tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74586042024-03-07T11:55:42.182+05:30a few drops of rain...... Sky... Drops... Rain... Water... Life... Me... Blog... Writing... Thoughts... Mind... Body... Earth... Horizons... Sky...First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.comBlogger364125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-32382452036346654912023-12-31T15:56:00.005+05:302023-12-31T15:56:26.340+05:30I Hold You Close<p>Oh my! The last day of the year. A year of emptiness for the blog - not a single post made it through. Let us see if we can fix that by rustling up some verbal potpourri.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><i>There. In the distance.</i></p><p><i>The far past, the recently concluded.</i></p><p><i>The unborn steps of the next moment.</i></p><p><i>In what may never come again, or</i></p><p><i>may never come at all.</i></p><p><i>Amidst all that distance, I hold you close.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>Here. In the blink of an eye.</i></p><p><i>The right now of your kiss, between<br /></i></p><p><i>the shiver of my skin to your fleeting touch that follows.</i></p><p><i>In what will ceaselessly urgent, or</i></p><p><i>of languorous calm born.<br /></i></p><p><i>Amidst all that is this moment, I hold you close.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>Where. In the miasma astray thoughts.<br /></i></p><p><i>The loss of love and the beloved,</i></p><p><i>and the families of despair they hold dear.</i></p><p><i>In what cannot be ever found, or<br /></i></p><p><i>that which is never meant to be.</i></p><p><i>Amidst all that is forgotten, I hold you close.</i></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Happy New Year, dear reader and everyone out there.</p><p></p><p>Let there be words, for years to come.<br /></p>First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-69354352289894278792022-02-04T11:06:00.001+05:302022-02-04T11:36:57.358+05:30Morning RunI went for a run again today morning.<div><br /></div><div>My feet beat on the asphalt</div><div>in tandem</div><div>birds chirped, </div><div>the morning crept in,</div><div>without care or nary a halt.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was sweaty after the run</div><div>and breathless</div><div>The air felt cool</div><div>and breathed of hope</div><div>on rays of the birthing sun.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was not the same though</div><div>The run from a day before</div><div>was headier</div><div>It took me somewhere,</div><div>where I am now forbidden to go. </div><div><br /></div><div>Run as I may, I cannot outpace</div><div>my splintered mind</div><div>that wants to find</div><div>a rainbow</div><div>among stars burning in space.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went again for a run today morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>Someone came back,</div><div>Who, I am yet to find.</div>First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-41029896130023506722022-02-04T04:43:00.001+05:302022-02-04T05:01:30.096+05:30Kalle KalleI am just another<br />
of your many women,<br />
Another bundle of letters,<br />
a post for your blog,<br />
A deadend, <br />
a spanner in your cog.<br />
<br />
<p><i>
Lut gaya <br />
<span> </span>karaar tu,<br />
Haan chhal gaya <br />
<span> </span>is baar tu.<br />
Baajo tere<br />
<span> </span>ha jee vi lu,<br />
Jindadi da main <br />
<span> </span>par kya karu?<br />
</i></p>
<br />
Just a connection<br />
a break from reality,<br />
I cannot be just this.<br />
I need to be more,<br />
to be everything.<br />
Not a wave, crashing on your shore.<br />
<br />
So this is goodbye,<br />
Let me go please.<br />
I don't want to be hurt.<br />
You don't want me<br />
hurt, you will find<br />
others, you will see.<br />
<br /><br />
---
<br /><br />
i stand, still, <br />
and watch you go.<br />
<br />
<i>Kalle Kalle.</i><br />
<br />
so many words,<br />
yes, asyousay, just words.<br />
my words, your words.<br />
my worlds, your worlds.<br />
<br />
vanish.
