Predecessor

Our reflexes are but loyal friends,

That in that sunny evening light,

I turned somewhere I do not turn today

This little turn reminds me of yesterday,

A place where in dismay we used to stay,

I know my residence lies opposite to my walk

But I still walk for the sake of a wandering-walk.

A memory of cherries cherishes my chalazal end,

And a bubble of blemishes that I had worn there,

Dusted mirrors I picked up on my departure

Parties of people we had populated there

But now I live somewhere else,

And this path doesn’t lead to there

I still continue, because it reminds me of what I was,

And makes me continue for what I have become.

Suddenly I ponder over my endeavors

Of why I turned back there

To a place where I was never going to go

And faces of my people flash to and fro

The maid who always came, swept the floor,

Her little reluctance to open the door,

The cable guy who appeared with a bill

And for money—he stood so still

The toilets, little and unclean,

The corners going algan green,

I do remember, remember it all

But I turn back,

To where I live now,

It is an elite one, sparkling white,

Standing in pillars in all its might

Profound in richness and resplendent in color,

I turned back to where I live now.

I live in a place I have never lived in before,

And leave everything I had weaved- behind there

But I know I’ll be calm,

Satisfied till I make this place my residence,

I will blossom memories here again

I’ll have merrymaking and flowers that will embellish its corners

But only that it won’t be the same,

The same as its predecessor,

But I know I will live here evermore

Because all this beauty is all I dreamt

When I was there, I dreaded the dream

For it was too far a fowler,

But now I live here,

In this house with a gallery

From where I can see my history

I have become an aristocrat,

Who has dark memories and tales he must tell no one,

I had little dreams in a little house,

And a little happiness sprinkled to its top

I have left events behind,

I have left a story,

But now I shall weave new events

Events that will become history,

When I will move to its successor

And smile in mere melancholy.

The Kingdom by the Sea

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Sreyashi;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Sreyashi;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,

Our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we
Of many far wiser than we
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Sreyashi.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Sreyashi;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Sreyashi;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride

Distance.

Like gardens in autumn, lost in its orange sky
Somewhere in at world- a small rose, its hearth
We, travel back in a game of the mind
Sucked in by the silence that guards the lawn
And distances- we can never conquer
Absorbed by the chasms of somewhere.
Falling down, and no coming back.
In that world, there lies the garden
with a lonely blossom, shrugged in hearth
I be it, and the garden my world.
Hours and days I do fall down,
In awareness that my conquest does not end
The start too far, its finishing- far, unknown lies.
What use is a yell- which reflexes when I fall
What use are the cries that tell me this fall must cause my demise
I silence myself, I do not speak
And my fall becomes a promenade.
Far, that I have come of earth
There is excitement, of what I must see next-
Will there be a piece of Earth that I must hit after the fall?
Or shall there be an ocean, a strident cacophony of animals?
What there lies, I don't know
But I do know that I enjoy myself,
Here knowing that my end is near
And acquainted to the fact that I mustn't reach up
I fold my hands and close my eyes
There your face, I still recall
Laughing and singing and old poppy song
Popular when I was up there.
Unaware of what this chasm must be,
A magical ball or inside a tree
A dream too far, more or less reality
Where am I, I can't see.
Wherever I go, whatever realms I see
My heart, untraveled, lives with thee
This chasm doesn't end- my descent continues
Till reality and imagine fuse again
It is my conquest to find you
Somewhere fallen back in time
I do search you in these gardens, or clouds
Your face disappears when it is near?
But sometimes in peace, I catch a glimpse of a mirror
The mirror is parallel to my heart
I do see your face, pressed to mine
So what purpose, is to go in time?

Bangali Ladka

There was an old Uncle Jee who had particularly booked the second bench on the left hand-side of the tea-stall. He used to sit there in the mornings and attract everyone, kids and those of his age, around him, used to smile, for his knowledge was his experience and what he used to say, we still remember. Maybe it was in the genes of the family, the scanty hair was a heredity factor—but the way he sparkled in his cicada color spectacles, we could ignore his age and find the joviality in the arcs of his cheeks.

When it was anyone’s exam, no tutor was even an iota close to the perfection with which he explained all, and little interspersion of his own general experiences entertained the student, altogether. I would usually see parents and neighbors, or those who had no work , criticize his position in life, that he wakes up with the sun, has his tea at the stall, stays there till the afternoon, goes home, has his appetite and again reappears in the park which had a nuclear position from all our houses. But as a person, his proximity was positive and comforting, though he sometimes talked of irritating things but Uncle Jee was a particular favorite, of everyone around him. 

