Wednesday, December 22, 2010

All Things-

Of all things
Sicilian defense,
Sunday afternoons,
The Ninth Symphony,
The Voluptuous Mrs Chaterjee of the fourth floor,
Caucasian Chalk Circle
And Amy Goodman
Of all things said and done
I fell for you.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Failed Foreplays

-“Some moments like endless nights,
Nights bereft of days humiliated by the moonless sky
And all that is dark stay.”

Rippon Street- The third floor
when you are over
with your daily chore

Breathe and let go off a heave
think of those days
of rainbow skies, marmalade eyes,
and a lifetime of sighs.

We held hands; pecked
letting silence reign over us
it was December all over again
perhaps the Christmas week.
Snows in Darjeeling
Of madras rain.

And for that moment,
just then
be meek.
Think of me
and that ‘almost kiss’
in your garage
let some pleasure reek.

- Was it an awful almost kiss?
She says.

-“Some moments like endless nights,
Nights bereft of days humiliated by the moonless sky
And all that is dark stay.”

And round and round You go
round and round them
and more…

Friday, December 17, 2010

Insert Poetry

On days of sudden surges she’s Scarlet o’ hara or Rebeca .

Mostly she can be any of Kana Mitra, Shiuli Das or Moon-Moon.

On those days she writes poetry like Keats.

Only that she likes Byron or Neruda more, she confirms.

And all her poems make her cry of which only I have been privy to

Like a spectator though, not a participant.

-“These poems are what resonate in my mind on most days in work”.

-“Not that there is anything else to think of” I chide

-“Not much time to think too” she laughs.

I don’t know her exact name. I don’t know her most.

I doubt it has something to do with P as that tattoo shall suggest you too.

I know though that her birthday is on Sixteenth June and her mother died that day some years later.

She has no history as she jokes, only a succession of presents.

But she loves history.

She once recited ‘Cleopatra’s Date Tonight’ one of her writes, a comedy this time on one of her playful days.

She loves Italian food and Roshogolla.

She is a closet communist. Fantasizes Che Guvera

She reads quality literature and has hard bound covers of many.

Her favorite book is little woman.

She has been Bonolata Sen for me on one of such days.

She loves me for my love of good literature and women, only platonically though she maintains.

She has those eyes like unexpected evening rains and can speak fluent Bengali if she wishes too.

With a voice like an early winter morning or raspberry.

She has a mole in the right side.

Her smile is all what I wanted to be ten years ago but could not.

She is all my failures conglomerated.

She offers the best blow-job in town. She is client satisfaction guaranteed.

And according to a very learned customer, a poetry to enter too.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Living Death Wish-

and if I am allowed
a death wish
held -
it shall be
drop of your smile as my epitaph
sprinkle of your eyes felt on me
in the soil beneath
my hand held in your hands, eternal
will let you breath in me.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

What Goes Around Comes Around-

Tania shall never know that Birat loved her since the eighth grade.
She is mostly confused between Birat and Shantanu and who’s who they are always together
She does not know that he just looks at her throughout the class and it has been the way from school to college.
Nishtha and Rajeev have been making love since the last two hours
And Rajeev is still thinking about that chance encounter with Prodipta.
She has been in his mind ever since- walking stealthily, not recognizing him, talking to that newspaper guy and naked.
He loved her during college but she was a classified bitch

Suchishmita is still waiting for Rajeev to come and pick her from office and he is as usual late
She wonders how much has Rajeev changed but then relaxes thinking he gave her flowers last week
Rajeev picks her up and is still guilt ridden
His flowers for Nishtha were seen by Suchi in the back of car
He had to pretend they were for her
He thinks she might have a clue that he is having an affair
It’s just undressed passion he knows
She blabbers all the way just to ease herself up
Rajeev has just Prodiptas face in his mind, aargh!
Nishtha still does not know if she loves Rajeev or if even he loves her
She is reading original Romeo-Juliet these days

It’s France and Shantanu is walking through Lyon
He has never been that lonely
He thinks about Suchishmita, Birat and College Street
Suchishmita is his brother Rajeev’s wife, but he can’t stop thinking about her
Birat wrote a poem ten years ago for Tania
And is still waiting for a sign from her that she too loves him
Tania never fell for a guy since higher secondary

“Let me look at your eyes
A drawn white light
Like my name on your lips O love
Make me breath in the paradise.”

Shantanu loves Suchi boudi
Since the day he came back from that trip to Kodaikanal
And he saw Nishtha in Rajeev’s arms
He never told Suchi Boudi
But since then everytime she smiles at Rajeev
It kills him. And he loves her more

Prodipta cannot love ever since her father did that to her
Tania thinks Prodipta acts ways to cocky
Prodipta never talks of her family. Even during Christmas holidays
Tania thinks she looks like Sophia Loren with her curling eyelashes
Tania thinks a lot about her
Prodipta knows intuitively that Tania loves her and she doesn’t mind
She is Kolkata and all that is calm
She can write the best romantic poems
She strangely does not hate her dad.

Unlike Nishtha who has never written a poem albeit one
That too with me. Many years ago in Digha
She is not afraid of heart breaks
She is the best cook I have ever known
I sleep at her place whenever I feel like
I have seen her in that blue night gown gifted by Rajeev
I have seen her in my dreams
I know Rajeev is just a passing fancy
I wish I had loved her.
I wish…

Monday, November 29, 2010

Two Days Later-

He is in a dilapidated lodge in Allahabad now
“What is the name of the lodge.” He thinks
But he can’t
He just imagines Dibendu making love to her
And ejaculates-A scream

Dibendu is reading his letter meant for Mrinalini
And crying
He posts every poem he writes and posts at Mrinu’s address
This is his revenge he believes
“You can abandon me but can never your words.” She said.

He never thinks of going back to that place
A city that turned into a woman, eventually
Pair of eyes penetrates him through the balcony of 34 Rippon Street
And the rains, a perfect cliché.
But unlike all clichés he never did look back
If he did he would’ve known that she fell unconscious
He can still at nights listen to falling tears. The sound overpowers
Doctor has given him medicines for his insomnia

Sound of tears, a metaphor.
Two day after that day
Sounds of shahnai and Aguner Poroshmoni song
Pierced through that place he believes
But he’s wrong
Time stood still on Rippon Street
Two days after never came.

At certain moments he forgets his route back to Kolkata
This is his phobia these days
And he pens a poem
Tears apart the pages
And he can remember his way back as clear as a day
“You love your poems more than me.” She said

He has written and tore two poems a day
Tomorrow he shall move southwards.
And he plays Love by Lennon in his I-Pod.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Let it flow

Life flows-

Like winters underneath the quilts

legs stretched and thoughts too,

with the vanilla smell of the newly washed covers and home.

Morning sun through your windows

drenching the face,

coffee and the newspaper

to watch through the balcony.

And to walk the greens in the evenings

through leaves-

dead yellow and brown

with strange unexplained smell

and stranger sounds resonating somewhere far

of what you shall never know.

Now only those leaves seem alive.

But winters go, you leave home.

The poem that you wrote

with each words written and rewritten

and then read aloud

to make it sound perfect

but torn

not to let anybody else see you in them

to hide yourself

in all those myriad personalities

you weave for yourself and you shall be.

Like the words that once filled life

names that were not true and yet were

like people who gave it to you

saccharined and all

inducing smiles.

But those words

ran to be heard by someone

you would never know and still envy.

Some dreams.

felt but forgotten

seen and touched

with lingered smiles

concatenating truth and a lot of fiction

that you think of years down the line

but dreams of just that night

mortal bright.