<br /><br />
<tt>Everything you said is true<br />
you deserve more.<br /></tt>
<br />
<i>
Ye hanjuan di dhaar <br />
ajj chale chale.<br />
</i>
<br />
<strike>what broke? dare I say<br />
what, I don't.<br />
why should I do this<br />
(to myself) I won't.<br /></strike>
<br />
the words,
the unnamed worlds<br />
will stop.<br />
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-12496233446110494892022-02-02T10:45:00.003+05:302022-02-02T10:46:31.451+05:30Gehraiyaan<p><i>
Tera mera, dono ka dil besabar<br />
Besabar, besabar,<br />
Sham-o-seher dono ka dil bekhabar.<br />
Bekhabar, bekhabar,<br />
Yun kashtiyaan hamaari, yun takra gaayin.<br />
Lehar, lehar,<br />
dono ka dil besafar.<br />
Besafar, besafar,<br />
Haan doobey, haan doobey<br />
Ik dooje mein yahan...<br />
</i></p>
<p>
Besabri me doob gaye<br />
saansen nilaam ho gayi.<br />
Manzilen tum me dhundla gayin<br />
bina chale hi shaam ho gayi.<br />
Hum ko tum khaas lagi bohot<br />
pyaas fir kyun aam ho gayi.<br />
Kashtiyon ko to toofan ne behkaya<br />
hamari hidayat badnaam ho gayi.<br />
</p>
<br /><br />
<p><i>
Ya to barbaad kar do,<br />
ya phir aabaad kar do.<br />
Woh galat tha, ye sahi hai<br />
Jhut ye aaj keh do...<br />
</i></p>
<p>
Keh to main dun tumhe<br />
kehne me na koi harz hai.<br />
Par barbaad hoke bhi<br />
kahan ilaaj hoga uska<br />
Jism me chupa jo marz hai.<br />
</p>
<br /><br />
<p><i>
Itna bhi dur mat jaao, ke paas aana mushkil ho <br />
Itna bhi paas mat aao, ke door jaana mushkil ho<br />
Jaane bhi do, kaha maano mera<br />
Aisa laga badan chuke tera, koi chingaari chuli...<br />
</i></p>
<p>
Dimaag keh raha hai kaam par dhyaan do<br />
Baki jism kisi aur raah chal raha.<br />
Barbaad kar jayegi ye kheencha-tani hamen<br />
Fir bhi dil teri shayari pe machal raha. <br />
Bina dekhe, sune ye haal hai<br />
(chu liya to jal jal marenge dono)<br />
Tu abhi maar de, agar na ye kal raha.<br />
</p><br />
<small>The lyrics for the songs Aabaad, Barbaad (from the film Ludo), Doobey (from the film Gehraiyaan) and Bhul Gaya Sab Kuch (from the film Julie) are creations of their respective lyricists. The songs are inspirations and counters to my pedestrian utterances.</small>First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-61080115481875920822021-09-16T13:22:00.006+05:302021-09-16T13:22:44.063+05:30Am I In Love?How will I know?<p><i>Does your skin burn </i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>when you think of her?</i></p><p><i>Does your heart burn</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>when someone else thinks of her?</i></p><p><i>Can you let it burn, and yet</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>not want her singed by your flames?</i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p>How can I be sure? </p><p><i>Try not breathing,</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span>then try not thinking about her</i></p><p><i>Which is harder,</i></p><p><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span> and which is easier?</i></p><p><i>Look at the relentless march of time,</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>and then watch it freeze in her footsteps.</i><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Will it hurt?</p><p><i>As surely as you will bleed,</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>if you cut yourself open</i></p><p><i>Pain as crystal as diamond</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>as ancient as arctic ice</i></p><p><i>Open yourself to this pain</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>and you will live beyond your age.</i></p><p><i> </i></p><p><i> </i></p><p>Will I survive?</p><p><i>You will wither away </i></p><p><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span>l<span></span>ike the sakura in winter.</i></p><p><i>But for those few moments of spring</i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>you will bloom like never before.</i></p><p><i>You will give life </i></p><p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>in the only way a man can.</i><br /></p><p><br /></p>First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-37110243473600561762021-09-07T14:45:00.001+05:302021-09-07T14:45:04.122+05:30Once Upon a Time<p>Today I rang up some old memories,</p><p>Flames and words, kindled from dead ashes,</p><p>Resurrected some dead friends,</p><p>And gave them, a bear hug.