Kung-Fu with the Dogs

The boisterous heat in this city is everywhere. Trapped within layers of the aaloo-patty that one had as a tea-time snack, rising from the folds of the wrinkled, half-dry hand towel that stinks of old sweat, it bakes the red streaks of pan spit on the white walls of the community center to burnt sienna. Little whorls of indignant misery permeate the lives of the common dwellers of its lanes. Dwellers, who for want of suitable dwellings, try in vain to cool the sun bleached footpaths that have been mercifully left undug by the municipality. Not much changes here. The hoardings may have grown brighter and bigger, the girl on the hoarding is wearing hot-pants now, instead of her earlier skinny jeans, but the man peeing on the rusted back scaffolding of the hoarding is still there, oblivious to the din of traffic that crawls behind him.

This is why it is useless to feel remorse here, thought Yom, between blowing out rings of cigarette smoke. He knew he had to do what he had to do because he, of all the miserable wretches in this city, had been paid to do it. He usually dealt with pipes. Blocked pipes, or loose dripping ones and sometimes pipes filled with weed. He could roll a pipe on the back of his palm and do all that Kung-Fu hooha. It usually scared the shit out of dogs who dared to stalk him at night, on his way back home. Other than that his only other claim to fame was a moth eaten bowler hat he had inherited from his father, who had insisted it was at one time worn by a Mr. Spencer. Yom used it to store the special pipes, the ones for which he got paid.

Behind the hoarding, stood the pink walls of the city magistrate's office. Walls have no business in a city where no one can breathe without prostituting their stench for a few ounces of fresh smoke and ancient dust. Yom walked through the walls, into the courtyard, crawled in through the broken window in south corridor, located the stairwell near the smelliest urinal and there behind the loose brick on the east wall, he left his pipes. And darts.

Come morning, he would walk in with the motley crowd of spectators and news leaching journalists, retrieve his instruments and put an end to another bastard's misery. It was hardly worth the effort. It would not make any difference to this city. He could feel a crooked smile form on his parched black lips as he heard a whine and growl behind him. Tomorrow would come when it will. But now was the time for kung-fu with the dogs. Yee-haw!

Wondering Wrongly

We all want the wrong things. We all desperately want something we can never get. We are all born in the wrong time. We all fall for the wrong lover. We all eat the wrong food. We all say the wrong things. To put it succinctly, our existence is mostly all wrong.

Right? Okay, maybe not all. Maybe just me. But then doesn't everybody think "just me ?"

I thought so too, when she moved to Bangalore. I can see her walking down the road or maybe not. She is not the walking kind. An auto then. Impressive is it not how even my fantasies are tainted with my prejudices, also wrong.

So I see her, in a city I have only kissed flittingly much like her. White stilettos. White skirt. A dark purple fitting top. A loose hanging bag on her right shoulder. Straight black hair. Kohl lined eyes. Taking in the world around her with her usual disdain. Just like I saw her one day, turning around the corner, halfway across the world, dancing to the tunes in her own head.


Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love


Dancing seemed right then. In a city that's so far stashed away in my memories that the coffee we drank seems to have mottled into tar. The coffee and Foucault's Pendulum. The wrong kind of pendulum, the wrong kind of book and a mistress of time. Busy as a bee and so distant. Even when we made love. In her room, in her bed, between her bookshelf and deviled eggs.


Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love


She did dance me to my wedding. That was about it. About all the wrong that could happen. And as I remembered her then, I remember her now, all wrong, just like the rest of it. Only now, she is in Bangalore. And I wonder, is it wrong? To wonder?


The lyrics are from Dance Me To The End of Love by Leonard Cohen.

Regret

"We regret to inform you... "

Regret! That's my hateful word of the day - of this year. Of my entire life at the moment. How I hate that word.

I feel like smashing something right now. I'd have smashed my life if it was not already smashed.

God. I feel like he is laughing at me from somewhere. Look how puny you are. And look what a mess your life is. Ha ha.

It is surprising. Even after all these years, the word still deguts me every time I read it. And there they lie - all raw and bloody in front of my eyes as if nothing will make me whole again. Still one breathes.

Which is a darn miracle - what would it take to stop breathing, I wonder. Certainly more than tonne of regret...

Shokhi, Bhalobasha Kare Koy?

