Kano megh aashe

Moner janala dhore oonki diye gaeche
Jaar chok taake aar mone pode na,
Chey chey koto raat din kete gaeche
Aar kono mookh tobu mone dhore na.

I saw you once, just that time
bathed in the simple light
singing what madenning tune,
my heart, mad, in flight
dancing to your soulful rhyme.


Baatash bohe mori mori
Aar bedhe rekhona tori
Esho esho paar hoye mor 
hridoy maajhaare,
Dnadiye aacho, tumi aamar, 
gaaner opare.

The lilting song, that mesmer
of your parting gaze
lifts and are you still
present
in my synchronous daze?


Jaro laage phiri aeka aeka,
Aankhi pipashito nahi dekha.
Taari baanshi, ogo taari banshi,
Taari banshi baaje hiya bhori,
Jaagorane jaaye bibhabori.

Now you haunt my blood,
flit in my sighs and form
my desire to love more
your bequeathed, flood,
in rebellion to the norm.


Thak thak nijo mone doore te
Aami shudhu baanshoriro shoore te
Porosho koribo or prano mon, okaron,
Mayabono biharini.

Distances dwell in space, you
are sewn into the ether.
Strung in my wordy whims,
are your memories, so new.


I touch those memories on days like this.

You give me rain

You give me
rain
in the raging calm
of my dry heart.

You give me
shivers
in the sweaty lines
meandering on my palm.

You give me
dimples
in the sunk haggard
recess of my skeleton jaw.

You give me
kisses
in the curt, edgy creases
wasting on my shirtless self.

You give me
breath
in gasping crimson veins
pulsing around my choking throat

You give me
ideas
in the curled, gooey folds
of my jagged simmering heart.

You give me
fears
in the lively, playful sins
dripping from distant dreams.

You give me
time
to wait in dark aisles
circling shadows of lust.

You give me
rain
in the dry heart
of my raging calm.

Teri Galiyaan

I am writing this to the void. I am writing this to you. You are the void.

Yenhi doobe din mere 

Yenhi hote hai savere

Yenhi marna aur jeena

Yenhi mandir aur madina

Teri Galiyaan.

Shored up somewhere deep inside is a very naive me who is getting a breather as I type this. What is this? Nothing that makes any particular sense. Between taking care of so many people - you, him and her, and him, and me, taking care that it all makes sense is quite secondary.

What is it about intense melancholy that can spur words? It is a family trait, you say, this strain of melancholic euphoria. It got me writing, and it got me to you. Pretty useful trait, if you ask me, even if it is self-deprecating.

There is much to say, and there is so little lost in translation. Yet, you and me hanker for that little. The part of you I do not get, and the part of me you do not need. 

Bhalobasha baaki aache tomaro aamar kaache

Ja cheycho deete aami parina

Aamaro shomoye daale phooriye esheche paata

Aeto prem kaache eshe, elona.

Jodi kono din toomi, 
Du haath diye jhinook kodao nei aami, 
shei olpo bhaanga golpo guloye, kaar shaathe, 

bolo shobdo choode phirbo baadi maajh raate

Aami tomar kotha bolbo kaake.

There was once an urgency to be understood, a dire need to convey the music of words that sang to me. I find that urgency in me fading. Suddenly, as if, it does not matter if one is understood or not. Why?

I find a tiring cynicism replacing a ceaseless wonder of things, filling up realms of possibility with reams of mundane.

Even as I see wonder take birth before my eyes, every day.