</p><p> </p><p>What a strange feeling,</p><p>Meeting strange old acquaintances anew,</p><p>Feeling a little hope, a little trepidation,</p><p>As a cold mug of coffee sighs of silence, on my desk.</p><p><br /></p><p>Her, lying in my arms, in an unknown hotel bed,</p><p>Wandering down a dark alley with salvation,</p><p>A blue strappy dress over a stolen dinner,</p><p>Pinpricks of light, in a muddled past.</p><p><br /></p><p>Today, when meeting, in person, in life,</p><p>Is a thing of unreal memory,</p><p>It is fun to reminisce with them, and ask,</p><p>Do you remember, when we burned down together? </p>First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-47751866001512671892019-01-06T14:12:00.001+05:302019-01-06T14:12:07.108+05:30Lust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It oozes out of my skin these days.<br />
Pure.<br />
Unadulterated.<br />
Tempered by age, forged by years<br />
of suppression.<br />
<br />
It lives and breathes on the tip of my tongue.<br />
Sweet.<br />
Salacious.<br />
Tangy in anticipation, bitterness churned<br />
out of its core.<br />
<br />
It undresses, feeding my voyeuristic gaze.<br />
Tempting.<br />
Toe-curling.<br />
Wanton in want, hunger stoked on fumes<br />
rising off naked flesh.<br />
<br />
It is devilish, it is sinful in my heart.<br />
Angelic.<br />
Pleasurable.<br />
Blessed in bliss, and blinded by a force<br />
of ancient kin.<br />
<br />
It is falls, hardens, it rises in my self.<br />
Unsheathed.<br />
Vulgar.<br />
Uncontrolled in words, unconquered<br />
in death.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-36113817620768021502019-01-01T13:18:00.001+05:302019-01-01T13:18:43.224+05:30Hallucinations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She walked up to me<br />
looking dissatisfied,<br />
Hair impeccebaly held straight<br />
A gait, tested and tried.<br />
<br />
She wanted to say something<br />
and not appear rude,<br />
My greys bristled with my black<br />
when she didn't begin with, 'dude.'<br />
<br />
Her skirt didn't know where to end<br />
White on black, her cropped top did,<br />
Eyes that laughed, lips not so<br />
Smiles or sarcasm, all under a lid.<br />
<br />
Before I knew, she had turned around<br />
Pirouette, and a wavy hand,<br />
A curvy back walked away<br />
Taking my gaze, from where I stand.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-25008273690519851712019-01-01T13:00:00.000+05:302019-01-01T13:00:03.972+05:30Recap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last year was dismal for my writing. On the blog.<br />
<br />
For everything else, it was quite nice.<br />
<br />
Let's see...<br />
<br />
I learned a martial art. And I have not dropped out yet<br />
<br />
I travelled. To eight states and two different countries.<br />
<br />
I met, talked to and befriended some amazing women. <br />
<br />
I stayed financially solvent.<br />
<br />
I got myself more work than I can handle.<br />
<br />
I tried to not get angry. Did not always suceed. Still trying.<br />
<br />
I am a five year old father now. Amazing.<br />
<br />
I had great sex.<br />
<br />
I started and finished the Wheel of Time - all 15 books! Robert Jordan - incredible.<br />
<br />
I bought more books than I can read. I bought more graphic novels.<br />
<br />
I sketched.<br />
<br />
I ran. 10km. More than once! <br />
<br />
I swam. And now I can do a respectable freestyle.<br />
<br />
I saw Spiderman - Into the Spider-verse.<br />
<br />
I wrote impromptu poetry. And prose. Not much of it has made it here. That should change.<br />
<br />
I discovered Sarah Kay and spoken word poetry.<br />
<br />
I am sure I have forgotten some stuff, but that's ok too, isn't it.<br />
<br />
And here we are again, luv.<br />
<br />
Here's to a fascinating year ahead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-89749376946521350012018-06-15T23:13:00.003+05:302018-06-15T23:13:56.558+05:30I am not writing to you anymore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am not writing to you anymore<br />
<br />
I wrote in words, in verse<br />
however terse,<br />
or out of shape, I opened up.<br />
<br />
I gave us names, in hope<br />
let my ideas elope,<br />
into fantastical lands afar.<br />
<br />
I painted hues, in time<br />
borrowed, a crime, <br />
from others who demanded more.<br />
<br />
I dressed up, crossed cities,<br />
booked a bloody restaurant too,<br />
just an okay, so few?<br />
what gives you the right!<br />
<br />
to be miserly with words.<br />