And it shall walk away too,

like the tiny fragments of moments

that zip pass

no matter

what thread you tie

to pull them back

to stick to

to grow into you

it shall .

Life flows, does it not.

Love is just a word afterall.

Monday, November 15, 2010

From Journals Incognito

The fan makes creaking sounds with the nuts and bolts of the bed in unison,
He lies on one to gaze into the other undisputed
The slow hums from the next room are incoherent voices in television
A strange music is invented.

Trains and buses letting him in three towns in ten day.
Town to town into unknown locales, he sprawls.
Places that were names come with life and with each come a prosaic word play.
As if the hovel filled country is some heaven sent virgin. He has caressed them all
..You are a male chauvinist she said then.

Carving landscape into words to put to papers.
Eating cartographic details
He swallows unpalatable spices and flavors.

The music goes on, he smiles looking onto the rotating instrument ‘Mozartize’ itself.
He has acquired this new fetish for coining words,
Words whose meanings shall be held just by his self.
Like his life which he has cleaved onto, with every footstep that can come to him murdered.

And he smiles
He has won over time
He has lost over his past
He has written a new diary entry last night
A poem is undressed.
He is making love to the town.
He shall grab a bus tonight, for a new unnamed.

Only if she knew he was..

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Machu-Pichu Assortments


A Kafkaesque silence persists,

While the light through that afternnoned window

Brightens your sallower expressions.

Distortions at its best.

I play with faces around evading that bright lit pained face.

Love walks, like some face you remember but fail to recognize.

And love stays though shabby, in tatters.

The slow hum of fans resonates with the silence and our breaths

You’ve said it, just like you talked about everything,

Like skirts or reggae music or ray.

Like love was, but a phase that passes.

Like being quite does the trick for me.

And you walked away.

I stayed waiting for two more coffees.

I stayed waiting forever.

They forgot to serve me the coffees


-I’ve completed Guveras various biographies

Even read canto general,

Octopus’s garden by Ringo Starr seemed futile

And the university was too painful to go to again.

They had a burger joint in our university premises and I hated it,

Ironically they called it Uncle Sam.

I even wrote a poem, “To live, to die”.

Later it was published in one of those assortments.

I thought I regained life.

I thought I started my circle.

You smelled of jasmine.


-“Hindi movies must be seen to get the idea of rural or semi- urban Indian mindset. “

The words faintly touched my ears I was somewhere else already.

Niagara it was I guess and you were next to me quietly.

I had made love to your shadows.

“Bengali movies are good somewhat,

Ray for example.

And Breakfast at Tiffany’s was vulgar.”

All this comprised of what you told me in that dinghy we called our college canteen.

Ray always accentuated Indian poverty, I believed. Who cares!

I was supposed to be a great listener. It wasn’t enough though.

You had big eyes and they turned even bigger when you talked interest.

I loved you and thought of you wordless, garbles.

I almost always failed to register my point, even when you decided, London.


To Live, To Die

As they shall tell you

That he walks through nights sound asleep

And he talks the way he did mostly.

They shall be a testimony to the fact

That I have been a man of brevity and not a man of misery.

Would that be sufficed?

Would that make you smile in the snowflakes that you reside?

You must know that to live is to die, love.

For every moment is a witness

For us to that slow saunter towards it

The death the ugly travesty.

But look at you and I,

We ignorant

Laughed, joked, mocked and then loved.

Futile it was all futile.

This is not poetry, but revenge.

Now it looks a Nerudaish pastiche.


-The idea of Guvera as the eternal hero is a myth; it would’ve been the same if Castro died instead.

You were adamant like you were always

When you convinced me that Ringo Starr wasn’t a true blue Beatle after all

Or that sandwich, burgers are source of spreading capitalism

That you had to go to England to understand firsthand what English literature was.

That you had to leave me in the process.

That the circle of your life was incomplete within me.

That love is just a four lettered word, like Dylan said

I never got any of your points but was too egotist and too shattered to say my heart then.


-You shall find one Indian atleast anywhere you go,

they are all over even in Peru, I was told.

I did find one

After fifteen years

And some kilometers from Machu Pichu in a coffee shop,

From a few thousand miles from where there was the genesis of it all Kolkata.

After twelve failed novels yet to be published

And a secure position as a medical journal editor.

After Guvera was seen in a bikini

And Ringo starr had revealed his fifteenth album.

After eighteen kilo extra body fat.

You were there with someone who hopefully had the same views;

The kids looked almost like you.

And I saw a twenty year old me too, smiling at time.

I passed by you like two strangers do.

You looked at me or you didn’t

I don’t know after the first minute I had lost the courage.

The circle had completed.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Shakespearean Tragedy Carved In Thee

And talkless come to me; like a flotsam through waves, comes ashore in night,

Love, like a moon loves the skies, quietly, through eyes, refulgent bright.

For once let not the veneer of words

Take away the opalescence

That is created by our silence, colored in gray.

Let that be ephemeral, our love

A fleeting love story.

Be in love, then loose each other,

Sundering the life force of the poetry.

Let me founder into senility,

From the dreams of my words

In between the lines eek thyself to me,

Turn into me; let me create thee in a Shakespearean tragedy.

Let It be me

Eyelids closed curtains drawn,
thy sleepy living eyes an oxymoron,
in the midst of moons daily stroll,
i wake up just to see you in deep,
perhaps your dreamful moving eyelids
are penning a picture or poem of me,
or maybe the façade is just me.
Let it be me.

Saturday, August 28, 2010



Busying herself in books as that aquiline nose peeps out the windows pour a bucket filled sunrays on her and are reflected in those carnivore teeth that she has, if looked closely you’ll find her gazing intently on the book, trust me she is pretending but that smile hides all the pretensions as you shall be flown with it to distant land, far stars.


She has hidden her face by her flowing blackness, her hair. Medusa would’ve been proud of her. Looking through the windows perhaps in twilight. Tiny mottled spots embellish her garb as if a starlit night. Gazing intently at something too expensive to be known. She has left colors, if it were her she’d say, its sepia now into which I’ve grown.


Black and white is viewed into a little peek into her face convoluted with her ever flowing tress, the momentary Polaroid still makes her smile, has it ever been me. I construe all while. Her face is lit up like those small light bulbs. Perhaps the lights went out fused and my thoughts from her mind too.


Look at those eyes closely if you can. You’ll see a twinkle every time you see her smile. The twinkle in her eyes is like the doorbell before the visitor arrives, the visitor here being her smile. She has a way with words you can see in the way she handles her hairs, each word held carefully filled with meanings and then strewn into paper. Back to world of colors cow. You never wanted to let me look at your pictures anyhow.

Her album explains after all she is not that pretty
Though I’ve looked at her face just a few infinite times since eternity.

Ah look at me in a one way street,
I’d gladly fall for her but would she ever hold onto me?

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Autopsy Of A Poet


Somewhere at Dharmotala, Kolkata. His diary said.

The night has slowly crept in, unknocked though the time has stopped for me. I have been looking at nothing since the last two hours sitting in this obscure footpath my eyes fixed intently at a void. Rains douse me, let me scribble my swansong.

Rains shall go on forever,

Drop by drop into the streets

Onto the sky through my eye,

In the midst of the disarray in fragments,


Like a nox without twilight, shall I lie.

Breathing morbidly to the winds,

Looking towards nothingness, at a distant void,


The days shall live with nights and their friends.

Heart too shall grovel.

But the poet shall die.

He called this write, “The Death of a poet”. It is the last written page in his diary and it is timed an hour before. And he wrote the lyric of Seasons in the sun, but stopped after three lines.


