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.