the middle had no teeth
so he flashed his gums vacant and still,
granny beside him took a breath
and so her face looked a bit grave,

and the eldest son having arthritis
shook his right knee by his hand to ease
the standing posture,his wife beside him
was thinking about the chilli paste left
in the sink, her face had that hurried look,

their son back from college had a book
in his hand which he was not willing to keep
anywhere lest his younger sis would take a leap
for it and would take it away with her to Jersey,

the second eldest son, still a bachelor,a musician
was probably thinking the middle portion
of a song which he downloaded courtesy
the electronic device that he possessed recently,
so his face looked composed and calm,

just beside him his niece returning from Greece,
held an artefact resembling a bow with strings,
she insisted to pose with that for it would bring
a touch of verisimilitude to the snapshot,
personification of a tourist with a spot,

her brother, the youngest in the scene,
was sandwiched between his mother and aunt,
looking pacified after crying over a bottle of jam,
he held a toy of a gun in his palm,

his uncle, the husband of aunt had a band
in his arm expressing solidarity with those
killed and wounded somewhere in a Pacific coast,

the aunt from Hazaribagh on a visit
squeezed her not so slim figure into the frame,
she,  having the taste definitive a bit
held a paperback with a flashy name,

her only daughter with a habit of dozing off
anywhere anytime if kept idle,
almost to a quick nap momentarily dropped
leaning her head on her mother's lap,

grandpa's butler cum masseur cum errand man
was the lone figure sitting on the ground and ,
he held the pipe of the hookah perfunctorily-
not to smoke but to indicate his glee
in keeping everything grandpa owned
as part of his little acclaimed luxury,

at the far right sat the family's pride
the big furry alsatian, after a Persian
monarch named, who tried to hide
the bone he stole from kitchen,
not so long since then,

all these to put flippantly
made the portrait of the family.

remnants

'The last time we came to the place
they with curd and pickles us served
at the end ,when we're about to close
our little talks with a lot of faith,'
Sweta while chewing a cardamom seed, said,

'The last time an afternoon it was
the road outside had fewer cars
and sitting beside the glass wall
we had had our moments just,'
Ornob recalled,somewhat lugubrious,

Tomorrow would be the end
of the vacation and they would be
to their own respective worlds sent,
Sweta would be busy with her works
And Ornob too would forget the talks,

'what would remain between us?'
Sweta suddenly asked
breaking the beauty of the pause
that kept the two in succulent thoughts,

'all these perhaps, like postcards,
or sildes neatly preserved,'
Ornob replied, fully convinced
of how memory works, what it stores,
what it connotes, what it means,

'ah! that's like we are then
two persons in a memory lane...'
Sweta heaved a half sigh
the other half not expressed,
Ornob just smiled, keeping things unsaid,

'you got nothing to say?
now that we would go each other's way
you would take the route to south
and I would to some western port go
where would I sit by that beautiful Seine
and throw the keys of our very own lane
into the water that bore all the pains
and happiness of people like us
who had spent nights by counting stars
and days who measured in dimes and farce?'
Sweta asked Ornob or was it really
for him to answer such a query?

Perhaps not, for Sweta looked at him
and asked if they could go a few yards, walking,

'The last walk together?' Ornob joked,

'no, for I am not that much haughty
like that mistress in that monologue'

'yes, and we are always in some sort
of a conversation, I mean, dialogue'

the two laughed as they started the walk,
it was invariably the full moon night,
late evening, the last week of a spring;

'how many years have passed
Sweta asked, 'since we've met?'

'since Seth wrote that Golden Gate?'
Ornob chuckled, smile on his lips
'you're such such....' Sweta fumbled for words,
'moron' 'that's the word for me to keep'
He added to make her more equipped,

She laughed heartily, 'as you yourself talked of Golden Gate,
I think you're very much like man in there, bred,
who swore by the Beatles and Pink Floyd
and noted how trees become in autumn void,'

'you make excellent observations
only that those are beyond my station,
now that we are walking the last of its kind
why not we say something more refined?'

'what tell me, are the refined things?
literary escapes or drinking binge?
what is that ,that can be called the best
who are the plebeians and who are the blessed?'

'tell me something about Seine
how it flows, in your veins?
what people do there on holidays?
do fishermen sail their boats like here on Ganges?'

'people sit on the benches there
and talk about Cognac and Baudelaire
and those who are too much of a believer
they throw silver keys right into the river,
and there is also a flea market near
people throng to buy cheap saucepans there
sometimes they buy hairpins too
with which they tie their lost billetdoux...'

'and what there do you care to do?'

'I just go there and sit with ease
and try to catch the ballads in the breeze
sung by urchins who collect coins in hats-
their tones running sharp and falling flat,
I listen to the stories as they sing
of maidens poor marrying kings
and of men dressed up like harlequins
creating comedy in postwar ruins...'

