Wednesday, July 16, 2014

It Rains

It rains.
In beads held captive on
a sweaty brow, meandering
between hesitant creases.

It rains.
In drops trickling down
dimpled cheeks, tripping
over murmuring lips.

It rains.
In streams forming at
the corner of eyes, awash
with new born hope.

It rains.
In puddles splashed over
a pristine white, stained
with muddy expectations.

It rains.
In sheets of a sky washed
breathless face, gulping
in the sound of your name.

It rains.

It rains.

It pours.

It tickles, trickles and washes over.
It batters, and soothes and drowns,
It chokes, it chides, it chastises,
It plays, it pricks, it pleasures.

It rains.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Akhon Onek Raat

Words found in a limbo of languages,
Extinct dialects of the heart,
Forced cacophony of the world around,
Sounds that mean what we make them mean.

Akhon onek raat,
Tomar kaandhe amaar nishshash,
Aami benche aachi, tomar bhalobashaye.

Simple lines, spoken a million times over,
in many love stories, like ours,
Beaten to death by authors, and burnt to ash,
by poets and blurred off paper by painters.

Chuye dile haath,
Aamar briddho booke tomar maatha chepe dhore,
Dolchi kamon neshaye.

Drunk in meaning, of eons of stories,
Heavy with the weight of so many souls,
Lines, still just lines of words after all,
in an alien language.

Kano je oshonkoche ondho gaaner koli,
Pakhar blade-er taale shojashuji kotha boli.

Nonsense and sense, churned like buttermilk,
Indistinguishable anguish of the once loved,
Unfathomable logic of the still loved,
Hopeless hope of a still to be loved. 

Ami bhabte parini tumi buker bhetor phatcho
amaar shorir jure tomar premer beej.

Yet surprise they do, sometimes, all the time,
How well they say my mind,
Your mind, this effervescent syntax of ink on paper,
forced to breathe, somewhere on our common ground. 

Ami thamte parini tomar gale norom dukkho
aamaye duhaat diye munchte diyo please.

Note: The Bangla lyrics are from a fantastic song from the film Hemlock Society (listen to it here). It has been written and sung by Anupam Roy.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Self Deception

Does someone else feel it too? A vacuum? Of words that one once used to speak? To loved ones, to strangers, to confidantes? Why do I feel that the words are ebbing away slowly. From my fibre, inch by inch, gram by gram.

This is what comes of reading a book made of letters. I read one a few days before, and I wanted to write about it. But I guess I am even more of a wallflower than Charlie. Epistolary. And now it is this one. It is curious, the path that has led to this book. Or led this book to me. Curious, to say the least.

I once used to write long letters. To friends and lovers alike. Even when they would not write back. Most of those friends have morphed into silent curtains. And lovers have been sucked in by reality. My devotion to the written word has thus suffered a severe lack in companionship.

I once used to write long emails. I can still manage a few. My earlier abandon though, lies spent somewhere, whimpering at having been kicked in the gut. It has shrunk, like a rejected lover's self-esteem, to cover only the bare essentials.

And so now is it only the perfidious sms that one gets. Terse to read and cumbersome to write, it conveys no emotion to me except an desperate, unreal urgency to exhale.

I wanted to write a letter in this post, and look what I ended up writing. And though it is quite unclear why anybody reads this blog at all, surprisingly, people do. And even more surprisingly, they write in sometimes, telling me how they passed an evening reading this electronic reflection of me. Sustenance for my narcissistic writerly self it is. Written morsels that reveal an interested person behind them. Such luxuries.

Luxuries one can always dream of indulging in. So now, my anonymous reader, be a dear, and write to me.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

He Just Touched Her

He just touched her.

Tip of his finger, slowly grazed
the back of her flowing neck
Rising tides, churned far away
kept deep down in check

He just touched her.

A rumbling echoed beneath
her ribs, stoked alive in a pit
The moment his skin touched hers
like a sentence in flames, writ.

He just touched her.

Winds changed their song
A howl and a sigh of the dead
When a bead of sweat slid down
to meet his hesitant tread.

He just touched her.

Threads unravelled in her fabric
falling apart in the face of pure
Desire slicing veils and walls
erected by her, so firm, so sure.

He just touched her.

Helpless. So helpless in broad daylight,
between crowds, a prison of solitary
Delight coursing through veins,
betraying a self, wild in her, free.

He just touched her.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Happy to be me

The sun on my face,
Trees sliding against a blue sky,
Calm winds and a sweaty brow,
A willingness to try.

An understanding of whims, and nonsense,
Teaching and getting to learn,
A pencil and a tablet together,
Hope that is yet to burn.

Accepting and moving on, fighting
and being able to fight,
Food, a kitchen alchemy fix,
A sense of wonder, what might.

Help in heart and hand,
Test and turn out wrong,
Chips, eaten and built upon,
Voices lent to cries and song.

Beauty to hold and feel,
in flesh, breath and mind found,
Support and sanity, temple trysts,
Myriad forms of love around.

Humble and proud, shall I be,
Grateful and happy today,
That I was born as me this time,
With my life, I can live my way.