Diary- Our friends came, to solace I sat with them nodded after every two odd minutes and guised to listen. You would’ve been proud of my acting.

An eerie silence

Is eked by the muted noise of the fan,

A stereo plays faraway in dissonance

Vehicles passing by blare.

I listen to it

At the silences I stare.

All of this my mind shall pen,

Put into words

Form a verse

But like a recurring tape

Or a flowing lake

The voices in me are all hers.

Words carved into years,

Molded into moments

To be tailed to my memory.

She calls me but I can’t cross.

Oh the pains all numb,

Self is but calloused and dreary.

Beneath it- “I wrote it while watching the wedding album, the picture after our jai mala. I shall name it, “Hangover”. Don’t worry I am not drunk. Haven’t been in a year.”


Perhaps a lonely old leaf

Has flown from the tree,

It must be,

As I always think,

Your smiles are so



It is you

Who says,

You must buy a new tuxedo, before I die.

And those new drapes you chose

Advocating they’ll last a year even two.

No, how can it be you.

It’s me they don’t know it yet,

Please don’t cry, here peacefully I lie.

Insurance cover you,

You shall learn to handle banks.

You are a better driver

Then I claimed.

Hold back your tears, it’s just me.

It’s not you, it’s just me.

I had to pen it in haste, it came to me then and I cannot take a pen and paper at a funeral especially where am the center. Look I wrote a poem, it is not impossible after you.

In his diary he scribbled all of it after his penning and named it, “My Death- Your Death”.


They say he published it, in the magazine he worked with. It’s name is, “Colors of life”

let us color love in whites

and give it some hopes of a better next day


let’s make hope sparkle and shimmer in gold,

so that we value it and treasure it


let’s make loss a dull morose yellow

dull but still lit so as to remind us

that the end shall always lurk close and lets all live to fullest.

and patience

let us color it in iridescence

so that its beauty always holds us close to it in our hearts

and with patience shall we go through,


And in his diary he says, this one paid all the hospital bills.


It is written without any pre-note just a few calculations are done in this page perhaps grocery, this is the first written poem that we found in his diary.

Horizon was enclosed in the clouds of rain,

the texture was immodestly green,

but then you happened,

walking by in that fuchsia hued garb of yours

and lent the panorama a touch of perfection,

or was it just me.

I followed you by my eyes till I could discern you

from those clouds faraway, your abode as they were.

Years ago I saw a marble statue of Aphrodite,

my heart drew it today and it turned out draped in fuchsia.

Beneath it though he has written,” shall you grace it by naming it, I shall give you options , “The First Ever” or “Hopes of your Love”. And he drew a heart under it.

- This is in the next page written in haste perhaps, he calls it, “Birthday”

Words flow

as if a river has fused thoughts into me

am I a poet,

perhaps I have capitulated

to those vision my soul paints,

the prose are still inchoate.


We found it at his home; it was kept in a closet with a lot of jewelry possibly bridal. A neatly folded page of the same diary.

Would you hold me when even my shadows go,

walk with me when its been an uphill tread,

Would you smile reassuringly

when you see tears swell my eye.

Would you be my.

Would you caress me with your eyes although thousands are around,

hold me close when melancholy clouds arrives,

would you take me through all my days

weather they are sad or wry,

would you be my.

Would you watch the night sky lying on the roof snuggling near,

and just embrace me without inhibitions

saying millions of things by your eyes

forever together we shall there lie,

would you be my.

Would you be the pillar I've wanted all along,

the power which helps me face the world

Would you still love me with all my failures

not letting our love die,

would you be my.

...Just mine..

Beneath it is written,

“PS- I’ve never tasted something as delicious as you.”


The police wrote in their investigation-

Cause of suicide could not be ascertained.

Case Closed.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

In The Dreams Of An Old Man

Like drops of rain,
dripping down the paves
at the dead-end of night.

I hear the slowly fading voice
of all that used to be.

My dreams betray me so does my tenacity.
As I give away you into me.
Powerless I lie,
reminiscing all those moments.

The drops of memory thrown at me
like the dead leaves of a once alive tree.

The thoughts mutilated incomplete,
time plays with them and the order perverts.
Changing into what was not.

It’s a thought merely a dream
and I shall live again,
grow, be awake perhaps free .
So this I shall partake.

Just an old man’s dream, it is
and I am just a character
a Shakespearean Hamlet.

It is but Claudius’s dream
I shall be alive
later I shall breath.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Wordless Verses

Let me paint a wordless poem.
Phrase filled poems are too loud,

I would hold a dead leaf
And pour it unto paper,
Call it my best work.

A poem of memories,
A verse filled of tears,
An ode to my unslept nights.
A poetry called life.

Shall caress the leaf
To my heart
And breathe life in me.

Ah to be able
To live in my lyrics.

Coming Back To Me

I swirl in a circle

Going back to me. Where I left myself,

Alone walking on that road

With no one

But the sun to accompany.Where I hope

With nothing but

The shards of destiny

Ripping me apart,

By her gleaming promises.Where I dream like a child,

But a lost one.

On unknown paths.

The nightmares relieve them

Turning human.Fulfillment is a coquette

And I run after her. I swirl.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Chronicals of a Death foretold


- I like bougainvilleas, when the sun sets through them. They shimmer in a glow, which can make you smile, sad, hopeful and nostalgic. All in that one moment.

- For me the evenings are always a little sadly uplifting. They take me to my grandfather’s place in Silchur.
You know they have very different evenings over there. It’s either raining if not, then the sky unlike the orangish hue here has a bright dark shade. And when the sky is black around you
All your hopelessness and failures seem to have a lesser dope on you.

- You have these strange romantic notions about sadness. I fail to understand them. How can dark clouds make people feel better?

- They do. Just like a sunset through bougainvillea can give you a closet filled of emotions.

[Somewhere distant, in between the orange and black, a pair of bird separated. Their trajectory changed.
The hue of sky was blue there]


Adjectives defined her -
tall, slim, brown eyes
and when you look closely she had a particular spot in her lips.

It was all of this that he saw, everywhere, anywhere.

In novels, crosswords, streets, dreams.

And once even during a particular cricket match, he thought he saw her among the crowds in the television distinctly.

That was the moment when the word love registered his mind in all its glory.


He was amazed, agape; spellbound
and if you went any closer, the distinct thuds in his heartbeat could be savvied. He felt.

[He still has this recurring dream where he is drowning.
And someone laughs in deep unbearable intonations.]

It was the way he spoke among people, the words he wrote calling them poem
And how a cup of coffee could make him think of utopia.
His chasteness was his sex appeal perhaps.


- How can I frame you in something tangible? You are a face carved in me.
You are my words in all her beauty; you are my origin, my infinity.

And a few more lines in an absurd rhyming pattern were conjured up as her birthday present.
She smiled and kissed him.
She knew he hated ornamentation and loved him for it.

He refused a promotion to become professor as it required using new pin codes.

In her newly furnished apartment in Rajar-Hat, everything is Italian.


- You are the most elegant thing I’ve ever touched.

- You too sweetheart are the most precious thing I’ve ever took hold of.
In our bed room.

Laughing loudly she hoped he laughed too.
Now when she thinks of this moment
seldom she does.
She has an out of body experience.

He loved the way she smiled and laughed.
But then he loved his poems once too.

He had stopped writing altogether even the journals he has to write in his capacity as a Department head, too seem difficult at times.


- You are all my words garbed into one. You give meaning to me.

[She was undressing.
A dim scarlet was all over her,
it was the slow seeping light of his study lamp.
She was smiling.]