'what a way you pass your day
by the Seine as you please you may...'
Ornob said as they came to the point
from where they were to part their ways,

'see you' Sweta said before boarding a bus,
they were at the big terminus,
Ornob nodded and waved at her
and smiled thinking how soon
they would be away from each other,

'what would remain?' thought he
while the bus took Sweta away
just like another slide of a perfect memory.

somewhere tucked away

About a decade and half
                         must have passed through in between
when one day the man
                          arrived at his town one wintry evening,
the bus stop where
                          he got down with his sack was not the same,
for he found there
                          no more that homegrown feel of a small town
the rows of deodars
                           were not there too and the road seemed full
of people not known
                           'where had that house gone to?' he thought
from the porch of which
                             there hung coils of ivy in poesy wrought,
thinking all these
                             the man walked the road till he stopped
in front of a little
                               cosy looking bustling coffeeshop,
at the counter
                            there was a man he thought did he know
for he had that cut
                           on his forehead just over his left brow,
'You have grown old'
                           was the first thing that he said to the man
who looked up
                           with curious eyes and disbelief in his mind,
'you? our own Ayush?'
                             the man lunged forward to him greet,
his hands he held
                            and their eyes glistened quiet as they did meet,
'after so many years,
                            how come here mate?' the man in tears
                            uttered with joy asked him straight,
'well, I had received
                            a letter from someone here unexpected,'
saying this he
                          out from his coat's pocket did bring
a piece of a paper
                          almost blank barring a few words written
in a known too known hand,
                        'I know you have gone away to a faraway land
but please for the sake
                           of all the follies and the mistakes,
come at least once,
                           now that the war had ended and peace
had been declared
                            all through the country now that there are
no more sounds of sirens
                             and alarms of wildly ringing bells,
now that all the fire
                           had been doused and buried for at least
quite a few months,
                            come to my humble house if there is any chance;'

'Oh! you silly man! how you've come
            covering thousand acres green
and a few deserts of sands,'
           said the man with a trembling voice,
'Mate,you've come right, but you've lost that choice
that girl who cared to write such a thing
                         which she never dared
                    to say to you in person
had been to the another
                          land by the dictates sent,
the land where you could
never possibly go
                           for there lives she with her friends and a hoe,
there she has settled
                           with her garden to bloom and grow,'

Ayush heard it all
keeping quiet and low

and he thought he missed nothing
     other than those deodars and rows
                        of trees that lined the way
            and that girl who had somewhere
                       kept a story tucked away.
                          

          
                 
                            

রাঙামাটি

কাশ শিউলির গন্ধ মেখে
শহর থেকে অনেক দূরে,

শারদ সকাল কুয়াশা গায়ে
কোনও এক স্বপনপুরে,

দেখেছিলাম হঠাৎ তারে
সদ্য জাগা গানের সুরে...

(ফটোগ্রাফি : মৈনাকদও)

Song bird

Grant me that sweet perennial song
O bird of delightful autumn,
Now that the world is drenched
In tunes of your music sacred,
Grant me that beauty and grace
With which you make the world-
wonderful and enchanting place,
Grant me as the time flows by-
Your winged feathered heart,
Your limitless undaunted sky,
Grant me your songs that binds
The world in music and blessed lines.

Lease of a day

If I had the song to sing for the clime
I would've sung the beauty of a day,
Spent hearing the murmur of the river
Flowing unhindered as it may,

It had been a serene lucid spot
Deodars and furs and pines where stood,
And white sculpted figures like dots
For ages where did upon human works brood,

I saw the drops of dews gathered
On leaves, pebbles and stones like gems,
I heard the chant of gigantic bells
Calling forth Nature by numerous names,

I felt the soothing calm of early morn
And the cold nip in the mild breeze that blew,
I took a splash into the lush green lawn
Where myrtles rose just beside the honeydew,

I saw in splendid tender glow
Hills distant in foliage wrapped,
I saw how in glittering snow
Big mountains like sages sat,

The smell of incense bearing trees
came to me with the call of the wild,
I thought I got another lease
To spend a day like a blessed child.

Uni -verse

There might be something
That tells us all, all the time
We can do everything we wish
But we can never lose the rhyme,

We can go north further north
Blizzards we can wear on sleeves
We can stand in the face of storm
And can write a dawn before we sleep

There might be something dear
That takes away from us all our strife
We can take the Chanukah song
and be glad with it in our mortal life

What could be of more bearing
Than to make out the pied one
Which is there in you and me
and in every grain and everyone

সাংঘাই,

কার্নিভাল থেকে শেষ ট্রেনে
বাড়ি ফেরে যুবদল
সকালের কুয়াশাছন্ন
শহর তখন বুঝি ঔপনিবেশিক যুগ ছাড়িয়ে
ক্লকটাওয়ারের হাত ধরে উঠেছে জেগে,
রাস্তায় মানুষ অগণিত চলেছে জীবন জীবিকার সন্ধানে,
প্রতিটি দিন তাদের কাছে জীবন সংগ্রাম
আর জীগ্সহ পাজেল্
মেঘলা দিনের অবসানে
দাঁড়িয়ে দেখলে তা
সাংঘাই শহরের ইতিবৃত্ত বোঝায় সহজেই।

তুমি সাহিত্য পড়ো
আর আমি আইন
যাই পড়ি কেন
আমরা , সে  তো
মুক্তির জন্যই,
গ্রন্থাগার সম্প্রসারণ ও
ত মানব মুক্তির জন্যই,
নিত্শে, ফ্রয়েড, সার্ত,
সবই ত আছে,
তারই মধ্যে
দার্শনিকের
আরেক উন্মেষ,
ওটা ও আরেক
কার্নিভাল,

সাংঘাই
নুইর্ক
হয়েছে
আর
তুমি পেলে
পারগাটরি

আমাদের বাদ রেখে।

(ডং লি অনুদিত ' Old Shanghai'  দ্বারা অনুপ্রাণিত)