<br />
I am not writing to you anymore.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
<i>I breathe a sigh, heavy air</i><br />
<i>sit on a rickety chair,</i><br />
<i>look up and look kind.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I want say, slow and less</i><br />
<i>is a caress</i><br />
<i>of a different paintbrush.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I did not write, or fly </i><br />
<i>a solitary, mundane, hi</i><br />
<i>I agree, is a weak stand-in.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Though in thought, and in mind</i><br />
<i>of an uncountable kind</i><br />
<i>you have lingered </i><br />
<i>like clouds on the Kanchenjunga.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>seen from valleys of Darjeeling.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I wish you do not write to me anymore.</i><br />
<br />
<i>You make me write, for you, instead. </i></div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-72376952274882409902018-02-28T15:15:00.002+05:302018-02-28T15:17:28.962+05:30Gaaner Opare<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Dandiye aacho tumi amaar, </i><br />
<i>gaaner opare.</i><br />
<br />
Words.<br />
A sea of shame,<br />
A prayer gone awry,<br />
Silences, shouting, the same. <br />
<br />
<i>Amaar shur guli paaye choron,</i><br />
<i>Aami payini tomare. </i><br />
<br />
Distance.<br />
A path across time,<br />
Hesitation. Doubt. Dust.<br />
Stories told in mime. <br />
<br />
<i>Batash bohe mori mori,</i><br />
<i>Aar bendhe rekhona tori,</i><br />
<i>Esho, Esho paar hoye mor,</i><br />
<i>hridoye majhaare. </i><br />
<br />
Time.<br />
Born to her timeless touch,<br />
Old. Soft. Incessant.<br />
Indulgent, sometimes too much.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Tomar shaathe gaaner khaela</i><br />
<i>durer khaela je</i><br />
<i>bedona te baanshi bajaye</i><br />
<i>shokol bela je.</i><br />
<br />
Love.<br />
Elusive, yet incandescent,<br />
Alien in my reality,<br />
Threaded, mending my every dent.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Kobe niye aamar baanshi</i><br />
<i>bajabe ko aapni aashi</i><br />
<i>aonondomoye nirob raate</i><br />
<i>nibid aandhare.</i><br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
A bridge across my heart,<br />
lined in bloody thorns,<br />
every day, prior art.<br />
<br />
<br />
<small>Note: The Bangla verses are by Tagore. The dry English is mine. Nothing more is to be said on the subject.</small><br />
<br /></div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-67650992413765961612017-09-15T07:41:00.004+05:302017-09-15T07:41:55.997+05:30तो बेशर्मी होगी<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
अगर छुपी बैठी हो<br />
शर्म की चादर लपेट कर ।<br />
<br />
और झिझक रही हो यह सोच कर<br />
बात करोगी<br />
तो बेशर्मी होगी ।<br />
<br />
अलफ़ाज़ जो बह गए<br />
उम्मीद के इंतज़ार मे<br />
<br />
उनको सन्नाटों में<br />
डूबने से न बचाया<br />
तो बेशर्मी होगी ।<br />
<br />
नज़रें जो उठी नहीं<br />
इशारों के बहकाने से<br />
<br />
उनको आगोश में<br />
ना सुलाया<br />
तो बेशर्मी होगी । <br />
<br />
हाथ जो कांपते हैं<br />
छूने की याद में तन्हा<br />
<br />
उनको तन्हाई मे<br />
गले ना लगाया <br />
तो बेशर्मी होगी । <br /></div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-27371467760436723062017-09-15T07:06:00.000+05:302017-09-15T07:06:35.457+05:30Murky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
the sky sings in drops<br />
of dripping pain,<br />
come, get wet with me<br />
in this boisterous rain.<br />
<br />
the ground coughs in fits<br />
of squelching mud,<br />
come, get murky with me<br />
in desire's sultry crud.<br />
<br />
the skin murmurs in fatigue<br />
of ceaseless want,<br />
come, get in with me<br />
for a dark, lusty jaunt.<br />
<br />
the mind mad in quiet<br />
of revolting cries,<br />
come, get down with me<br />
in a valley of muffled sighs.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-5875251735802216662016-09-30T09:25:00.001+05:302016-09-30T09:25:36.310+05:30Consume<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hurried glances, a passing touch<br />
Eyes that look away and say<br />
so much.<br />
<br />
Palpable tension in a shared space<br />
Condensed lust packed<br />
in a suitcase.<br />
<br />
A stolen kiss, a picture bait<br />
Tingling skin, restless<br />
to satiate.<br />
<br />
Private rooms abet a stormy thresh<br />
Broken beds, and sweaty<br />