Sulagna lay cuddled beside him, with her nose buried in his sweaty armpits. The cream pastel walls were still heaving with their evening efforts at frantic lovemaking. She could sense the drops of sweat that had sneaked down his brow, and skidded to a stop on his cheek stubble. Hanging in desperation, afraid of getting lost.

"How did you like it? I am impressed - we have never done it like this before."

Maybe neither of us wanted it enough. Do we want it now? The love? Or just the sex? The cobweb sticking to the edge of the roof beam swayed in the ceiling fan's draft.

"Uhmmm... Shokhi bhabona kahare bole,
Shokhi jatona kahare bole,
Tomra je bolo dibosho rojoni
Bhalobasha, bhalobasha..."

"What are you singing? Is it some new song? You did not answer my question - did you like it?"

The bedsheet needs to be changed tonight - it is definitely smelling of fungi now. Damn this damp. How is anybody supposed to enjoy a toss in the hay in such weather! Is he thinking of Anne Hathway again... what was that movie we saw... love and other drugs. Maybe he is ruing that I am not like that skinny girl in his arms, in her white shirt, pouty lips holding a cigarette, smoke rising into a cloud of our desires. Does he still love me?

"...Shokhi bhalobasha kare koy?
Sheki keboli jatona moy.
Sheki keboli chokher jol, sheki
keboli dukher shaas..."

"Thank you for today."

He turned his face toward her. His expression was as curious as ever. What is he thinking? I wish I could talk to him like I can talk to... I miss him. His hands closed around her shoulders in a kind embrace. He smells different now. Does he know how many different smells I can pick off him? Does he even care to know?

"... Loke tobe kore ki shukhire tore,
aemon dukhero aash.

You know, shokhi, tomake na pele hoyeto kobi hote baddho hotam, but now I don't feel like writing - anything - as if you have sucked in all my words into oblivion."

"Now, wait a minute... what does that mean? I am the death of all your words?"

"No, sweetheart, you are merely the death of me."

Note: The song is written by Tagore. A rendering in an old Bangla movie may be found here. Translating it is quite beyond my linguistic prowess.

There is a world of pain

There is a world of pain hidden
in a special nook in my heart,
A world that is only mine
Mine in full and mine,
in its every myriad part.

A place to dwell in peace
among my bloody shards,
In quiet whimpers of my own
My own song and my cry,
protectors, my fleet of guards.

Where betrayal fears to tread
deep down in a pitch dark realm.
Where I can murder love
in whimsical glee before I,
am sacrificed at its helm.

A world where I die alone
everyday and night that I trust in life,
Where smiles and hugs
strangle souls and plunge in swift
an icy, pickled, burning knife.

An airtight and quarantined cell
where it's so much fun to rot like this,
Insides hollowed with echoing whys
filled with the stink of cursed flesh,
sealed shut with a fairy tale kiss.

Taste n Tell

Tender,
like a biscuit dipped
in a cup of tea for too long

Swollen,
like a piece of bread
floating in a bowl of milk

Sore,
like feet in sweaty socks
after a rowdy game of football

Bland,
like my wasted poetry
in an angry tubelit room

Slippery,
like the wet corridor
left muddy after Mumbai rains

Cut,
like a pineapple slice
a jagged and juicy end

Quiet,
like crying in the shower
stifled drops and cold memories

Sexy,
like cigarettes in red lips
a smoke and mirrors magic trick

Piercing,
like 5-inch stilettos
passing outside my office door

Modest,
like my shy hairline
almost in line with my modesty

Stacked,
like a tube of Pringles
crumbling with wafer thin charms

Bitchy,
like a sharp wit
wrapped in a Abhinay Deo reel

Cruel,
like being loved
and not being lusted for

Divine,
like a slice of warm apple pie
a triangle of kindness

Pickled,
like my thoughts of you
Staple like kimchi, yet a side

I am an Idiot

And let this post record this for posterity. And let Google crawl it and save it in its servers for all times to come. For there will come a day, when I will have no one but me to blame for this pathetic existence of mine.

Am I a Joke?

Am I a joke?
Not a joker
Not even a man
Just the means to an end.

Am I a lie?
Not imagination
Not even a dream
Just a board for darts.

Am I required?
Not wanted
Not even desired
Just rusting spares.

Am I a life?
Not words
Not even a shadow
Just not dead as yet.