হর্জে ওর্তেগা : ডুরাবিলিটি অব্ মেটেরিয়াল্স এবং ফার্স্ট কল্

ডুরাবিলিটি অব্ মেটেরিয়াল্স

পাথরটি এখানে ছিল নিশ্চিত
আমার জন্মের আগে, আমার পিতার
এবং পিতামহের, এমনকি দশ পুরুষ আগেও
ওটির অবস্থান ছিল এখানেই
এই প্লাজাতে,
সমস্ত সজীবতাকে আর বেবাক জনগণকে
সে করেছে বয়সে অতিক্রম
এই শেষ মুহূর্ত পর্যন্ত।
আমি খালি হতে পারি নতজানু
আর করতে পারি আঘ্রাণ প্রাচীন
আর্দ্রতা,
আমরা  যাব চলে আর রয়ে যাবে
পাথরটি
এ হেন প্লাজাতে
মাথা না নুইয়ে
তার নিজ অস্থির ওপর
থাকবে ঠিকই দাঁড়িয়ে
আমাদের মত ভঙ্গুর নয় সে।

হে জাগতিক স্থিতিশীলতা
লক্ষ্য করো কিভাবে ক্ষয়িত হয় সব
পাথরের সহস্রাব্দি প্রাচীন প্রলেপ
যাদের নেই ;

শতাব্দীর আলকেমিতে গঠিত ব্যসল্ট
আমাদের কান্ড তৈরী করে নি,
এই অপচয়ের আবরণে তাই
কোট আমাদের সম্বল।

কিন্তু মানুষ কি কখনো পেরেছে
করতে অতিক্রম
যা কিছু সে গড়েছে নিজ জীবন ধরে,
সে সর্বদাই বোধহয় তার সৃষ্টির চেয়ে কম সহনশীল।

ফার্স্ট কল্

কর রোমন্থন ভাষার লালিত্য নয়
যা কিছু ফেনিল
বরং তাই যাতে আছে কম্পমান আগুন
বা শিকড়ের টান।
উপুড় করে শংকু
তলানিতে আছে যা
তাকে ডাকো বালির গর্জনে
সমুদ্র যা জানে।
নাও এক গভীর প্রশ্বাস
আর দাও ডুব
আর এসে জানাও তাদের
যারা বালুতটের কাঁচে দাঁড়িয়ে
অপেক্ষমান।
অনেক কালি খরচের পরও
দেখো কেমন আমরা আজও বিবাদপূর্ণ।
তাই দূরাবস্থায় জ্বালো একটু আলো
লন্ঠনটিকে খাদের ওপর রাখো
আর খোঁজো চাবি পাথরের খাঁজে।

(এটি মেক্সিকান কবি হর্জে ওর্তেগার দুটি গদ্য কাব্যের আমার তরফ থেকে বংগানুবাদ করার একটি প্রয়াস।  স্পানিস  ভাষায় লেখা মূল কাব্য দ্বয়ের ইংরেজি অনুবাদক এন্থনি সিডমান।)

Illusory

Don't churn
Dreams of Ginsberg
Anymore Kerouac

Today I'm
fully feudal

Divided people

What's the need of
barbed wires?

অলীক

গীন্সবার্গের স্বপ্ন
আর দেখাস নে
কেরওউক

আজ আমি পুরোপুরি
সামন্ততান্ত্রিক

বিভাজন করেছি
মানুষে মানুষে

আর কি প্রয়োজন
কাঁটা তারের?

চে (Che`)

উনি আছেন
যে রকম ভাবে ছিলেন
চুরুট মুখে
একগাল দাঁড়ি

এস্প্লানেড চত্বরে
পোশাকি

যে রকমটি চাই
আমাদের
গোলগলা
ভি-নেক।

On killing fields

Mines that had been planted
Under the upper layer
Of the crust,
They could burst
Anyday

Killing fields
had made foray
Into homes
nowadays

They come not
with crops
For crops had
Become wealth of the rich

They come in different
garbs
Bayonets have become obsolete

Iron pellets are now bred
Mercilessly

Jesus of kolkata

There  was no red signal
Of prohibition
still stopped sudden
The city which so far had the speed
of storm;
Precariously held on to the road
Balancing perilous on wheels
Taxi and private,tempo, tiger embossed double deckers;

All those who raised hue and cry
And came from all sides
Labourers, hawkers, shopkeepers,customers-
They all became part of a still picture
Done by the artist, stuck to his easel;

Everyone dumbfounded
Saw how a naked child crossed the road
From one end to another;

It had rained a few hours ago
At the chowringhee;

Now the light had pierced through
the clouds
Kolkata seemed to be flooded by illusory light;

Peering out of the window of state bus
Saw the face of the sky and saw you too;

Son of a mother
Beggarly
You the Jesus of Kolkata

Stopped the traffic by your spell;

The screaming millions,
The teething and gnawing of impatient drivers
Did not deter you;

You walk through
The passage
with death on both sides,
Like someone learning to walk,

Like humanity incarnate
too glad to learn to walk
Trying to get the whole world
Within your grasp;
Like by treading trembling
you were walking from one end to another
Of the world.

(Transliteration of a poem by Nirendranath Chakraborty)

(The photo attached is taken from a daily, depicting a scene from the street of Kolkata)

Kwalkhu, a glimpse,

The alley that went away
From the chowpatty
Had houses on both sides
Their red brown bricks
Without any trace of plaster
Looked distinctively
Ancient...
The doors were big
with bolts placed diagonally,
Had those who lived inside
caught on the siesta?
But the wheels were taking those houses
away too,
And the dust and rubbles were getting settled
On trousers and hands and faces...