- I love you for the ways you make me feel special through you.

[They had made love just then and she was looking for alibis for him.

She had groped for those words even before the two minutes ordeal began.]

It is on moments like these when she tried to love him even more.


- I think am falling for you.
- What’s that supposed to mean?
- I think, I love you.
- So, you think?
- No, I feel.
- You feel?
- I do.

[She smiled; he took it as love accepted.
Perhaps it was then.]


Now in her Italian furnished home,
She tries to read quality literature.

He tries to sleep peacefully
But it’s an ego war every night.


- I am very bright.
Even as a kid, I learned to walk, talk and read earlier than most.
I can grasp things quicker than is average.

- I had dyslexia. I still have.

They had told each other once.

It was true.

Monday, July 12, 2010

You In Me

And on nights, all nights
Our lives twine.

When you
Smiling, Stroking,
Rest on my shoulders, lie on me
Just like you used to,
Quietly, surreptitiously.
..I am in love with silences now.

Enclosing your hands in me,
I hold the fragments of air
In my palms.
They exist,
They persist.

And uninterrupted we stay
In the quietness around
Quietly we talk,
We mime love.
Like the winds,
Like the skies.

Whenever I smile,
Find you near
all while.

And you smile too, at me.
You breathe still, within me.

You are near me, here.
Close, nigh.

I know, can breathe you
I am certain.
I am You.

Confessions Of An Ignorant Stone Pelter

Ah don't look for me,
perhaps I would not be.
They have gunned me down by now.
I was an empty sky
the end was anyway nigh
sky, vacated of restless clouds.

Why I resorted to violence,
couldn't hold the comforting silence,
the pain of being suppressed.
My mind wandered, the opulent free world
came back, to my democratic broken hearth.
All love in me repressed.

How I couldn't be a quieted citizen,
turned into a shame, a militant denizen,
amidst all your organized helter skelter.
You killed me afraid,
your moral stance must not degrade.
What was I but an ignorant stone pelter.

Friday, July 9, 2010

If You Do Come

...And when you come again,
shall relive those times..

Take bits of clouds
and weave them love,
to make them rhyme.

Shall saunter, we two
through mountains,trees
by the peaks and the depths
of passions, of tranquilities.

If you do come again,O love
will watch you sleep,
without inhibitions.
serene, in peace dewy-eyed but deep.

...And when you come, If you.
perhaps then shall I pen a verse.
Just like our love,

...Incomplete,insufficient and terse.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Shesher Kobita-Revisited with Oscar wilde


“Is hypocrisy such a terrible thing?
It’s merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities.”
-Oscar Wilde

Reading this he smiled, a personal smile, an ode to his memory and of course Oscar Wilde.
Scribbled in the last page of “The Importance of Being Earnest”.
She called him a hypocrite.
Priscilla had a beautiful full handwriting wide spaced unlike his, short and small.

7,761 miles, a mental calculation he always did.
This love is like, water kept in a kalsi (jug) and she was like a lake.
The water never to be taken home but into which mind can immerse itself.
He had written this in his diary somewhere.


A kiss may ruin a human life.
-Oscar Wilde

Bay state road,
in his apartment,
love making,
for the first time.

It was later that he told Priscilla that all the 120 seconds of it
He could only think about Kolkata and most of the places in India he had seen.
Once even the map of Asia.

She laughed, like one of those loony laughs she had.
In a later confession she had told him that, it was some kind of exotic experience
And that his lips almost tasted like those spices in the chicken curry he cooked.
And that she had faked it.

In retrospect now,
He thought, it was not making love
Merely some kind of white man’s (woman’s) burden, guilt that she had
And for him it was something like anti-imperialism, if there is any such word.

Two people holding each other and in an act cleansing there racial pasts and history.


I like men with a future and women with a past.”
-Oscar Wilde

Durjoy Banerjee was brought up like all Bengali “bhadra lok” are expected to.
In their pantheon of Gods they even had Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Tagore and Renaissance.
He always said, though metaphorically.

A middle class household
in American terms they were almost eligible for food stamps
But then in India you can do well with such family salary.

Riding on parents dreams
Raised to go to Presidency College
and then to Oxford
he went to the Yankees somehow.

He never knew Priscilla’s background much, apart from her arts major,
Divorced parents and a linage of boyfriends ranging from
Black jocks, Boston Brahmins and now a Bengali Brahmin.
And that she loved comics, you know like Phantom and all.


“They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever.”
- Oscar Wilde

Durjoy knew that this answer was almost impossible to find
'Is It Love?'

Though he had once heard her listening to
Rabindra Sangeet in her apartment
But he knocked and it stopped

And he, absurdly bathed thrice a day with three different soaps
Only to be fairer,
perhaps closer to Italian.

He had tried to read her Shesher Kobita (The Last Poem) by Tagore
She could just not fathom it though.

And once in a while even today in his home
he glances through Phantom.

About her he knew nothing much.


Shesher Kobita
“The tragedy is understood by the girl who releases him from his troth and disappears from his life.”
-Farewell My Friend

And he went home back from Boston to New York to Mumbai and to Kolkata
She came to the airport but unlike those air port love stories nothing happened.
She smiled and waved and promised to stay in touch
he just smiled.

All through the while he was thinking about Shesher Kobita to give him the power.
Even the plane was on time, unlike the sub-continental flights.
Half an hour before Mumbai and according to the old man reading Boston Globe next to him
Above Karachi he had thought of running back but momentarily.

Even now Durjoy baths thrice a day because of Kolkata’s humidity.
They call him Gora babu.
Perhaps daily chores of living together would’ve killed the love.
He smiled and again quoted the same novel of 1928,
Shesher Kobita
Slowly perhaps reassuringly.


KetakI and I - our love is like water in my kalsi (jug) ; I fill it each morning, and use it all day long. But Labannya's love is like a vast lake, not to be brought home, but into which my mind can immerse itself.


Priscilla lives 7,761 miles away from Kolkata in Boston
She is Dr. Pricilla Earhart now with a PHD in Tagore and his works.
And yeah
When Durjoy went she just wrote in her diary later,
Phantom runs faster than the eyes can see
And perhaps the heart can feel.

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Forgetting You

You know, you don't
frighten me now.

I can draw your face in air
can even look at you ,
and stand still, both at once,
many more things, free from troubles
o love, i can now do

i have your photograph, just one
underneath my pillow
Goa somehow looks better,
with the summer sun breathing down
and you to accomapny it
warm, still mellow.

you are not into my thoughts
not more than a paasing phrase
like a man who is unknown but familiar
like teddy,
of the nine stories,
or rime of an ancient mariner

I have let go of you, o love
all of you..

the way you looked at me,
of your fragrance
me not bathing with cuticura
is perhaps an evidence

how you called me,
through your lips
with a certain pause,sinusoidal.
am mispronounced here, forever.
its better though, my name through them
would'nt let me plunge deeper

how you brushed
barring a few strands
all your hair back
nothing holds me now,
nothing is that beautous o love,
am like a river, but slack.

your poems are buried
to be lost into memories
all of them, but few,
just those i remember by word
and with time i shall, erase them
i shall forget them too

strangely dear
i dont have coffee now,
two spoonfuls all
you gave it me with
these days seems
bitter somehow.

but am happier now.
as i don't
think of you.

its just that sometimes
when it rains
you talk to me,

and i hear you saying,
whenever it rains
wherever you are
think of the drops
as if they are me
making love to you.

trust me, i don't.


You know, how easily
i've forgotten you.

Thursday, July 1, 2010


I woke up in your embrace today,
and with that
half written page of
one of my stories,incomplete.