Unuttered Nonsense

If I was in Neverland, I would probably never fly again. There things that we all wish will never happen. There are things we all wish would kill us when they do happen. But just like in fairy tales, they never do. I will probably die of some horrible disease caused by my fondness for food. Such an innocuous thing - food. Such a treacherous feeling - hunger. I have not really rambled in a while. Why now?

You leave me with... a desire to write...

Desires are a dangerous thing. Buddha was well, Buddha and so he knew this somehow. We all know this too but choose not to remember. For example, I wonder how many people remember the above declared desire.

You don't owe anything to me/

Liability, like desire is a dangerous malady. We do owe our existence to someone else but we owe our integrity to ourselves. Or so I would like to believe. And we owe our words to the void of our souls. In this ephemeral existence, what good are words, unless they take root in memory.

Many whimpers later, when my heart will stop beating, I will still want you to want me, even for one instant, like you have wanted them.

There was a night, in a long distant land, where the fire of desire was smothered with raucous indifference along a tram-line. A night of frightful wakefulness. We all carry out nights within us. And sometimes, when out of complacence, we make them out to be constructs of our dreams, they burn brighter than any fire has ever burned.

People who throw away everything that gets old scare me. People who hold on to everything that they ever owned scare me. Me? I love my 11 year old cellphone more than I should. I only wish the battery would hold it's charge longer.

He would get late for his shift if he did not leave soon. Besides Sameer would be anxious to be relieved. So that he could get back to his newly married wife.

Be careful of what you wish for. Because you just might get it.

I love the damn woman.

Oh... be very careful.

Beaten Eggs

It was an omelette morning. When the day just begged to be started with the smell of well made eggs. The perfect concoction of chopped onions and beaten eggs. Add a dash of cold milk and a masterpiece of fluffy yellow-white would sputter to life on a pan.

He knew this the moment he woke up. With the crumpled sheets and her legs sprawled across the bed in a tangle that belied the calm he felt, seeing her lie there, on her bed. It felt familiar somehow. Even if it was his first day with her.

He slipped out of bed. The cement floor felt cold to his bare feet. He quickly pulled his pajamas on as the light dawn breeze coming in through the open window gave him goosebumps. The kitchen light was on. The chopping board was still there on the kitchen slab. The knife lay in the midst of half chopped onions. The eggs had rolled precariously close to edge of the sink. The pan was oiled and ready. He had been about to light the gas when she had slipped her hand into his shirt from behind and nibbled on his left ear lobe. He hated his ears being nibbled. She loved it.

He remembered he had forgotten to get any milk last evening. Just as well, he thought, it would have gotten spoilt overnight if left out. Her black strappy stilettos were lying in front of the fridge door. She looked good in them, he thought. She also hated putting them on. He reached into the cutlery drawer to fetch a fork. The eggs would have to be beaten well.

He broke the eggs into a bowl. Clean breaks, both of them. The golden yolks floated in the invisible gooey whites. Wobbly. He absentmindedly grabbed the stool beside the counter. It was too early in the day to beat eggs while standing up. He felt something was lumped up on the stool as he sat down. Who wears stockings in a weather like this, she had asked. And besides they wont last me the night, with you around. What kind of talk was that? He was gentle with women's clothing. With the women, however, he was just a man. Mixing a pinch of milk into the eggs when beating them made them frothy and smooth.

The oil sputtered on the pan. He poured in the beaten eggs with the chopped onions and let it spread into an even disk. He could smell the serene golden brown being born. It was amazing how perfect it came out after, especially after the eggs got a really good beating. He folded the omelette into half and slipped it onto a plate. The broken egg shells were thrown into the garbage bin, with the onion peels. The counter-top was wiped clean. The exhaust would take away the last remnants of his breakfast from the air.

He would get late for his shift if he did not leave soon. Besides Sameer would be anxious to be relieved. So that he could get back to his newly married wife.

Knowing Looks

The new concrete wall
beside my house
is looking raw

The new romcom movie
on my laptop
is looking flimsy

The new asphalt road
behind my backyard
is looking awkward

The new crop of fungus
on my bathroom wall
is looking at peace

The new cotton bedsheet
on my bed
is looking neat

because

I know I am not sleeping on it
anytime soon.

It knows that the seepage
will win.

It knows the playground that
lost out.

It knows it has nothing
to tell.

It knows it has to stand on
its own.

A Drop

A drop of kindness
falls.
Washes away mauling tire tracks
off an oft used road.