flesh.<br />
<br />
Tender goodbyes, lives resume<br />
Till it again gives in,<br />
to consume.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-1455483750667263482016-07-01T20:27:00.000+05:302016-07-11T00:19:58.396+05:30Reaction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I broke<br />
me,<br />
And I broke<br />
us,<br />
When you broke <br />
free of<br />
us.<br />
<br />
The shards still<br />
rankle,<br />
and bleed the nimble feet<br />
of my memory of<br />
us.<br />
<br />
We are together now<br />
in body and spirit<br />
and child,<br />
Ghosts of your great love <br />
haunt<br />
every jaunt we <br />
inhabit, as<br />
us.<br />
<br />
I write this, smiling<br />
at the rain that<br />
pours and lines<br />
my skin<br />
as you exist in you lover's<br />
thoughts and lust<br />
and in real life, in<br />
us.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-11647475785607503072016-02-15T11:04:00.001+05:302016-02-15T11:04:24.528+05:30Tu kisi rail si<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sarmistha coughed with abandon. After all what were a few more germs in this smog filled city. Propriety be damned. She was covered with grime and dirt, that accompanied a visit to the local supermarket these past few weeks. The supermarket premises were undergoing some sort of bridal renovation in anticipation of Diwali. It involved much concrete breaking apart and old bricks being taken out to make way for new ones.<br />
<br />
"Typical," thought Sarmistha. "Celebration preceded by breaking, followed by a bevy of bills."<br />
<br />
The walkway leading up to the supermarket had parted to reveal the precariously dangling electric mains, just beside the leaking pipe mains, waiting to come together in a very municipal blaze of glory. Sarmistha had managed to walk around this dystopian ditch with two bags laden with groceries.<br />
<br />
Just as the bout of coughing ended, an auto-rickshaw pulled over beside her. She haggled and got the fare down to its usual rate - 20 rupees more than it actually cost. The auto started off with fervour, only to be held hostage by the traffic cop's outstretched hand.<br />
<br />
"Damn, I am going to be late again." <br />
<br />
<i>Tu kisi rail si guzarti hai,</i><br />
<i>Mai kisi pul saa... thartharata hoon.</i><br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
"Yahan pe cigarette peena mana hai... "<br />
<br />
The six foot two giant glared at him. "I am going to get punched. Again," thought Vidyut. As his hands instinctively went up to protect his face, the man stubbed out the cigarette, threw it on the floor and walked away. Vidyut picked the stub up and looked at it. It was yellow, bent and warm. "A measure of personal rebellion or a glamourized suicide note? Maybe both. After all, rebellion is often suicidal." <br />
<br />
Vidyut threw the stub away and checked the time. The bus was no where to be seen. The chaotic jumble of people at the bus stand was pulsating with mundane life. The enveloping cacophony of car horns, rumbling engines, hawker calls, cell phone conversations were all its bastard offsprings - begot without thinking and cast off the next moment. <br />
<br />
Vidyut elbowed his way into the crowd of people waiting to board the bus, as it appeared at the horizon. The mad rush for that first foothold on the bus steps left him panting. At least, he had boarded. He checked his cellphone again.<br />
<br />
"Late by 30 minutes. Still no message." <br />
<br />
<i>Tu kisi rail si guzarti hai,</i><br />
<i>Mai kisi pul saa... thartharata hoon.</i><br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
... to be continued ... <br />
<br /></div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-74280864432027468682015-11-08T13:36:00.001+05:302015-11-08T13:36:34.804+05:30Kano megh aashe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Moner janala dhore oonki diye gaeche</i><br />
<i>Jaar chok taake aar mone pode na,</i><br />
<i>Chey chey koto raat din kete gaeche</i><br />
<i>Aar kono mookh tobu mone dhore na.</i><br />
<br />
I saw you once, just that time<br />
bathed in the simple light<br />
singing what madenning tune,<br />
my heart, mad, in flight<br />
dancing to your soulful rhyme.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Baatash bohe mori mori</i><br />
<i>Aar bedhe rekhona tori</i><br />
<i>Esho esho paar hoye mor </i><br />
<i>hridoy maajhaare,</i><br />
<i>Dnadiye aacho, tumi aamar, </i><br />