Story I wrote for you
as you loved them
and I wrote them to be loved, by you

I woke up in love
and only the walls and curtains
privy to it
and no one...but You.

You in my arms
were made of a night cloud
few rain drops..and love

outside the windows
the rains were playing games
and the smell of
the morning brew
accompanied those eyes of yours,
your eyes or was it
the raindrop through the window..
Perplexed I smiled..

I wish you could see my dreams.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Just A Word..

looking at the ceiling,
being miserable,

The day
a lifetime away,
listening to
the silences
of night,
the winds blow,
wistfully though,
closing eyes
for another time
and a drop
of tear portruding
cuts a sorry a line,
wanting to scream,
but preffering a sigh.

far away
some infant cries,
ah the new born
and I
share the same plight.
all mixed
yet muted

its just a
normal pain..

Perhaps love is
just a word..

let me not love

let me not fall
in love with you,
all my music,
my words, my days
and pains
..let them be my treasure.

the love
if we have
would be scarred,
by me.
am unworthy,
of all, that is you.
Deadened emotions,
cold and stoic. a colour, but clolourless
bereft of love's hue.

let me meander,
go loveless,forlorn
wither away
like time,
for your smiles are the price
am not ready to pay, love.
..a coward that is me
cannot commit such crime.

look at me like a desert
free of an oasis,
look at me like a dream.
I never happened an illusion,
was I
..a star who could never gleam.

Of Kolkata, -Linklater, -Kafka, -Bergman, -London And Their Love


- " A City must have a character,
this is..
What I call character..
It's perfect.Just that"

-" I call it colonial hangover and nothing else,
besides character and history.
A city should have some pride..
It's not what I would call perfect.
Don't you think."

-" There are something’s
out of the reach of your nut-sized brains.
You won't get them Asit.."

and Asit laughed looking at Rituparna,
As she kept looking on..
at the structure,
then horizon and him.
She just smiled.

The sun was setting on, a building, a marvel
called Victoria memorial in Kolkata
and the orange hued canvass
almost matched with rituparna's orange kurta..

Asit looked at her and thought..

And she just looked at the panorama,
the setting sun,the structure, he and her.
How could it not be that.. Perfect..

It was.. Just that..
But he wouldn't understand..


Before Sunrise by Richard Linklater

-" Why do they need to meet after an year,
if they love each other they should just
get together.

-" Because love
is not just about whims and fancies
and the spur of moment
it requires time and as for you Asit Majumdar
time is a rare commodity.
But some people can afford time
atleast for love.
It’s still called being pragmatic. "

Asit laughed as he always did
and Rituparna just carried on
looking at the movie
but somewhere in her mind she knew
he was laughing and looking at her
and that distracted her.

She just hollered, “You Idiot.."
and he laughed even more.

She made a face,
she smiled inside.


-" Its Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis.. "

-" You are an escapist
and you’re a sad person.."

-" No, I am a thinker,
I think and that
makes you afraid of me."

She looked at him
And said again

-" Literature actually makes you calmer
and somehow practical.
Asit, its like soul food.
Like love..
it makes you better
and healthier somehow.."

-" You my friend are strange.."

She did not utter a word..
He somehow felt
she looked so beautiful
when she's vexed.

She loved it when they
argued at such things.


Frankland ,

'As time goes by'
the exact place where Ingrid Burgmen enters
for the first time
and after a while says,
" Play it Sam.."

Asit was looking at the motions
Horrifyingly and alone in London.

And then he realized
that you have to meet again
then you understand love,
Because love is not just about
whims and fancies
and the spur of moment it requires time..

And Sam plays,
Dooley Wilson sings

" It's still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.

Oh yes, the world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by."

In Kolkata,
It rained that night...

Waters and Tears..


- " Hi Ritu..
Do you think of me.."

-" I have the paper to complete
deadline is hanging on my head.
Moreover you'll be in London
for years and if I start thinking
about all of it.

I'd just be sad..
I have to be pragmatic..
I do think of our college and
all the fun. But seriously
I am busy, Asit."

...In Frankland Road London,
the evening was slowly walking by
and the night sky was pregnant
with coming rains
a few drops had already started falling
and he was looking at all of it
through his apartments windows,
with a hard bound copy of Amerika,
he felt like Karl Rossman in New York
only it was London.
He managed a smile.
He loved rains.

Though if looked closely
the book in between the lines,
"A movement without end,
a restlessness transmitted
from the restless element
to helpless human being
and their works!"

had five drop of tears
two among them were
between words -helpless humans.

...And in Kolkata
Rituparna Mukherjee was alone in her room
packing, some things.

she had finally accepted
to be seen by, Debashish's family..
So she was to get ready for it,
but right now
she had something important
and practical to do..

She was making a bundle
and it constituted,
A photograph crumpled and cried upon
taken in front of Victoria memorial,
The Movie DVD of "Before Sunrise"
which she saw twenty seven times,
her Kafka collection,
A few old cards,
some poems written for
and to be read by
only one person in the world,
some memories,
and love.

She had to throw it all today..
and get ready
for Debashish and his family..

..Asit meanwhile
was devising ways
to make his new-found love

For The Terrorist Of Sopore

Its beautiful,
serene, calm,
the snowcapped mountains
and along them the Jhelum,
with peace, evident

just look through pallhalan
to sopre the routine gun
induced hum-drum.

few potholes greet you,
then a group of children,
studying under a tree,
their school is the, rest station
for the personnel.
all around, one for every three.

fortnight ago
fifteen of them were killed, the children
by the brave personnel,
they be blessed.
most of them fifteen.
though militant nonetheless.

..One of them was
Ishtiyaq Ahmad,
killed of a bullet
of the free democracy..

let's pray he was innocent
in his early teen,
as it would be
a travesty
them turning terrorist
at the ripe age of fifteen..

must've ran on those roads,
roads of Sopore
must have bathed
and played
in the clear waters of Jhelum.

His heart must've leapt
at the new plucked, apple with joy.
Unawares of the approaching mayhem.

They say,
he was playing in lawns
when the protectors
with Kalashnikov came.
the bullet thrust him
and a Jihadi was tamed.

Our land, the great one,
must be proud of,the victory
of its free democracy
when a fearsome militant gave in,
patriotism rocketing sky-high
drowning the stage of ecstasy.

Let them come and go,
the separatists
stone pelters,
We have to protect
the greatest, grandest country,
at gun point, in need.

let us, let us all
make each one of them

Around the world in a life


The place I almost hated
with extreme affection
went there only once though

Somehow after the chilly north bengal
and sikkim
it was just not needed.

Heard a lot of Siliguri,
Siliguri resonated in Kolkata through you
Auxilium convent, your school
and the big bungalow, as you always said
at pradhan nagar.

I never got a chance to see them
though they are so graphic into my mind
the big black main gate
and a nepali named thapa kaku,
Conch playing at distance and in between you
with little pig-tails reading
“ The Merchant Of Venice”

.. London is colder perhaps
Perhaps thoughts go warmer with age..

Or Calcutta

St. Xavier’s,
Park Street,
and love.

You as I find you in the shelves of my memory
always vividly in bright colours
fondling Jane Austin or Shelly..

Fondling huh!!
it was your word for everything
within touching distance
..even me.

Kolkata is where
The first time I saw you
Somewhere in the college canteen
and as I lied to you
later somewhere in Berlin
that it was love then.

But the truth is
I fell for you not then
a conglomeration of events
led me do it.

Perhaps when you
during one of our opening talks,
talked not of me
but Coleridge

Knowing my literature background, said,
"Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark.
Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin.."
I was shocked and in love.