Kwalkhu
would be away soon,
But that memory of that alley,
That colored paper flagged one,
Would remain.

'Not all who wander are lost'

Not all
Are lost
though they
wander the most
From one end
To another,

They wander
But they don't get lost.

Some postcards...

I can say I cannot take you
To the place where I wish to go
But I can always send you
Breath of chinars covered with snow,

It is such a beautiful sojourn
To be drowned in the tenderness
of leaves forever falling soft
On the rugged earth's cold surface,

I can say I see the face of children
Not mortified by the shadows of guns
I can always send you post cards
Of larks and flock of homing pigeons.

Hiking

I would be totally wrong

If I would say I did not long

For Luke to come and call me out

For a hike through the most dense fog

The weather would be cutting through us

And we would be right there at the stop for the bus

Luke would take a swig and check on the camping gear

The mountain stream would be running close and near

Colored colony of trouts and shells

Would be visible through the greenish blue water without fail

And Luke would make a stick a fishing rod

And we would be catching more than we would've thought

And then we would grill them

And sprinkle salt 

Making a feast of what we would've got

It would be a good ol' hiking for a day

Luke,me and a fair weather of May.

(Photo: 'Painted', )

Flinty

That's the way the night
grew upon us with
meteor shower,
we stood side by side,

You told me how you loved
nights of torrential rains
Flooding the town,
how water wrote rivulets
all over you
Till they reached your feet,

I told you how nights
made sleeping morns
And morns woke blossoms

The meteorites fell
like little sparks
And flinty we became.

There's something about you

There's something about you
I forgot to tell you
Something...

Nascent like that faint smell
Of lavender
Of jasmine
And roses too...

A garden of Paradise
In short,
That I meant.

Once
the sculpted face
Fell
and with it
fell 
Our pride
Our demons

We made love after that
By the sides of our past.

(For 'Magpie Tales', photo-prompt courtesy :Magpie tales)
   

Simon's harmonica

At the porch
overlooking the valley
often whence got the chance
To get the glimpse
Of glowworms
Winging in and out
of hedges and bushes
Of flowering myrtles

I would think of Simon,
And how he blew and bent the air
Through his harmonica,

The pleasant silence
seemed to be a perfect accompaniment
To the tune that he gave birth to,
It came wafting across everything
that were around us-
The wagonload of wood at the mill
The shepherd's hut
The barn...

Simon had been a bumpkin,
'Yokel'
As some would say,
But then when he had
his harmonica
He became
the stream , forever flowing,
He became
the earth ,moist and fertile,
He became
The air, light and unburdened,
He became
The music, noiseless and serene,

Oft
Standing at the porch
I would hear Simon.

Arcadia

You are like an Arcadia for me
And I go wandering into you till
there left no more wanderings
And pastoral beauty of your soul
charms me with its innocent being,

I then become a valley
And streams of music
Dance down me.

Three and double o and more...

I have learnt this city
In my own ways-
It all started with climbing onto the bus
going to another city
crossing over the river;

It had been a delightful ride
At the terminus colored cookies came in jars at a ridiculous price-
Fifty paise for a handful;

Then there had been serpentine traffic
All through the Strand
it seemed one would take a good day's nap and wake up to another dimension
Still one would be there the same;

The florists at the bazaar appeared pretty busy
early in the morning as the baskets came from faraway places,
Their hues and cries got mingled with the thin air,

Then the big mammoth looking architecture
And the salty breeze from the river
sweeping through the hair
Of the face peering out of the window,

'How long still?'
'Not much ...only forty minutes more...'
That was the standard answer,
And creeping through the mob
We used to move,
One by one landmarks passed by us,
Some Anglican,
Some Gothic,
Some Armenian,
Some Greco-roman,

And a few hours later perhaps
Appeared half known names
on signboards,
Alphanumeric identities of places,

The city had then arrived.

Cosmopolitan

When you write about your city
selling white tin stars
assorted chocolate chips,
Pomegranate among other things
And sumac,
I think I know how language of yours
build your own homeland,
A small strip of peace
And yet
I find similar connotations of home
here -
In my city ,
Here also our footpaths are full of them,
Only some objects are our own
The rest is very much
cosmopolitan.

The musician and the General

When the General asked him
To pluck a note and pull the string-
It seemed a difficult proposition,
His fingers looking unfed for weeks
Had nothing in them to create a magic
And then all around stood derelict
Houses of his ravaged town...
Rubbles sat on minds and hearts
Of those who survived the Holocaust
And this General with stubble moustache
Wanted him to strike something...

What could be risen out of that sham?
The town ghettoed long ago had no Glam
Only furtive few notes written somewhere
Had faintly distinct a half forgotten repertoire;

Thinking all these he sat on the stool
And made an attempt to play no fool
With the board he knew like his fingers and palm...

Graded into three different steps
He put verse into the ruined build
And made a decoration with added taps
Gentle as they were till reaching the crescendo;

The General kept his eyes closed
All through the session silent as someone
Caught in between hell and heaven,

And when his fingers stopped plying
He just opened to another life
And smiled
And then gave the weary man his overcoat.