<i>gaaner opare.</i><br />
<br />
The lilting song, that mesmer<br />
of your parting gaze<br />
lifts and are you still<br />
present<br />
in my synchronous daze?<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Jaro laage phiri aeka aeka,</i><br />
<i>Aankhi pipashito nahi dekha.</i><br />
<i>Taari baanshi, ogo taari banshi,</i><br />
<i>Taari banshi baaje hiya bhori,</i><br />
<i>Jaagorane jaaye bibhabori.</i><br />
<br />
Now you haunt my blood,<br />
flit in my sighs and form<br />
my desire to love more<br />
your bequeathed, flood,<br />
in rebellion to the norm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Thak thak nijo mone doore te</i><br />
<i>Aami shudhu baanshoriro shoore te</i><br />
<i>Porosho koribo or prano mon, okaron,</i><br />
<i>Mayabono biharini.</i><br />
<br />
Distances dwell in space, you<br />
are sewn into the ether.<br />
Strung in my wordy whims,<br />
are your memories, so new.<br />
<br />
<br />
I touch those memories on days like this.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-42478820147297772022015-05-21T16:25:00.002+05:302015-05-21T16:25:57.787+05:30You give me rain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You give me<br />
rain<br />
in the raging calm<br />
of my dry heart.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
shivers<br />
in the sweaty lines<br />
meandering on my palm.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
dimples<br />
in the sunk haggard<br />
recess of my skeleton jaw.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
kisses<br />
in the curt, edgy creases<br />
wasting on my shirtless self.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
breath<br />
in gasping crimson veins<br />
pulsing around my choking throat<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
ideas<br />
in the curled, gooey folds<br />
of my jagged simmering heart.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
fears<br />
in the lively, playful sins<br />
dripping from distant dreams.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
time<br />
to wait in dark aisles<br />
circling shadows of lust.<br />
<br />
You give me<br />
rain<br />
in the dry heart <br />
of my raging calm.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-9965545580126157872015-03-25T19:05:00.001+05:302015-05-17T18:26:03.600+05:30Teri Galiyaan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am writing this to the void. I am writing this to you. You are the void.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Yenhi doobe din mere </i></div>
<div>
<i>Yenhi hote hai savere</i></div>
<div>
<i>Yenhi marna aur jeena</i></div>
<div>
<i>Yenhi mandir aur madina</i></div>
<div>
<i>Teri Galiyaan.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Bhalobasha baaki aache tomaro aamar kaache</i></div>
<div>
<i>Ja cheycho deete aami parina</i></div>
<div>
<i>Aamaro shomoye daale phooriye esheche paata</i></div>
<div>
<i>Aeto prem kaache eshe, elona.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Jodi kono din toomi, </i><br />
<i>Du haath diye jhinook kodao nei aami, </i><br />
<i>shei olpo bhaanga golpo guloye, kaar shaathe, </i></div>
<div>
<i>bolo shobdo choode phirbo baadi maajh raate</i></div>
<div>
<i>Aami tomar kotha bolbo kaake.</i><br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
I find a tiring cynicism replacing a ceaseless wonder of things, filling up realms of possibility with reams of mundane.<br />
<br />
Even as I see wonder take birth before my eyes, every day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i></div>
</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-33518924025815199192014-12-01T17:29:00.003+05:302014-12-01T17:29:40.257+05:30Slightly broken<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<style type="text/css"><!--td {border: 1px solid #ccc;}br {mso-data-placement:same-cell;}--></style><br />
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
Scratches of colour</div>
pencil scraps</div>
chalk out heartstrings<br />rendered on muted</div>
pages.<br /></div>
Shreds of light </div>
year pasts</div>
return my leftover love <br />smeared on broken</div>
</div>
plates.<br /></div>
Walks of sound</div>
less kisses</div>
ride roller-coaster stories</div>
dripping on fungal<br />sills.<br /></div>
Touches of your</div>
carnal pauses</div>
echo in home-bound corridors</div>
broken in dissoluble</div>
