Smoked words

Kabhi kabhi hai shaam aise dhalti ke jaise ghunghat utar raha hai.
Tumhare seene se uthta dhooan, humare dil se guzar raha hai.


Smoke. That is all that is left of it. Once there was more. There was fire and there was what burned. Now it is only the smoke. Swirling up in a drunken grey from ashes that lie witness to what unfolded. Tomake chai. Tomake chai. Tomake chai. Aaar tomar ki chai? Amaake? Ha! Why are you making me write this.

A bus passes on a road, outside my window. Somewhere a broom is swishing away dry leaves from another road. The peeling vanilla custard yellow of the bathroom door is looking new in the afternoon sunlight. A maroon mat lies in wait, outside, to catch unsuspecting wet feet. Shesh porjonto tomake chai. Do you know why? Why should I have all the strings attached to my heart. There really are no answers to such questions. I just like asking them to feel (the strings) them tug every now and then.


Bhabcho tumi shutor taane nachbe shobai,
Bhabcho loke dichche tomaye haat tali taayi.


Muffled voices on the telephone. From our bedroom. Our room. Our bed. Smoke. Our room even has a mirror. That almost makes it a magic trick. Bright orange curtains were a good idea. They look happy by construction. Much like the proof of a theorem. There! That proves it. Q.E.D. We are happy. The food on the table is delicious. It is cold, or getting there. Cinema will make you believe in a lot of things that life will make you shun. I cried somewhere during 3 Idiots.  I did not cry during Love Aaj Kal. You did.


Sun rahi hoon sudh-budh khoke koi mai kahani,
poori kahani hai kya kise hai pata.
Main to kisi ki hoke ye bhi jaani,
rut hai ye do pal ki ya rahegi sada.


That is the fun part - it does not have to stay long enough. Smoke never does. I breathe it in every day in this city. It enters me. Stays in me. Throbs and swirls in my lungs. It leaves a charred taste on my tongue, like wet, burnt sandpaper. Maybe now, the food I cooked for you will taste better.

Onge chot pele she baitha sharabaar
hajaar rokomer oshoodhi aache taar.
Morome chot pele shaare na e jibone
shojoni aami boojhi more chi mone mone.


The above songs are from the following albums: Kudrat (OST), some album by Indrani Sen and Sumon Chatterjee, Wake Up Sid (OST) and Dhonni Meye (OST). They are the properties of their respective writers and singers - my only claim to them is that I sometimes use them to garnish my bored-out-of-my-wits afternoons.

Dishwasher

Prill will do the job, and Scotch-Brite
A few drops on the scrubber
of amber-yellow ooze (lemon scented, no less)
will work the grime just fine.

The spoons and forks will be easy,
They have scooped and then let go
of the muck that was food a few hours back,
Faring far better than my ideal musings about us.

Ladle and other servers, butter knives,
Precision stainless steel curves
caress more sticky mess than I do. Lucky?
Make sure the concaves are cleaned well.

Frying pans are far more stubborn.
Blisters of oil and grease are as adamant
as you in a good mood. Drown till
the wounds are dissolved in warm water.

Scarred chopping board loves turmeric.
Refuses to let go. It's war this time
if you burn the milk! Black milky crusts
have nothing astral about them.

Boiled rice stuck under the rim
of the pressure cooker. Dislodged
bread-crumbs eerily rolling over my palms.
Stained mugs turning brown, inside-out.

Orphaned chilly seeds burn
whatever my hands touch, including my rare
opportunities to make love. Water and soap,
water and soap, more and still more. Oh my!

Wipe dry and leave a sparkling kitchen,
All the dishes are done, for now. Tomorrow,
it is chicken in salsa sauce. Marinate now?
This job has no end
     - much like all else in daily life.

We are back - as if anybody cares!

The time seems right.

Well... just about. Ideas have been bubbling in my head for sometime now. It is just that things one does for silent pleasure always get beaten down by other more raucous things or by things one has to do. So here we are, making a comeback - or dying in the try.

Writing is not in my blood or else I would have become a writer. To be more precise, if it were to be in my blood it would be in my venal blood, not in my arterial blood.

Yes, for I am that kind of a person - who will harp on the difference between the two.

Much water has flown under the bridge since I seriously wrote angst ridden words on this blog. Which either means the angst went away (as if!!!) or it simply went out of the scope of my vocabulary (such things are entirely possible). And now that the earth has stopped shaking, and the tsunamis have come and gone, we can jest about our miseries again.

So: Nous (yes - it is in first person, plural) sommes de retour.

More soon.