Hiatus

Take a break
From spinning the wheel
And on hiatus
Keep things,

For who knows
From that break
May arrive newer thoughts,
Replenishing.

The more I look at you

The more I look at you,
Life, the more I feel
There is no end to your wonders,
How you bind everything into your own rhythm,
How in your wings days turn nights
And nights turn days,
How from seeds grow the trees
And from trees grow seeds,
How light travels far and wide
And how from far away stars glitter
Their light reaching us after million years,
How we had trodden through struggles and deprivations
Till we caught the straw before getting drowned
Into oblivion, and risen up to see with love
And hope how the omnipotent had made our existence
A saga of its own, so magnificiently construed,
That we rarely make out if we had ourselves
Been a part of it,
The more I look at you,
Life, the more with certitude
Comes complete surrender,
Purged becomes the words
And so our being into this wonderful world,
When you make me to see beauty
In all life forms, from the minutest, the little feeble
One to the grandest and the mightiest,
I think I have been made by you
To ponder over nothing but your supreme benediction,
And I eulogise, knowing words can never fully hold
Your truest form,
The more I look at you
Life, the more with philos you drape me,
I go farthest of the far,
I come nearest to the near,
And this makes me all the more volatile,
For this works in me like an epiphany
And wonderment leaves me beseiged.

A mural

The man looked grave
And erudite was his moustache,
Thick,
Almost Stalin,

Above his head
A casement sat,
And near his hand
There were clenched fists,
They all shouted slogans,
Perhaps,

And smoke from chimneys
Stopped briefly near a flag with a star in the middle,
Before catching up with the rest of the wall,

Someone Salvadore Allende
Had been celebrated,
Presumably,

And a few paces away,
Where smell of raviolis
Filled the air,
A painted figure
Motionless sitting on a stool
Narrated the lore of Eleanora,

Facing the figure
There were faces numerous,
They had the intent of breaking out something,
In chorus,

Only
It was
A mural.

Remembering

Can't remember mother mine;
Only whilst playing
All of a sudden unnecessarily
A tune rings in my ears,
Then thoughts of mother mine
With my games intertwine;
She probably used to sing
Rocking the cradle-
She had gone away
But left the song subtle;

Can't remember mother mine;
Only when in morns of ashwin
Carried by the dew drenched breeze
Comes the fragrance of sheuli,
Then don't know why mother mine
Comes to my mind;
Probably she used to bring
Blossoms such in basket-
So the smell of puja
Comes to me as smell of mother ;

Can't remember mother mine;
Only while sitting at one corner of bedroom
Try to look out through the window
Towards the sky azure,
Then get the feel of mother mine
Staring at me simply
Like the way she
used to look at me
Many many years ago
Holding me in her arms-
She had left that stare
All over the sky.

(Transliteration of a poem by Tagore)

Summer afternoons of the yore

Summer afternoons then were full of fun,
To the terrace we would run,
Brothers, sisters and cousins,
There, beside the water tank,
Where granny had left her pots and pans,
We would savour the taste
Of her famous pickles,
With a spoon we would dig out
Pickles made of mango, jaggery and vinegar,

Downstairs, mother and aunts
Had their post lunch treat,
Of listening to plays on the radio,
And munching betel leaves,

Granny would then be taking her nap,
And at the neighbourhood drinking water tap,
There would be rows of pitchers and pails,

From the terrace we would see
Our small muffassil town,
Having a siesta under the summer breeze,

The arterial road that went to the bazar,
Had sometimes the company of vagrants,
With turbans on their heads as gears,
They looked like troupe of ballad singers,

And at the grove near the pond
Which looked like shady haunt,
Children would sometimes gather,
Like flock of pigeons, they would hop,
Till the afternoon would near
The evening's door make a stop.

meeting a barista

'Where from you learnt this?'
Asked her,
She poured the liquid into the cup,
Stirred it on the fire for a while and placed it on the small circular mat.
'Very few people know that baristas are well travelled...'
She said.
'I brought fincans from there...'
She added.
It was only nine in the morning of a holiday.
Customers were scarce.
The aroma of coffee was hanging in the air.
'That means Turkey...'
Said working on a hunch.
'Yes! But how do you know?'
'Heard somewhere that they use fincans...'
'Yeah... they do...and they use a brass coffee pot...cezve...'
'Brought one of that too?'
Asked in a jocular fashion.
'Yes...'
She replied,
'You seem to take this job quite seriously...'
Made the remark,
'That is half of the trade...'
She said,

Took two quick sips from the cup.
The smell of beans was invigorating.

'You know something, they use Arabica, and they ground them to extra fine...'
She said,
'Brought them too?'
Asked her,
'Wish I could...'
Her voice became suddenly wistful.
The bell at the door rang.
An elderly couple entered the shop.
Knowing she would soon become busy, thought of wrapping up.

'I don't know Turkey... but this one tastes superb...'
Said and looked at her.
'Flattered...'
She replied.

'Teach me one day, how to make this...'

'I will not...for then, you will not come here!'
She was pretty straight.

I guffawed.

Upon a Levone Sterling

How can I say, what the meadows sing?
What godliness those flowers bring?
And that thin silvery stroke of your paintbrush
With what benediction you create a beauty such?
Those distant hills, they seem so angelic
With what divine glow you make bright the bleak?
The sky seemed so ethereal and blue
From which palette you get that hue?

How can I say, what the meadows sing.

(The picture attached is a work by Levone Sterling)

For Auld lang syne...