sighs.<br /><div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<br /><div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-89787640975335746502014-07-16T11:14:00.002+05:302014-07-16T11:14:20.406+05:30It Rains<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It rains.<br />In beads held captive on<br />a sweaty brow, meandering<br />between hesitant creases.<br /><br />It rains.<br />In drops trickling down<br />dimpled cheeks, tripping<br />over murmuring lips.<br /><br />It rains.<br />In streams forming at<br />the corner of eyes, awash<br />with new born hope.<br /><br />It rains.<br />In puddles splashed over<br />a pristine white, stained<br />with muddy expectations.<br /><br />It rains.<br />In sheets of a sky washed<br />breathless face, gulping<br />in the sound of your name.<br /><br />It rains.<br /><br />It rains.<br /><br />It pours.<br /><br />It tickles, trickles and washes over.<br />It batters, and soothes and drowns,<br />It chokes, it chides, it chastises,<br />It plays, it pricks, it pleasures.<br /><br />It rains.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-73408049609806142692013-10-24T02:05:00.002+05:302013-10-24T12:59:39.705+05:30Akhon Onek Raat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Words found in a limbo of languages, <br />
Extinct dialects of the heart,<br />
Forced cacophony of the world around,<br />
Sounds that mean what we make them mean.<br />
<br />
<i>Akhon onek raat,</i><br />
<i>Tomar kaandhe amaar nishshash,</i><br />
<i>Aami benche aachi, tomar bhalobashaye.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
Simple lines, spoken a million times over, <br />
in many love stories, like ours,<br />
Beaten to death by authors, and burnt to ash,<br />
by poets and blurred off paper by painters. <br />
<br />
<i>Chuye dile haath,</i><br />
<i>Aamar briddho booke tomar maatha chepe dhore, </i><br />
<i>Dolchi kamon neshaye.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Drunk in meaning, of eons of stories,<br />
Heavy with the weight of so many souls,<br />
Lines, still just lines of words after all,<br />
in an alien language.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Kano je oshonkoche ondho gaaner koli,</i><br />
<i>Pakhar blade-er taale shojashuji kotha boli.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Nonsense and sense, churned like buttermilk,<br />
Indistinguishable anguish of the once loved,<br />
Unfathomable logic of the still loved,<br />
Hopeless hope of a still to be loved. <br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Ami bhabte parini tumi buker bhetor phatcho</i><br />
<i>amaar shorir jure tomar premer beej.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Yet surprise they do, sometimes, all the time,<br />
How well they say my mind,<br />
Your mind, this effervescent syntax of ink on paper,<br />
forced to breathe, somewhere on our common ground.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Ami thamte parini tomar gale norom dukkho</i><br />
<i>aamaye duhaat diye munchte diyo please.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Note: The Bangla lyrics are from a fantastic song from the film Hemlock Society (listen to it <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-7GUHoD6Qs">here</a>). It has been written and sung by Anupam Roy. </div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-11660684003677951322013-09-23T11:26:00.001+05:302013-09-23T11:26:06.420+05:30Self Deception<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Perks_of_Being_a_Wallflower">Charlie</a>. Epistolary. And now it is this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Relationship-Nayantara-Sahgal/dp/8172236824">one</a>. It is curious, the path that has led to this book. Or led this book to me. Curious, to say the least.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
Luxuries one can always dream of indulging in. So now, my anonymous reader, be a dear, and write to me.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-59250434733615959972013-09-06T15:38:00.002+05:302014-08-13T12:39:52.393+05:30Cat Smoking (Part 4/4)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The bright lights of the road to airport snapped Pushmeet out of his frantic typing. He stared stupefied at the screen. The words he had typed were staring at him. The soft white glow of the screen lit his face, which he saw reflected in the car window. It had an expression of veiled fright. The look on his face changed as he realized what he was looking at. His phone buzzed.<br />