After my sister completed her studies, she used to wander about around the street with other girls her age, I kept away from her, for adults need privacy and found children annoying, and when we used to sit by Uncle Jee, we heard the girls giggling in glittery hue, as Mr. Somesh Chakraborty, a journalist in some newspaper passed by. Though boys would never admit the handsomeness of a man because it is against their law, but secretly everyone thought so highly of his good looks and buttery complexion. Didi being the eldest perceived Mr. Somesh as no one but her own husband. My parents were neither the kinds who would want to seek a son-in-law themselves nor the ones who allowed her to fall in love and I believed the objective of laughing in such high amplitude, sitting by the market when he came back home—and giggling with such elegance was another tantrum created by her so that Mr. Somesh noticed her, and once I remember when he passed by and actually saw her, she started curling her hair and moved her eyes so gracefully, like the hands of a dancer, or Madhubala in an old movie.

I was not the only one who saw this happen, but the same explanation of her different behavior was observed by Uncle Jee and one day he called out ‘Ae Protima!’ and she obeyed. ‘You look beautiful in this suit, tell me, about your plans, I mean…you are twenty and six years of age, you know…’

‘I already work with Dr. Senghar, I am paid well… Uncle Jee, are you asking about my wedding?’ and she gave this naughty smile, ‘what are you eavesdropping?’ she shouted at me, ‘Jaa Yaha se’. And the design in which I saw Uncle Jee demonstrating his perfection in matchmaking, he had at an instant, calculated from the shine in her eye that she fancied Mr. Somesh of Badrinath Market. ‘Bengali boy’

At that moment a directory or rules and regulations were passed from our experienced Uncle Jee to dear Pratima Didi, and it happen for like a good collection of two scores of days, and we could see a momentary alteration in her whole persona,

‘You know you should wear reds, I know, boys love reds, even Shanti wore red when I used to pass by the market you know, and arrey ladki, you should put Kajal, all boys love it when there’s a shade in the eye, and walk a little more gracefully, yes, and please let your hair fall, your hairstyle is sickening. Now go, this girl by god, I told you to walk gracefully Na? He’s coming, this time don’t notice him, and make him feel like you don’t care’

And a hundred more tips and advises were passed from Uncle Jee from the tea-stall and in the warm October of our little sub-urban setting, Mr. Chakraborty walking in staunch with his dark jet-black bag flinging to and fro and he was smiling, and suddenly when he passed by the tea-stall where Pratima and her friends congregated and the feminine bustle continued, his smile turned to laughing when he left the market and in utter disappointment, he did not respond..

We can skip three months in all of this drama that was created amidst the market, yet the aunties had started taking so much of interest. Luring Mrs. Chandra appeared, she was fat and we could observe a conspicuous black mole around her lips that contained more of fat and less of skin, ‘Berri pretty girl you are, berry, berry. Hab you thote aaph mariz?’. And my sister would mockingly reply, ‘I am engaged, to, to Mr. Chakraborty of Badrinath Market!’. This little joke turned to a soulless rumor, it was a female rumor, the way tales are passed to generations and generations with amendments and lots of spice to suit the reader, it was in the nature of a lady.

The next morning my father would wake up and murmur into my sister’s ear, ‘You are engaged to a Bangali? Dr. Senghar told me—what is the nonsense?’ Pratima then laughed and explained the fakeness of the rumor and mother came to her and order to end all the fashion at once, all her Kajal was removed, her tight dresses and open hair turned to dull pink suits and tied hair. The luminosity and the exuberance of my sister turned to dullness and she appeared on the same tea-stall with her friends in disillusionment.

People used to pass by and say ‘Bangali hai’ and she used to make a face in disgust that all her procedural activities so as to attract Mr. Chakraborty yielded to be of no use and resulted in sheer waste of time.

Uncle Jee’s guarantee swam in demise and one November evening, he said Pratima sorry for his promise.

And when Pratima came back home the next evening from the clinic, there was a certain glee in her cheeks, a tomato red blush—and that moment, my sister looked so beautiful. No dress, no Kajal, no technique and no style give birth to new love, which is sheer fakeness. Love is a little deceiving fact which lives everywhere and can’t be forced to exist, sometimes love walks to your clinic himself with a strange malady in the stomach and confesses all the little love that blossomed at Uncle Jee’s tea-stall.