Stand there, for a while,
Under the shade of the tree,
Stand there, for a while
For auld lang syne and me;

The world might be busy
Full of snarls and shouts,
But stand there, for a while,
And see the rainbow through clouds;

Stand there, for a while,
When you got a little time,
Stand there, for a while,
For auld lang syne.

Muted

'We can have our meal here...'
Prahlad said as he signalled the driver to stop the car infront of a hut.
The hut looked bigger than the usual ones
found here, only the entrance looked outlandish.
Nikita descended and the first thing that she noticed was the row of pots and pans and other household common utensils being used as pots for growing flowering saplings.They were placed side by side right at the entrance which added to the sombre beauty of the milieu.
'Welcome memsaab!'
A girl in bright red jacket appeared at the flight of steps,
'You can get our special meal today...'
The girl declared, though her voice seemed not very loud,
It still evoked a feeling of warmth and hospitality.
Nikita smiled and went in. She found the dining hall empty, barring two middleaged men  busy eating at the farthest left corner. They were talking while eating.
Nikita inspected the hall and within a few seconds decided to sit by the window
facing the road. She always preferred the window seat, for windows always open one to the world. So she carefully dodged through the tables and chairs till she reached that table by the window which had two chairs facing each other. She put her bag on the floor and sat down. The road was clearly visible and the few cars that went up or came down were also could be easily seen. Nikita looked outside and felt that though she could see the outer world through the glass window, the sound or the noise of the outer world was not coming to her. It seemed she was witnessing a muted world.
'Your order madam?'
The same girl in red jacket came with a notepad in her hand.
'Two plates of rice, two bowls of lentils, mashed potato, and chicken stew...'
Nikita ordered,
'And a plate of salad...'
Prahlad chipped in.
He had already entered the hall.
The girl went away.
Nikita looked at the only occupied table in the hall. The two men were preparing to go. One of them pulled out his wallet and placed some bills under a plate.
Nikita looked at the man. He had salt and pepper beard and his face had the suntanned look.
It suddenly occured to her that the face resembled someone's she knew.
'But how that could be... he could not be here... '
Nikita thought.

The two men were going out.
The man with salt and pepper beard and cropped hair, held his backpack by his left hand. Nikita noticed something written on the man's left arm, a tattoo.
'God! I definitely know this tattoo and ...'
Nikita thought.
The men had already gone out.
Nikita got up.
Prahlad looked up.
'Where are you going?'
'Just a minute dear...'
Nikita pleaded.
'But our food would soon be here...'
'Ok, if you are hungry, carry on, I will be back soon...'
Nikita quipped.

The two men who were on the road just outside the entrance must have heard her.
They both looked back at her.
The salt and pepper bearded man seemed particularly surprised. He stood still. His companion was asking him to take the walk down the road. But he was not moving. He was staring at Nikita.
'Ani? Are you Ani? I mean Aniruddha ? Aniruddha Sanyal?'
Nikita asked.
The man looked at her.
'No... madam... I am not Aniruddha Sanyal...'

'We still got a long way to walk...'
The man's companion appeared a bit impatient.
'O yes!  Let's go...'
Salt and pepper bearded man responded.

'How can I be so wrong?'
Nikita thought.

She was going back to the hall.
Prahlad might be thinking where had she gone.
The girl in red jacket appeared at the corner.
'Memsaab, forgive me for my eavesdropping, but you were right...that man was Aniruddha Sanyal... he had arrived here only few years ago...'

'How many years have passed in between? '
Nikita tried to remember.
Some twenty years might be, since they broke up, she and Aniruddha.

Mother and daughter

Walking up a few miles,
Copperskies whence left a distinct hue
She put her legs on the slope
And thought of lying there for a while,
The bees might be humming somewhere,
And the evening would be soon having a sweep,

She remembered when she was much younger than
Today, she had the habit of lying flat on the yielding earth
And her mother would then also come and sit by her,
She would sing songs, tell her stories, and run her fingers through her hair,

There would  be silence all around,
And those were her moments of bonding with her mom,
She would find smell of spring flowers in her,
And her songs often left a wandering tone
She would close her eyes and listen with attention rapt,
She would think that her songs might be floating
And going to faraway places, down the valley,
To the barn, where horsemen might be still working on,
From there to the small town, dotted with shops and hotels,
From there taking the road by the stream to another place...

'Gotcha!'
She was taken aback by the shout
Followed by giggles,
She turned around to see her daughter,
'Come, sit here by me...
I will sing you a song'
She said.

The final masquerade

When you would come down
In glittering black a flowing gown,
And by your eyes, covered by velvet
When you would beckon me, for a masquerade,
I would tap on the floor by my boots,
There would be, shouts, calls, and hoots,
The music would be quick and fast,
Your eyes would upon mine last,
We would be dancing to the tune,
You would spit fire and I would fume,
That would be our final masquerade,

You would by your long sharp nails make marks red,
And I would whisper in your ears words of hatred,
Then we would spin, swing and dance fast,
Your heart upon mine would thump just,
I would press you against me for a while,
You would pour on my mouth your venomous guile,
We would dance still the same,
Our masquerade, the final game.