A drop of humility
floats.
Lifts the rusting anchor
of a wrecked yacht.

A drop of anger
plunges.
Pierces the best made armor
of children and soldiers.

A drop of distance
melts.
Bridges contempt bred
'tween familiar hearts.

A drop of depression
fogs.
Obscures flight paths
and flights of fancy alike.

A drop of happiness
shines.
Lights up dark nooks and crannies
and a hunger for more.

A drop of calm
settles.
Murmurs like autumn leaves
lying on sleepy, lush green.

A drop of love
numbs.
Anesthetic to cuts and aches
and the pain it brings.

A drop of rain
nurtures.
Sapling and floods, my moods
and fresh puddles of mud.

A drop of water
quenches.
More than thirst and perhaps more
a dire need to cry.

Funnily Enough

Funny things have been happening in my world. Or perhaps it is better to say that the world - my world - has taken on a funny hue all of its own. It changes faster than I can make up my mind. And yet - strangely - it is supposed to be my world. But the funniest part of all this is that I cannot seem to stop laughing at it. Sometimes I feel like the Joker, with the permanent smirk on my face. And if you are anywhere close to knowing this arch nemesis of the Dark Knight, you'll know that it cannot be a good feeling.

I cannot quite put a finger on what is it that is so funny. But let me try. Suddenly friends are drying up. People with whom one day, one shared soggy, wet tit-bits of one's mundane life have found better things to do. Or perhaps they have just grown off me as if I was a childhood doll that they used to play with. How does that make me feel? Much like Woody I'd say, lost in an alien orphanage, away from his Andy. Even this would have been tolerable, if people had not become rude - maybe they are just busy I tell myself or maybe they all got secretly married (both are not exactly the same thing, even if you wish they were). But busier than me? Seriously! Even I do not have any idea about how busy I am. But it gets even better. Childhood irks - folks I had silently vowed never to confide in or talk a sensible word to - are turning out to be compassionate listeners. How weird is that!

Let's talk about work now. Inspiration is running low - no, in fact it has evaporated, leaving salty desolate remains of ordinary ideas in plenty. If I was Gandhi I'd be happy with the salt, but I am no where near as historic. I am actually cheating here when I complain about not having any inspiration - it is something else I lack. Maybe as I recently heard someone complaining, there is no spark. On second or third-fourth-fifth thoughts there are sparks too but of the wrong kind. It is difficult making a life out of creating and helping others create. Create what, you may ask. Creating the myth of being able to create while this life spins out of our hand.

From yoga to salsa to calisthenics on a creaking metal bed to chicken biryani - it has not been a particularly bad life so far. Yet I get the feeling every once in a while that something I was meant to do is passing me by. What was I meant to do - how do I know it is not exactly what I am doing right now? How do I know I was not meant to be an angsty, starry eyed, romantic all my life? Or even whether I am one right now or not? Frankly, I am unable reason about love these days - or write about it. Funny isn't it, especially when this blog has been witness to some pretty bizarre lovesick writing in the past.

Funnier still is being in a place which turned one's life inside out (or was it upside down?). No, its not the being there that is funny - it is being there again and not feeling anything except a vague void that one cannot quite relate to. A haircut, a silhouette, an unsymmetrical neckline, a philosophy. I am not exactly sure what I miss or even whether I do miss something from a past I do not quite remember. Sunsets are still beautiful, still orange, still dripping with calm melancholy.

I have developed this amazing ability to forget. Forget unpleasant times - unwanted words - unanswered questions - unexpected rudeness - uncried tears. Strange and unsettling, this new found power is. Gives me a Yoda-like sense of calm. Calm. I am starting to fear it now - perhaps something in me goes to sleep every time I forget something. Or perhaps something goes quiet. It is not funny when I cannot recall what made you upset last night or when was the last time I cried. It is scary when I cannot recall when was the last time we had a fight or when was the last time I had a laugh. Hmmm... perhaps I am being melodramatic here. Maybe I can become a soap-opera writer next. That would be funny too.

Somehow, writing with a dimly lit bulb lighting the hall, sitting on this table, unsaid anger floating in the air mixed with a heavy sigh of disappointed expectations, seems to be second nature now. Even though I know I do not write as often these days. At least my tooth is not aching. That I can guarantee, is not funny.