<br />
He checked the inbox to see a sms from Trina saying, “Waiting for you at the departure lounge. How far off are you? Want to cancel the flight back and check-in into a hotel for the night?” He felt a longing to feel Tri's fingers on his stubble. They made it seem more like a Monet brush stroke than an ugly outgrowth of his lethargy. The first time he had met her at an airport, he was coming back from his first book tour. She was coming back from a meeting with clients. The idea of giving the flight a miss had been his. She had resisted the change from schedule initially, even insisted that they check-in into separate rooms. Later that night she had told him her entire travel schedule for the month. He had coordinated his book tours to match her tours. Airport hotels became erotic stopovers for a month. By the time the book tours became infrequent, her visits to his apartment had become a habit both had become used to. He had barely finished typing an emphatic yes, when his phone buzzed again.<br />
<br />
With a message from Veronica that read, “Waiting in your apartment with Cat.” His mind played back images from the evening when he had walked into Ron's apartment with the stray cat he found on his way back home from the pub the night before. Ron simply called her Cat. He had hungrily dug into Ron's half finished cup of instant noodles before hitting the shower. He remembered how he had come out of the shower to find Ron crouched on the floor, talking to Cat in hushed whispers. He could not decide who looked more cat-like between the two of them. That night, their lovemaking had been infused with a feline energy interspersed with subdued mewls from Cat. It felt exhibitionistic to be making love in front of Cat. That only made him crave it more.<br />
<br />
His hand wavered on his phone buttons. Not knowing who to reply to as the car drew into the airport departure porch. Getting out the car seemed more like the end of an expedition than the end of a road trip to get to the airport. The journey had been a revelation. The journey of listening to them tell their stories. Of letting them talk without his thoughts moderating the conversation. He showed his driving license and ticket to the airport security as he walked into the departure terminal. He was still standing their undecided about who to answer to when his phone buzzed again.<br />
<br />
Without looking at the message, he walked to the flight ticket counter and cancelled his flight ticket. He walked out of the airport terminal, hailed a cab and headed back to Hampi. The journey held the promise of a story that had to play out itself in his head. The cab turned away from the airport as his fingers embraced the backlit keyboard of his laptop. He had to know his story. The story of what he wanted more. Lovemaking or stories? Who he wanted more. His lovers or himself?<br />
<br />
The journey was essential. The story was necessary. The questions were undeniable. The women were merely characters.</div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458604.post-66387981121196846102013-08-10T19:44:00.000+05:302013-08-10T19:46:42.886+05:30He Just Touched Her<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He <i>jus</i>t touched her.<br />
<br />
Tip of his finger, slowly grazed<br />
the back of her flowing neck <br />
Rising tides, churned far away <br />
kept deep down in check<br />
<br />
<br />
He <i>just</i> touched <i>her</i>.<br />
<br />
A rumbling echoed beneath<br />
her ribs, stoked alive in a pit<br />
The moment his skin touched hers<br />
like a sentence in flames, writ.<br />
<br />
<br />
He <i>just touched her</i>.<br />
<br />
Winds changed their song<br />
A howl and a sigh of the dead<br />
When a bead of sweat slid down<br />
to meet his hesitant tread.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>He just touched her</i>.<br />
<br />
Threads unravelled in her fabric<br />
falling apart in the face of pure<br />
Desire slicing veils and walls<br />
erected by her, so firm, so sure.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>He</i> just touched <i>her.</i><br />
<br />
Helpless. So helpless in broad daylight,<br />
between crowds, a prison of solitary<br />
Delight coursing through veins,<br />
betraying a self, wild in her, free.<br />
<br />
<br />
He just <i>touched</i> her. </div>
First Rainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17399581277129935484noreply@blogger.com0