I wrote my first poetry that night,
it was your face woven into words.
And your crooning voice
while when you talked.

I called it,
" My Only Moon"..

It was all Calcutta to me.

.. It still lies in between the pages of
Roll Call to Destiny by Brent Nosworthy.
American Civil War.

Let me see it again..


Reading that poem and thinking about your voice
reminds me of this place

Have you ever seen white, into everything,
this is how I remember this place
Even my shanty dorm at Newton campus.

Boston was covered with snow all over
& I was covered all over with credit subjects,
The amerian civil war
and long distance phone calls.
I missed Kolkata, I missed you too
was homesick.
Never told you.

I always asked you to recite something Tagorish,
and you sang,
" Ami Chini Go Chini" ( I know you, O I know you)..
and I in reply said..
" I am eager and wakeful,
I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope."
& You thought I was being cheesy..

Perhaps that was the loveliest conversation we ever had,
even though we were 7,761 miles away.

...Those miles have been the longest distance
I've ever shared in tears

The Phone rings, if it’s you,
I'll tell you how long you'll live..


The phone call missed
as I've always missed things in my life
Like your wedding..
Or was it intentional..
Plain uncomfortable..

The wedding at Kolkata was a normal boring affair
I was told
it was here,
Berlin that you took Dibendu for honeymoon
and I laughed
thinking about the Berlin lit fest on offer..

Am sure it was not love
but your revenge on me for leaving you

I somehow
always thought you were somewhere their
its strange why didn't I miss you then..

You were sure to find me at Berlin
and how you exhibited your shakha(Bangles) to me,
talked about Michael Ondaatje
and his book, " The English Patient"..

As if nothing had happened.

I told you
that neither of us left love,
the distance did
and you cried, I could just smile.

I started my first novel then
the one I am still writing
even though I have published three.

.. My first book still beckons you,
perhaps me too..


Almost successful with words
and a professor of creative writing,
that is what London is synonymous to me.
And ofcourse your regular reviews to my books
and everything I put into word.

At times I feel its the telephone
which is the source of our relation.

You still say I Love You at the end
you still Do, maybe
and I still smile.

Though we havent seen each other for ten years
your marriage,it has been twenty two years
and you still use the word
love.. I still can only smile..

I am the sole Shylock of our story
always asking for a pound of your flesh.

Though I see more Indians here
then anywhere I've lived
its almost lonely.
I think of you walking to me
through the garden of xaviers at times.


The phone rang with your number
I picked up with a smile
It was Dibendu telling me you've passed away
a heart attack,

I don't know who died though
and it was heart ache and not attack
was it?

Perhaps all this has already happened
.. Ah old age playing games..

Monday, June 28, 2010

Not A Poem- Not A Verse

Some words don't rhyme,
some lives too,
some stories are bereft
of the start
an end
like the hopes of some..

who cannnot but hope
and that too seems
utterly unreasonable.

This is not a poetry
but a conglomeration
of fears of tears and of hopes.

..For those,
who cannot breathe for the fear of being bombed,
who cannot see the blind eyes of the world at them,
who cannot laugh but at their own helplessness,
Who cannot live because death calls every few seconds.

..For those
who are already gone without names,
who raised there voices to be cut in between,
who believed and thus coudld not live,
who fought and lost as right always never wins.

..For those
who still believe that someone up there lives,
who still see the goodness in the various revolutions
and who do not fear being named by the powers of publicity.

Some words don't rhyme,
some lives too,
some stories are bereft
of the start
or an end
like the hopes of some..

But sometimes
sometimes if after everything
if you still believe
you can draw verses
which are free
and then you shall see
rhymes with poetry..

To those who believe in resistance, who live between hope and impatience and have learned the perils of being reasonable.

..To those who understand enough to be afraid and yet retain their fury..

To people like Arundhati roy, Noam chomsky, Howard zinn, Edward Syed and to all those who came fought and went nameless..

Dedicated to all the tiny specks of goodness around us..

May God be with us..

A Poem That Is Her

She is a pen
and a paper entwined,
she's her words
and some exclamations thrown in between

She is some fiction
and a lot of poesy too.
And she may have her bad days, be weird
and sad, but mostly she is true.

She's strange with her ideas and ideals,
But She's sugar nearby,
Believing in 'Happy Endings' and Cupid
and That Mr. Perfect Guy.

She’s, Oh I Love Rains
I'd live in them alright
am not that talkative, It’s just you
And am just happy enclosed in twilight.

She's, I'll find you a freaky nickname,
Or I'll now make my R's curved.
Besides all her cussing and adventures
It's always that plain old espresso that is loved.

She is Shakespeare and frost
with a lot of Harry Potter glued
She's, I love it when they criticize your pennings
but you are my favorite writer, Dude..

She is a noun
and infinite adjectives,
can talk, cry and smile at alternate moments
she is heroin the drug, she is addictive.

She writes only when she bleeds
her emotions are not penned
they are lived into
and then sown in words and letters

And afterall that she has lost
has held on to that one inner chord
that one path, which goes to her
somewhere deep within
and that is
what makes her intelligent
and sensitive
and lovable
and everything..

She is but a poem herself..

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Not A Poem

Some words don't rhyme,
some lives too,
some stories are bereft
of the start
an end
like the hopes of some..

who cannnot but hope
and that too seems
utterly unreasonable.

This is not a poetry
but a conglomeration
of fears of tears and of hopes.

..For those,
who cannot breathe for the fear of being bombed,
who cannot see the blind eyes of the world at them,
who cannot laugh but at their own helplessness,
Who cannot live because death calls every few seconds.

..For those
who are already gone without names,
who raised there voices to be cut in between,
who believed and thus coudld not live,
who fought and lost as right always never wins.

..For those
who still believe that someone up there lives,
who still see the goodness in the various revolutions
and who do not fear being named by the powers of publicity.

Some words don't rhyme,
some lives too,
some stories are bereft
of the start
or an end
like the hopes of some..

But sometimes
sometimes if after everything
if you still believe
you can draw verses
which are free
and then you shall see
rhymes with poetry..

To those who believe in resistance, who live between hope and impatience and have learned the perils of being reasonable.

..To those who understand enough to be afraid and yet retain their fury..

To people like Arundhati roy, Noam chomsky, Howard zinn, Edward Syed and to all those who came fought and went nameless..

Dedicated to all the tiny specks of goodness around us..

May God be with us..


She treads,slowly
through the people,
remnding of slow flowing streams
to look at her, is to look at peace
of joy she gleams.

Draped in the hues of love and care
and a lot of glistening jewels,
she looks like a gem or perhaps a new moon.
And her voice
Ah to listen to a nightangel croon.

She is what poetries are made of.
Her eyes are sonnets
drawn into a canvass,serene
she dreams of a place, where the first rains,
have kissed the leaves, green.

The dream makes her wistful and sad.
If she could be there in the greens
among the rains,
a drop fills her eyes as she reminiscnece
of the unseen
..She grows in pain.


She runs and scampers
to a place under the shade
near the footpath beneath the tree
to protect her from the chilling eyes
of night,to let her sleep free

She wears something
the colour of ash
and her face is devoid of feelings, empty
perhaps like her stomach,
with hunger aplenty.

and as the full moon sighs over her
she closes her eyes
she must be dreaming
of a plate filled of rice
..As she smiles.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Let Me Not Write

I may pen the sorriest line tonight,
like the stars are but twinkling stomachs
of unlimited hunger,and the sun is so
but the fire inside ,the heart of jungle
but would it let the unknowns feel any better.