Old age

Once met that good ol'man
Sitting on a slab of a rock,
He had crowfeet at his brows,
'How old are you?'
I asked,
He seemed short in hearing,
He said nothing,
Only looked at me with a blank face,
His dress was simple
A pair of trousers
And a flannel shirt,
His face looked impassive at first,

The day light was then dimming
And the horizon had that glow
Which many painters and photographers
Tried for ages to catch in their works,
The man seemed very much part of the scape,
And then he looked at me straight
And cleared his throat,
'I am eighty and you?'
'Half almost of your age...'
I replied,
He smiled,
'Why are you sitting here?'
I asked,
'O ...it is my daily ritual,
I come here every day,
And sit here
And watch the sunset,
And other things...
For i have got all the time in my hand
And all those which i failed to savour
In my youth, i try to understand them,
Like how this world is made
So beautiful by some cosmic force,
And how the world moves
Following a pattern of its own,
Despite wars and carnage
And bloodbath,
Everything in this world
Is perpetually following a course...
And no one, can alter it...
Is it not something magnificient?
Something wonderous?
Something evocative enough to
Cherish specially at this hour?'
The old man did not ask,
He was, i thought, making
Rhetorical queries,
Answers of which
Were not to be sought,
I thought,
And old age crept
In me.

At the back yard of your heart

At the backyard of your heart
Where you sometimes stand still,
And try to be alone with the clouds,
Singing a song perhaps, or simply
Curling threads of your auburn hair,
Give me a place right there,
I would just stand quiet
And be a part of your quietitude,
And if you laugh out loud,
I would just flash a quaint smile,

At the backyard of your heart
Where you sometimes sit back
And try to unwind yourself
Sitting on a rocking chair,
Give me a place right there,
I would just sit quiet
And be a part of your quietitude,
And if you recite a ballad lyrical,
I would do the same with you,

At the backyard of your heart...

Lost in the woods

Once losing myself in the woods
Got for the first time
The shooting rays
Piercing through
Leaves and boughs,
They fell on the ground
And also on my face,
I saw how the trees had spread
Canopy of greenness
All over the sky,
And below the earth
Had the mossy layer
Of algae,
The smell of wilderness
Got into me,
I walked through the shrubs
And bushes,
Following the trail
Made by woodcutters,
And huntsmen,
Every moment seemed
Thrilling and yet so unbecoming
For me,
For i had rarely got the chance
To shed off inhibitions of my urbanity,
And to ponder over the Creator's benediction
And equanimity.

(Posted as napowrimo , thanks to A.Koshy and the group)

Carnival

It was a big big fair
People jostled, shouted,
And balloons red red like balls of fire
Hung lucid in the evening air,

Somewhere near a counter
They sold tickets to the fairyland,
I took one, and entered,
And standing on the stage, centre,

I saw the fairies singing songs,
They all had painted faces,
They were dancing to an alien tune,
And light was flowing from their neon dresses,

The fair was huge and magical
And there saw I how wheels went
Up and then down how they bent,
And pennies saw I how from machines did fall,

'It is carnival! Boy!
Come lets dance with joy!'
I heard my friend from behind
And soon it turned a carnival,
And soon it became a carnival.

(This scribble was posted as napowrimo, to the' Rejected Stuff', thanks to Ampat Koshy)

'They grow on me like leaves...'*

They grow on me like leaves of a tree
They fill me with youth,

They fill up everything,
But when they fall
Like dry leaves
They make me look so bare,

And then they grow again,
They change shapes,
From light green to darkened one,
They change,
Sometimes they take colors of flame,
Sometimes they become hectic,
Sometimes they are so supple,

And they fall,
Dry and dead,

Luckily,
Leaves grow again
Much like
Words.

(* based on the poem 'words' by Kamala Das. The title is taken from the poem)

When it rained in one late spring

When it rained in one late spring
I woke up simply from a dream
And felt somewhere how it had melted down
Scorched up heat of the town,

I saw how in wingless forms
Poesy had left marks in norwester storms,
And in wanderings of water drops
I heard lullabies sleepy soft,

They told me i am not yet spent
They filled me with earth's moist scent
And i heard distinct one time more
The knockings at the heaven's door,

There i thought i saw her
The angel whom i always admired,
She had golden robes around her waist
And by her smile she kept me blessed,

When it rained in one late spring
I woke up simply from a dream
And felt somewhere in my ribs
The coolness of the rainy breeze,

I heard music in trembling leaves,
I saw how in rains they danced with ease,
And in their spriteful freshened glee
I made my soul from my mortal frame, flee.

Upon a revisit,

'You can go there and have a look around'
Pratap Singh said,
He was sitting at the driver's seat of his jeep,
'Okay'
I said,
And as Pratap drove away
Leaving me at the gate of the cottage,
I started walking,
The dying light of the day
Was leaving feathered forms
Over the path,
The greenery around was invigorating,
And the silence was deafening;

Taking a long breath
I looked around,
And remembered my last visit
To the place,

'There was no dearth of fresh air then also
But the cottage was not double storied...'
I wondered,

'These wooden benches...they were not there...
But there was solitude
As vast as ...
The painting of Van Gogh
Depicting a starry night '
Thought I,

Then I sat,
On one of those benches,
Putting an arm over the back rest,

'How beautiful is the moment
When the day
Hangs up its busy feet
And the indolent evening
Wraps one with nothingness...'
I wondered,

Sitting there on the bench
I tried to gather the enbalming kindness
Of Nature as emancipated in varied forms-
The foliage, the sky...
Sitting there I tried to understand
That force, that tumult, that spirit
Which had caused everything to happen,

The more I thought
The more I was filled with a sense of wonderment,
And that sense of wonderment
Seemed to me inexpressible,
Absolutely inexpressible,

'Still sitting here?'
I heard Pratap
Hollering,

'When you have come back?'
I asked,
'Some ten or fifteen minutes ago...come , let's have our dinner...'
Pratap said,

Post dinner, Pratap lit up his customary cheroot,
And as he left miniature cloudy forms,
I sang...
'Starry starry night...'