I am almost done now. With this one at least. Perhaps with the next one too. I have one request though. When it is over, please laugh.

It is always a bad time to write these days

It is always a bad time to write these days.
There is always something else to do,
Work is forever pending
Some dripping tap needs mending
Ideas, as always, are far too few.

It is always a bad time to write these days.
I am never there when needed around,
Why didn't you call or ask me why I am upset?
It is really not that hard to get,
Endless, justifiable complaints abound.

It is always a bad time to write these days.
Suddenly giving advice has become harrowing
Tell me why I should not cheat if it pays?
I cannot come on time, no matter what one says!
Fitting-in is harder than ever, tolerances narrowing.

It is always a bad time to write these days.
Responsibility - the sound is enough to make me cringe
or sometimes love, or perhaps just a good romp in the bed,
will wear me down just enough that instead,
I'd rather go on a sleeping binge.

It is always a bad time to write these days.
Why don't you exercise? Go for a run at least.
Running one's mind does not burn fat,
Especially when done silently, without a chat,
From now on all Maggi eating will be policed!

It is always a bad time to write these days.
Time that is spent budgeting, making a miser miserable
Can we get a sofa? And a pet cat?
To fix the seepage on the roof, put on the engineer's hat
And then watch the latest reality circus on satellite or cable.

It is always a bad time to write these days.
To be a writer, just to rant and rave
Nobody reads, so why bother to put in the effort,
Of forming sense out of glee and hurt,
Unless it is words to adorn some blessed grave.

Otherwise,
It is always a bad time to write these days.

Impasse

There is no shame in apathy. There is no honour in compassion. There is no joy in the living and there is no sorrow in the dead. And that is why I gift you a pathetic death. I dedicate to your grim future this massacre of innocence. Let this day garland the end of freedom in these lands. Gentlewomen of Hasselplough, breathe and let your blades bleed victory from the jaws of defeat.

---

"Why?"

The rains had come on time. As had the seepage stains on the walls. The air was rife with the smell of fresh fungus. Even Nishtha had left on cue, to meet her ex.

"Why will they not come?"

He looked in disdain at the books that had sprouted like weeds on his table. Trying to weave legends of mythical lands and Gods with pedestrian language. Trying to ink to life the magic of human folly. Trying, yes. And failing miserably. Spilt milk from the cornflake bowl formed a white pool at the edge of the table. The fountain pen slowly rolled into the spill and fell off the table. He watched. The creased sheets of paper languished on the only clear patch on the rosewood desk.

A photo of him with Nishtha was nailed to the wall right behind the desk. She was smiling. He was looking dazed. As if he couldn't believe his luck at having her in his arms. She had not only fallen for him but curiously enough, also for his writing.

Yet now, the words did not come. When he needed them. Desperately.

He ambled into the kitchen to look at what she had left in the pan on the stove. The mushroom-chickpea soup was still steaming and smelling of a fresh ginger garnish. A loaf of half eaten cinnamon bread lay on the chopping board. He opened the fridge and took out the tin of butter. He carried an overfull bowl of soup, butter knife and tin all together to the writing table with the half-loaf of bread held between his teeth.

"Did you forget to pay the phone bill again? My cellphone is not working. How can I go out without a phone?"

The splitting clicks of Nishtha's heels butchered the silent laziness that hung around the room.

"Well... did you?"

----

And so they went to war, the gentlewomen of Hasselplough. Nobody knows what happened after that. Did they kill many? Did they snatch history from time and carve their names in battle cries? Or did they freeze to mercy at the sight of their beloved enemies. No one knows. What one does know, however, is that the pen of legends was lost that day. Lost forever in an impasse with reality.

Coffee and Cookies

He walked down the pavement, nonchalantly avoiding the hawkers strewn on it. Miserable little twits, he thought. He did not have anything against anybody in particular. He just hated them all. Except her. Her, he loved.

She was dressed in white. Long, flowing white. The kind that strains the sun into one's soul. He could see her walk down the long corridor from his bed. It seemed as if she was floating. He turned to see the cut marks on his arm. He remembered walking into his bedroom earlier, with the tin of cookies. He remembered the screaming. He remembered all the shattered glass. He remembered a lot of blood. She walked into the ward right then.

The cafe still had a brass bell on its door. It rang every time the door opened. A welcoming, playfull ring. The elegant pista green leather upholstery was gone. Replaced by bright cubist patches of woven colour. He took the corner seat, his usual, beside the glass window that looked out into the pavement.