Horse's Ballad

I am but a fair female, 

My eyes are sheathed in beautiful lash, 

And they touch me on my slender back, 

I walk, they stand with cameras 

And hundreds eyes that study my walking

A beautiful large family that dances about me

Scores of talented bandmen, 

Trumpets that sing by my ear in glory

And one handsome male, who accomapnies me on my way, 

but I see it all happen so many times 

Percussions and drums beat jovial songs of today 

Mothers who love to see me walk and I lash my hair everywhere 

Odors that dance by my nose

Children who see me as some different alien creature And money that I am showered in, 

I see Indian lights illuminate my red carpet

A little love I make with the man 

He leaves me, runs away with his pink little bride, 

I go home when all parties over, and all oily food I have to chew

And all the procession starts again, 

Another dashing comes by my way 

I realize he is not for me 

And my dity is to entertain his regards

To take him to his elegant wife 

I am no one but not his bride, 

I am just an Indian horse. 

Srikk

There was a change in the bus-route system of our school and one person too proud of the bus-in-charge post was the titled lady. And it was very easy for me to become a general favorite of her through Orkut or through all that. She was tall, she is, actually- the little feature of prominence one would think of, when someone thought of her, and born with lovely, expressive eyes. Yes, she knew the art of playing with eyes. It was particularly easy to make her laugh and search in those eyes if those laughs were genuine or not, but they were coming from the soul and I could see them.
And when someone is accustomed to laughing with you, finding a substitute for such a verb becomes pretty depressing. So yes, we became very good friends when in the sunny days of April the boxy little compartment, which we called our school bus, passed the little streets of Panshcheel and then expressively turned itself to the left and dropping our highlighted heroine. And how easy it was, to be compelled by those liquid dark-green seats of the bus as we sat on them, and discussed retro music that turned quite a favorite joke later on. But I was still, in too vain, proud of being the most eventful in the bus as everyone used to gather around and discuss with me, my day and happenings. My teachers were their jokes, and for our heroine it was somehow the same- to almost fall in love with this little charming boy. But again as vanity would play its cards, too proud to be be loved and too vain to have not reciprocated it back- it ended there till a masala of hatred seized us.
But all that must be forgotten for a period of two years of selfishness and infidelity towards the both of us was shared and today we are such friends, with such, such attachment to each other, that we enjoy talking about our day, which contains merely similar events, we laugh at our own jokes and little incidences that we consider humorous, dance to popular songs and have street food by the way, walk with a proud camera in our hand like two poppy ladies swimming in a pool of self-obsession, sing together (although it is known that my voice is of no filial competition to hers) and love each other as much as a brother would to his sister who needs help when she's gashed and from her as a sister to her brother who is too young to behave old and whenever we see each other there is only one question, 'Why no gossip'?'

Nukul and Srikk 

Wild on the Road 

It isn't any of those sweet testimonies that have some in-between jokes that make it quite interesting to the reader, but yes, I am too fond of Srikk and love all what she does, with me and our little group of unpopular and satisfied friends who enjoy with each other, always and step together into better friendship.
Love. xxxx

Untitled Winter.

It is a perpetual mistake a writer would make when he deletes those lines he's just produced with his index-finger on the "backspace", and sighs that Ctrl + Z wouldn't help anymore. But there in a cold winter, where there is music that is loved, where there lies a science book you are too lazy to read, a corn-flakes carton kept unnoticed on the printer, an untangled truth of phonewires that resembles your life, a glass container of marmalade, t.v. remotes and notebooks, you are so busy of being relaxed and continue to study the restaurant bills fallen on your floor. There's a charming glue-stick that is willing to be used lying so beautifully on the table that I have started making my eyes behave like more of a camera that can make something to anything to elegance and to life one day. That is a particular holiday without phone-calls and much of unnoticed noise- and your beautiful spectacle outside the window, of the homes and buildings that are constructed and trees of exploited species covering them.

But how strange it is that once we were walking on the road, in hot yellow tiresome exemplification and regret, with a tinge of sadness, saying that it is still summer and the long days shall never end- and today we sit with coffee in one hand, the keyboard being tickled by my fingers, myself, sheathed in blankets= realizing that the arrival of winter was unnoticed. How I keep on looking at the sky, at the top of the building, with it's redness fading to the dark truth we call night, and then observe, every aspect around me remains the same because of its lifelessness and us, noticing and changing like an ineternal verity of biology, feeding on orange marmalade and the odor of nothing, letting things change around the same set. How I feel like explaining the life cycle Shakespeare once wrote about? All the world's a stage, and we are stuck in winter, where our love is far away, our wits are still withheld- friends you speak indirectly to, and regret that still prevails, even after your realizing that another season haunts you.