I may draw these verses of mine
in my own blood, sweat and pain
but if our conscience
is dead and buried
shan't all be in vain.

For what use are my words.. If,
they do not make
the hearts bleed,
with the untamed agony
of the unequals in need.

The poetry is worthless
if it does not fill the minds
with the arriving fear,
when all the opinions are snatched of us
and what is left are our own unbathed tear.

alas we are numb now,
of our abused luxury
and abundant opulence.

we are slaves of our own ignorance
devoid of any moral penitence..

I Shall Write Rain

It rains as I sit to pen,
the voice, the sound calls me
into it..

..O these drops are but words
gathered into a cloud
and when it drizzles
with each drop a verse falls
and I tie it, into a poem..

.. Let me unfurl it tonight..

I can write about
how the clouds remind me
of someones long tresses
or how the falling rains are like caresses.

I can write about the sinfonia
the water plays and lets me fall
into thoughts and her deep embraces..

I can write a hundred metaphors
and frame them into a thousand poesies.

I shall write tonight
an ode to you, without words and metaphors.
I shall pen.. Rain ..
in between the page
and sew it
with two drops of the falling verse
and all the love within me..

Wednesday, June 23, 2010


Your eyes, they run
all over me,
and then stop there
always there.
and on moments, few moments
when I am fragile,
I hide myself
slowly closing my eyes.

In a crowded place
your looks freeze me, or you
I haven't yet known..
When I walk
with a perfctly crafted stroll
with my head-hung
and no matter how unsung
you make way for me
as if
as if
..I do am a bomb.

Your blaming eyes
they trace me,
trying to hold me convict,
of crimes undone
just once
to quench their moral thrist
you make me alien
I know then
..we are not one.

It happens everywhere, everytime
as you are fed on the wrong me
and then your eyes feed me too.
When you bow me down
make me low.
How can I feel protected
..Anywhere but my ghetto.

Your eyes
they try and evoke
a certain guilt in me,
I smile then,
innocent you.
..A Strange pride fills me.

Your eyes, they run
all over me,
and then stop there
always there.
.. For I am named Ahmed
Or May be of my Beard..

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Then the poet shall live

Pen me, a poem
few colours, some rains.

Through your smiles,
the colour of your eyes,
drops passed by
your lips, kissed
and with a sigh.

Gift me a morning
with just you in sight
all shadows fallen
separations aside...

..A poem wordless but drawn,
into the whites of our love.

Colours none, but
of the first green leaves
and of eternity
through the endless sky above.

Rains just as music
with the song of glee
an opera with a happy end
the story you and me.

The morning would be
covered in a promise
made of my breaths
holding you within me
bereft of any mortal deaths.

Assure me holding my hands,
all of them in your pen and more
shall you give.
Smile to me, and caresse me with them,
Then the poet shall live.

..Then the poet shall live..

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Green Hunt

I do not exist, not for me,
neither for you.
a shame.. That is me,
am transparent..

Have you ever heard a Pathoni?
they do not sing it
on any television idol,
its not marketable, maybe
..but it is heard,
heard where I live,
there it resonates,it goes on.

But O! you don't know that
I live, I sing..
Do You.?

You live in hotels
with numerous stars,
fours and fives
And when they burn
they make you red
I burn everyday.. Through you
..Your number of stars
are the number of
meals I have,in a month.

And you know it
You behave, as if.. You don't..
But you know,
don't you.?

I pray
that you never feel
what it is to know
that your son will go,
go of hunger
and you see it quietly
at times out of anger.
..Let me tell you,
it is not a reality show
rather reality shows.

is such an abused word now,
but you suffer from
a different disease
it is being obese..
ignorant too though
I call it myopia still.

I do not exist, not for me,
neither for you.
a shame.. That is me,
am transparent..

I'll not recognize a pen
perhaps will try
and think of it
as something edible. coin me into some
Philosopher Chinese.
What can I do
but laugh
as You name me,
You hate me
and You fight me.

I do not exist, not for me,
neither for you.
a shame.. That is me,
am transparent..

I dwell on trees ,
and cannot contribute
to the gross domestic product,
eating grass
my land does perhaps
and you want that.
Though I am crass

You ask
why do I fight you?
Why am I so violent?

sitting beneath a roof
in the heat of summer
watching television
in your abodes of rest,
it just becomes easy to say,
'Lets clean our forests.'

Lets clean our forests.

On nights, like tonight

Not always
but on nights, like tonight
I think of the road,
the road which
opened the door to my hut,
the road on which
I ran and it smiled
and when the first rains
bathed it,
I overjoyed in its aroma.
..How once
it let me fly.

Not always
but at moments like these
I feel alone,
that dreams left me,
and I think of the hopes I once had,
simple hopes, simple feathers,
Hopes of a good day
and a good harvest not much.
..On such nights
I know I was abducted, of them.

On nights like these
I see the stars shiver,
shudder from a loss
and I see the moon
as a platter, an empty platter.
..Just like the metaphorical one
I was left with.

And then I think of my hamlet, my land
which they desired and took,
I think of how I releneted
all of us did,
I think of them
and their own moral stances..
..Of how
I am still an invisibel to them.

On nights like these,
I travel in time
into generations
and see the faces of all my blood
and how they smiled,cried,married and died
of how their smiles were excavated
and my past taken away,
my ore purloined.
..Such nights,
I promise to again be,me.

At times like now,
I think of the letterless us,
Ignorant and lost and depraved
and how we are named
philosopher and revolutionary and danger.
It is then that I chuckle
and the bullets within me hurt.
..I hold my gun
all the more tightly.

Not always
but on nights like these,
I hear a song, resonating,
a song I heard
long ago,
of reclaimed dreams
reborn hopes
and rescued respect
and then on nights like these
I smile, just smile.
..Preparing myself
for battles in the morning and ahead.

And on nights like these
the road opening the doors
to my home
lets me sleep into her arms
in a dream
and sings a lullaby.
..Into my sleep
winged I fly.

..On nights, like tonight..

Do you miss me when it rains

And then she asked,
aross atlantic,over a phone.

Do you miss me when it rains?
I smiled,
and said..

When the winds blow
to conglomerate the clouds,
fallen leaves
of the old banyan rustle
and I hear,
..slowly but merrily
walking to me.

The blowing winds touch me
like you did.
..And I feel your caresses.
All the blisses.

The falling drops
on my balcony call out your name.
..I close my eyes,
and listen to the symphony.

And the clouds,
the dark black clouds
embrace me, as if it were you.
..& I feel loved.

Youre evrywhere love,
How can I miss you..

When it rains
I miss, that coffee
you made though...

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Living Through 1989


Precidency in the middle of the eighties
She almost never found
when she fell in love
and she knew
That he never did..
A dark blue denim kurta
and a light faded Jeans
with the upper half of the handkerchief
flung outside the pocket.
This is how she remembered him,
Trying to convince evrybody in the hall
that communism was still the need of the hour.
Even though Reagan,Osho & George michael ruled minds then.
But he like always knew what he was saying.

Perhaps it was then
when she fell in love with him
even though he lost the debate
and human capitalism won hands down
or maybe when
she saw him talking to
the tea vendor outside prescidency
detailing what Gorbachov is doing
and the vendor asked, who was Gorbachov dada
Or when she saw him playing football
at calcutta maidan with all the kids.
Somehow somewhere she knew it was love.