It is good that you are ok, she said, almost thankfully. She thought for a while, choosing her words with care, I am leaving you. It cannot work anymore. I did not want you to see me with him like that. But you have known it for some time now, haven't you? , she asked in casual rhetoric. He saw her, he saw his arm. The scar was still throbbing a warm crimson red.

It had been a year since he had last come here. He had come here to buy a tin of chocolate chip cookies. He wanted to surprise her or rather, placate her. They had not been talking since the past few days. He stirred the sugar in his latte. The coffee tasted the same - a frothy, milky taste that he liked. He wondered if they still stocked the cookies. He never had a chance to taste them last time.

You always knew you had to be alone. She had put her hand on his. Did you know it would come to this? To a time when we will not recognize ourselves. She gently pressed his palm and said, stay safe. Then she had turned around and walked out. He had lain there watching her glide away into the reflections.


He found it difficult to sit straight with his jacket on so he took it off. The 0.44 Smith and Wesson inside his jacket was heavy. It had taken precisely two shots from it. It will take one more, he thought. Everything was finally as it had to be. He had to be alone. He smiled. He remembered what she had said. And he sat there for sometime, sipping his memories and his coffee.

Leftovers

She sat there, on the bed, slightly bent forward, with her rippling locks held in one hand, while the other cautiously guided a comb through them. The noon sun generously lent its crisp glow to her face. Beside her on the bed lay a copy of Lolita, splayed face down on the bed.

Will you stop writing and talk to me, she said. I've returned after so many days. Instead of talking to me, you are cooped up in your corner, writing God knows what abomination of melancholy again. It is another one of those, isn't it?

Sailesh lifted the makeshift stone paperweight and put it over an untidy sheaf of written-on paper. The fan, with its usual scratching din, lazily ruffled the stoic calm on his face. He turned to find her trying to look most indignant. The askew folds of a cream-beige sari refused to follow the curves of her breasts, making her look more faceted.

Yes, it is, he said without trying to look amused. How was your visit? I thought you would leave from there, off with your parents again, without coming back.

I would have but then I thought about poor you and came back. I cannot leave you for so long with you writing the way you do - who knows who else might fall for it, she teased. But now that I am here, you will stop, won't you? Why do you never write when I am around?

She stood at the window, looking out at nothing in particular. He studied her smooth silhouette, carved out of shadows, ensconced in the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Suddenly, he felt a need to reach out and touch her. Make sure that she was real.

Do I make you very sad, she asked in a languid voice.
Rini...

He wrapped his arms around her and let his stubbled chin rest in the nook of her neck. A few truant strands of her hair tickled his nose.

No, it's not you, he said after thinking about it a moment. But you still have not told me about your trip. I'd rather hear about that.

About what? About how comfortable I was at home at not having to listen to do this and do that. About how addicted I am to being pampered silly. About how I wish we had a bathtub. You don't want to hear about all that, I know.

Sailesh could see a small black ant trying to crawl up the window sill where her hands rested. He could smell the scent of her skin. He remembered now what he had missed many a still night, lying quietly, alone on the bed.

Mrinalini suddenly turned around and hugged him, nuzzling her face in his shoulder. He felt off-balance in her embrace, as if he had phased out of reality.

I've missed you. She paused a bit, hoping he will say something. Haven't you too? Or were you too happy to be alone, writing?

I want you to be happy and so I give you my happiness. When you are not here, I give what is left to my writing. Rini, he raised her face up, cupping it gently in his palms, don't leave again, so soon.

Why don't you come with me? I'll ask Papa to book tickets for you too. We'll tour Europe together. I don't want to miss you so much and I want to go there. Why can't I have both?

He kissed her forehead. He heard the window of the apartment below close.

You should take that nap while there is still time. The flight back will be long.

Vey Malang Tera Iktara

A door bangs shut somewhere. Night dawns. Slowly but surely it flows into my veins. Purges the day's touch from my skin. Whispers your name to my soul.

Rooh ka banjara re parinda,
Chadh gaya dil ka re gharonda.
Chadh gaya dil ka re gharonda todke
De gharonda todke, gaya chodke.

Je naina karoon band band, beh jaaye boond boond,
Tadpaye re, kyun sunaye geet malhaar de.