Pratap nodded, closing his eyes, relishing the song
And I sang releasing myself...
I sang as I wanted to be part of the beautiful night,
I sang because I probably wanted to make the night beautiful,

And Pratap just smoked and listened,
For he wanted to be my listener,

Last time when I came to the place
The cottage was just the same,
It was not double storied though
And Pratap Singh was younger then,
And I too had that youthful hue,

Then, too, we had our post dinner sessions
Of songs and conversations,
And then too, those late evenings
Had that agelessness.

On a composition of Brahm

What had made Brahm to compose
Such a tune, with such poise?
What comforting idea made him
To put music into such a rhythm?
What inexpressible thought
Had he tried to fathom?
What soothing calm, what solace
What intervention of musical grace
What pursuit? What search?
Into what restive state did he submerge?

If had i been gifted one millionth part
Of the idea that he had unearthed
I would have made one for you
And for all to have a better view
Of life and the world too.

Living, a shepherd's life,

Long long ago
There lived a shepherd
Just at the foot
Of the hill,
He had no worries
Or cares,
All he knew
That he would have to
Wake up and take
The sheep for grazing,
And his life had no other meaning,
He would do what every shepherd should,
And at the end of the day
When the shadow of the hills
Would be dancing down the slope,
He would return to his humble cottage,

There he would tend the flock,
And after having a meagre meal,
He would sit at the cottage door,
And watch the night sky,
Full of twinkling stars,
He would count them,
One, two, three, four, five, six...
Till sleep would come all over him,

The nimble soothing air
He would take to sleep,
Only to wake up the next day...

He had no aspirations,
All he believed was in living in peace,
And the square meal he had,
He thanked the lord for that,

Sometimes, early in the morn
When he would go out
He would watch the trees,
They looked sleepy and quiet,

The quietitude would then
Seep into him,
He would feel
That he had got merged
With the silence of the place,
Everything he felt
He got within him,
The distant murmur of the stream,
The calls of unknown birds and animals,
All he thought he got
As a part of his existence,

Thus living,
The shepherd boy
Almost became a part
Of the setting,
So much so
That he oneday realised
He had no wish other than living.

Tublu

Have you heard of Tublu?
That boy curious,
Who would every afternoon
Come to my room
And if he would find me
With pens and pencils a bit busy,
He would say nothing,
But crane his neck to see
What I would be doing,
At occasions, he would stop
And on my works he would drop,
His comments, engaging,
'What do you mean when you say
Storms have taken buds away?'

I would just smile at him,
And indulge in his remarks knowing
Tublu only can make me feel
How wonderous is the world still,
If seen through his eyes,

Sometimes Tublu would ask me
Impossible queries,
'Who has created this world?
'Why are we here?'

I would think hard to find
Answers that could fit into his mind,
'God has created us,
And we are here
Because of Him'

'Who is this God?
Can I meet him?'
Tublu would ask,

'Sure, if you remain what you are,
Innocent and pure,'
I would tell him,

He would think for a while
And then suddenly runaway to bring
His box of toys, broken things,
A cart, a wheelbarrow, a telescope,
A drummer, a plastic soldier, a case of soap,

And I being guided by
Tublu, would play,
Till the afternoon would turn
Into evening
And the streetlights outside
Would glow,

Tublu would then
Wrap his things up
And before he would go,
He would flash his smile,
And tell me, he would again come,
The next day,
Keeping me
Waiting.

Of some deaths, and Icarus,

'Of some deaths,
If death I embrace,
Let that be,
Like the death
Of Icarus'-
Once read
In a man's chapbook,
Littered among many things,

From then on,
I took off,

The wings of poesy,
I passed on
To the next one,
And only prose
I chose.

Where all those songs gone?

Where all those songs gone?

Songs simple and without sarcasm,
Songs that can fill life with life
Instead of breaking things with strife,
Songs that can make one happy,
Songs that inspire, vibrant and sappy,
Full of colors, not grey and post modern
But those which can lead one
To believe there are still roads ahead
To traverse, without dread,

Where all those songs gone?
Songs of breaking morn?
Songs full of love and care,
Songs without hatred and fear?
Songs that can hold the world
And stop it from falling apart?

Where all those songs gone?

Hundred days..

'It would be said so
For hundred days the land was not mowed'

Said the panch to the gathering
Who asked what could be done

To find grains in grains again,

'It would be a tough ask'
The panch replied,

'For it would be said so
For hundred days
The land was not mowed,'

'Call the farmer to the ground
He must be held and bound

For hundred days he did nothing
Only slept and did not till,'

What a waste, what a waste
Would be the cry from east to west,

He had left it high and dry
He had failed to properly comply
With the dictats that would've required
Courage more and something sagacious
And theories of everything rightly fitting there,

The farmer wished he could answer them all
With answers really long and really tall,

But how could he really tell
How hundred days he felt like being chopped and felled,

And it would be said so
For years to come and years to go,
For hundred days the land was not mowed.