A carnival of memories begins its merry waltz. Wefts and warps of fine threads weave them into the breeze. Tinkling between the roar of traffic outside I can hear a chance laugh. Rare laughter. Prized laughter. Pince-nez laughter. I wrap the breeze snugly around me.


Megh peoner kothaye badi, kothaye she kon doore,
Asaad holiye kotha theke aashe akaash joode.

Mon kharaper disti guli, kokhon bili kore?
Raat jaaga kon bhore, megher deeprohore,
Paak dondi pother dhaare, bagaan ghera ghore?


Starlight twinkles in my starry-eyed tears. Intimate silences partake in revelry of the past. The fan suddenly blows my way chill from mountains of yore. A brutal cough chokes my mind.


Beeti raat basi basi padhi hai sirhaane
Bandh darwaja dekhe lauti hai subah.
Thandi hai angeethi seeli, seeli hai deewaren
Goonje takrake inme dil ki sada.


Crickets gossip. A limping cow slumps onto the ground, exhausted. A vagabond kitten wants to talk. Alas, we have run out of things to talk about. The only talks left are the ones we do not want to have. Let me see if she'll settle for some milk.


Aekhon rod otheche, megh peoner jabaar shomoye pray,
Je shob chithi hoyeni bili podeche jhornaaye.

Godiye gaeche nodir jole,
Chodiye aache gacher daale.
Tuk tuk tuk podbe jhore pahad dolir pothe
Dheere dheere shukiye jaabe shukno patar shaathe.


Time tickles and ticks away. Making our brand new sadness old in a jiffy. The night is in cahoots with the spirits today. Spirits of silly thought that ask me to forget how not to remember. Mucus wells up my throat in a fit. Time to bend-over and surrender.


Vey malang tera iktara, iktara.
Vey malang tera iktara.


The night loses its spirit around me. Incredulously, it inspects my washed out silhouette. It is time to melt back into memory.


Mon kharaper shojol tuku shukiye giye sheshe,
Miliye jaabe tir-tire aek mon kamoner deshe
Megh peoner bagey ebaar mon kamoner dista
Shei mon kamoner sroter taane cholche boye Teesta.


Am I happy to be alone? There are no doors when I am alone. Neither is there anywhere else to go...

What villainy is this!

We all love our villains. Because if it was not for them, we would never have our heroes to worship.

Today morning two young boys landed at my doorstep asking that I grant them a hearing. And so I did. I did not invite them inside because you see, I do not have any furniture in the living room to make them sit on. Embarrassing? Yeah, well... but I did hear them out.

They went on for a good two to five minutes. In crisp, clear Hindi explaining to me how the moral fabric of society is in tatters today and how the world needs a change from the ground up. A revolution fueled by young blood that will let "the people" have power over "the people's" lives. In the end, they handed me a pamphlet which they claim has their thoughts laid out in more detail. Their demand - volunteer for the revolution or pay-up for the cause. I told them I'll read the piece of paper they had given me and if I am convinced then I'll contribute. But you already know me, don't you? It is not that easy to convince me of anything - even of my own sanity - and especially if I am given time to think about it.

So I turned my rusting thinking apparatus, and came up with this suggestion: "Read History!" For history serves us well. What did these kids say that has never been said before - the moral fibre of society, if we believe any provable historical account, has been in decay for as long as we have known morality and society. Power to the people has been a idea that the people themselves have chewed, savoured and spitted out - only for it to grow back as some new variant. And that is how we as a race have grown in time. Does that mean that there should be no revolution? Of course not. But it certainly does not and will not need me to spur it on. It will happen when the time comes, because what is a revolution if not coming around of a newer time, once again.

Ah, but we started off with villains, didn't we? And how we all love them. We make them in the image of our worst fears and erect heroes to fight our wars against them - and call this process a revolution. (Oh boy! Am I or am I good at this. Ok .. here it comes...) Every second that we breathe on this planet, we stand at the edge of an immense reservoir of knowledge that mankind has assimilated as a race - we stand with the hand of God just an arms reach away. But do we reach out? No sir! That would be no fun at all. It is much better to beat down (up?) each other rather than learn from each other. After all, the world is a jungle and it is the "survival of the fittest" that dictates who wins. Right?

If that had been right, Darwin would have thrown a fit. Or had one. Maybe he did. But that is beside the point here. Why must people, and I mean people around me mostly, for I cannot really speak for people not around me, ... Why must people be so stubborn about what they want to see in all that can be seen? What is the use of all the learning, the education, the knowledge, the faith in the world - if not for a simple moment we will not appreciate the beauty that is man. If we will not acknowledge the wonders that our minds are capable of.

Of seeing the world in grain of sand, even quite literally. And equally significantly, of seeing a grain of sand in the palm of our hand.


Chenashonar kon baire,
Jekhane poth naayi naayire,
Shekhane okarone jai choote.

You, darkness, that I come from
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone
and then no one outside learns of you.


Ghorer mookhe aar ki re.
kono she jaabe phire.
Jaabe na jaabe na --
Deyal joto shob gaelo toote.

But the darkness pulls in everything-
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them! -
powers and people-


Ja na chaibaar taayi aaji chayi go,
Ja na paibaar taayi kotha payi go.
Pabo na, pabo na --
Mori ashombhober paaye maatha khoonte.

and it is possible a great presence is moving near me.

Pagla hawaar badol-dine,
Pagol amaar mon jege othe.

I have faith in nights.


Tagore and Rilke. Villains and heroes. Me? I am just the postscript.

Palatak

Aei aache, aei neyi, hai re je jona
Kano shikole baandhe taare bhabhish aapona
Chayare ki kobhu bolo dhore raakha jaaye.

Aaha re bidhigo tor leela bojha daaye
Je udiya baedaaye taare bandhish khanchaaye
She je ude jaye, ude jaaye, jaaye jaaye, jaaye jaaye.


Kintu mon je jete dite chayena taake. Ude hoyeto she jaabe kono din - aar shedin hoyeto taare aar dhore rakha jabena. Kintu diner por din, raater por raat, taake aaro jore aankde dhore rakhte ichche kore. Ete kaar ki dosh bolo - paakhi chaye ude jeete, khancha chaaye dhore rakhte. Pakhi ke to khancha hote bola cholbena. Khanchakeyo paakhi hote bola cholbena.

Bhebe dekhle obaak laage - kikore je khancha hoye gelam sheta jaanteyi parlam na. Hote aashole cheychilam onno kichu. Ki? Hoyeto ekta poth, kimba ehta kolom ba ekta paata. Paata ta hote paarle moteyi mondo hoto na - besh haoar shaate ude ude baedatam. Kintu tomake pete hobe bole, ki hote cheychilam sheta bhuliye dite holo. Aar taar pore, tomake aatke rakhte hobe bole, khancha hote holo.

Tomake jete dewa cholbena. Tumi je aamaake bishesh bhabe jaano. Temni kore aar keu janena. Bhishon bhoye kore je aekbaar jodi tumi chole jaao tahale tomake aar phire pabona. Kapurush manush to - bhoye theek aamar shojjo hoyena.

---


Y va liviano
Mi corazón gitano
Que solo entiende de latir a contramano
No intentes amarrarme, ni dominarme
Yo soy quien elige, como equivocarme

Aprovechame que si llegué ayer
me puedo ir mañana
Que soy gitana
Que soy gitana


Nilanjana stared at the blank canvas resting on the easel. She could see the dust that had settled on it, shining in the morning sunlight. Paint-caked brushes lay scattered on the floor in a corner. She stared blankly at his worn out sandals. They were lying at the side of the bed. He lay curled up in an entangled mess on the bed, as if he was fighting a war with the sheets. The ceiling fan was making a periodic drone. The morning sunlight had crept onto his right upper arm. There were a few truant hair strands there, standing up shapeless and drunk.

He stirred slowly, pulling another pillow from the side to under his right leg. She saw his sleepy movement carve the space around him in light and shadow. His pyjamas moved up as he folded his legs. She knew exactly how the skin on his bare knees wrinkled when he bent his legs. She was intimately acquainted with the salty texture of those wrinkles. Once the way in which they folded space and time in them, was a source of fascinating mystery for her. Now, it was too easy to read them. Even the brush strokes she used to draw them, seemed practiced and tired.

He open his eyes, catching her blurred, glowing form in his first waking sight. He could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. A smile broke on his lips. "Ah! You know me too well."

I do, don't I. That I am afraid, will not do.

---

Note: The Bangla lyrics are from a song from the movie Palatak, sung by Pankaj Mitra. The Spanish lyrics are from the song Gitana by Shakira.