He was Heathcliff Mukherjee to her
a name dedicated to his antics
and the way he smiled at her
in a strange contorted but angry way
Heathcliff personified for her
Once told her,
'You belong to tollygunge neither Prescidency nor me'
and she said
'And you Heath belong to me, not Glazkov.'
He just smiled, contorted.
She knew then that he didn't.
Being and belonging was out of his reach.

Love for him was always
an abstract notion
and he disliked things more than he loved them,
like bourgeoisie people,
people like her
The idea that he was in love with
was Communistic utopia
and Russian writers, but her perhaps no
and may be she loved him a lot more for this.

It was this devotion to his ideals
that she loved and hated
and yet it was the seed
that let her love grow.


For him it was
how she always had a poem in mind
for his thoughts
and the way she said,
"Alturas de Machu pichu."
Though it was never she
but the things she did that he loved.

Yet ninteen eighty nine broke him
the wall broke
and Russia made
carved out of his utopic USSR
his thoughts had failed him.
His ideals betrayed
a lost man he was

He decided to leave prescidency
for a govt. school in Mednipur,
never to be back.
He left her an edition of "Canto-General"
few photographs and his memories.

The bourgeoisie in her
had to move on in life.
Though she read Peoples democracy every week
and a few times found his articles too,
Once he wrote

'Our struggle against Neocolonialism is like
Heathcliffs love for Catherine
we can never attain it perhaps
but the fight gives us
the strength to breath.'

And she knew he loved her as well.
Perhaps for moments but he did.

It has been two decades,
two fallen empires
and twenty seven articles in Peoples democracy
but she still hasn't forgotten
the dark blue denim kurta
and a light faded Jeans
with the upper half of the handkerchief outside.

She prays perhaps in some village in midnapur
a man stuck in 1989 and communism hasn't as well.


Picture 5

You were to leave for london
and had to reapply for the passport,
you look a little older
and your eyes seem a little swell.
Perhaps you did not sleep well.
You are wearing this unlikely yellow,How??
Its strange that they do not make people
smile for passports, strange.

I recieved your message,
Just before the airlines announced for departure,
It said Goodbye and a smiley.
I remember that I couldn't smile though,
I tried.

I don't remember
how I have this picture but I do..

..But I don't have you.

Picture 4

It was totally out of context,
It's at your home sometime in december
a few years ago,
It was Sharmishtha
your little sis's engagement
and we were a little late,
I wasn't at home for last two days
and you wanted to go together and called me up.

This picture has you
in a maroonish sari with golden hues,
You had started to gain little weight
and the smile almost looks madeup
but then who can forget
that you were the Drama Champ in JNU.

I almost hated you for this picture
but kept quite.
How can we be so prepostrous to smile
for a picture when we...

We never did talk
all the while there, did we?
To look at it now still look worthy of the name Cleopatra.

Picture 3

On our anniversary,
this picture was taken
in Mumbai near Tara road.
I believe we went to Marriot that night
and into Enigma because you insisted.

I can see the cool sea breeze
letting your hair fly
you look at the camera
the way you looked at me then,
the eyes of Love.

I remember you saying,
"Don't act like an oldie
and you kissed me inside the Enigma."
Beside Richard Marx was singing
"Right Her Waiting.."
I almost fell in love again.

You wore this Cyanish shaded top.
How cloth concious you were
your dress radiates sea.

We had a small fight
that evening for me being late
on our anniversary.

..Perhaps we made love that night.

Picture 2

JNU campus Delhi,
You stand besides a peacock.
Remember we posted this picture
in our wedding album
calling it the queen of Aravali
or was it the queen of Ridge?
You have both your hands towards me
and you were mouthing I love you baby
while we were taking this picture,

the light green kurta
goes so well with the Campus green.
You had won
a University level Dramatics thing
Kallol it was,I guess.

The picture is crumpled
but you still radiate yourself through it.
You remind me of Anne Bancroft here
perhaps more beautiful.

..Remeber How I couldn't let go of you then, But I did...

Picture 1

This picture is black and white
and it has no connection with me
but I have it
you were ten years old then
Baba holds your hands
and you wore polka dots,perhaps red.
Its in your old home at Saltlake.

You look so happy,
I had promised to give you the same happiness
all through our life, this way
on our wedding night
and you had just cried and smiled into my arms.

In this picture you smile
the same way you did
while inacting Portia
and winning the best actress award
at kallol in JNU,
you lost that smile
somewhere between this and London.

You didn't know you would loose it, did you?
when we first met at JNU,
when i called you cleopatra,
my own cleopatra and you smiled,
when we held hands
and spent our evenings at Haze,Delhi.
I still have that smile of yours with me...

I do...

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Woman All The While

Colours draped all around her
as she untangles her hairs
letting them be
she looks on to the horizon far away
perhaps in a dream.

Expressions on a swing, alternating
with each passing moment
as now she smiles
with eyes drooping down
and lips curled in unknown glees
making it all the more mysterious,
a ploy at your knees.

As the evnings turn pink
and they blush like a bride
through her eyes,
and she catches
all the falling breeze
at her face
to look at her
maybe it is to see love
she knows.

And a drop flows
through her eyes
as a solitary bird on the sky flys
and she looks at it thinking
of its loss and lonliness
wiping her tears
to make the clouds smile
she has been a woman all while.

..she has been a woman all while..

Season Of Love

The drops knocking at your window pane
may talk to you of what I feel.
Have the breeze to caresse you
with my touch.
Let the dark clouds
be my embrace.
..And the greenest of all the green leaves
make you smile and blush.
O love..

The starless sky
tell you of how lonely I am.
The fragrance of the first rains
make you miss me, like I do.
The water drops enclosed in your palms
..let them be the moments spent with me.
O love..

Let the nature talk for us
my love,
Let it be our secretkeeper..

..O love..

Monday, June 14, 2010

Sunset In Serengeti

the red floral sari,
a fading lipstick
of almost the same colour,
Darkness engulfed, fragrant hairs
and You.
... Almost with Photoshopped perfection

But those eyes were the ones
Which held me back,
..and I..
kept on looking,
at them, at you
slightly drooping,
light brown and thick eyelashes,
little moist and a lot more dreamy
they reminded me of evenings.
..Orangish evenings, sprinkled with tranquility.

Of an evening watching the sunset,
Somewhere far away in Serengeti
Along the african plains
serene, breezy, warm..Untouched
and an antelope hops away through the sun
but all of it were in your eyes,
..Perhaps it was love at first sight. Through your eyes

I have never been to Serengeti,
Nor do I wish to,
But have seen it
.. Waking up next to me every morning..

Friday, May 28, 2010


That night in december..
You asked me to stay,
The night,
even when you were asleep,
just to be there,
so that you'll feel protected..

And I did..
sitting by your bedside all night,
reading Gorky and sometimes your face..

Even today at nights
I sit by my bedside but alone,
just to feel protected..

Monday, May 10, 2010

Unknown To Me

An afternoon drenched
in the colours of rain,
I view it sitting with a coffee mug on a mahogany table
a crumpled black and white picture
In which I look a stranger
and I smile both in and out of the photograph.
Now,I am unknown to me.

The rains all spent,
the sounds,fragrance and your eyes,
all come running back to me.Until I run,
run with my thoughts.
Its you I imbue.
I am unknown to me

The coffee mug If I see closely, still
has the imprints of those small finger stains,
Though I rarely have coffee
only on noons when it rains.
And when I do, I reminiscence too of you perhaps.
I become unknown to me

The picture, of a summers day spent
while bathing in the rains just like todays
though it rained heavier then
or you held my hand perhaps.
And I forgot myself, I became you.

And now
I think of you almost never
just once in a while like this dripping shower.
and I've almost buried in memories how you took my name,
and the way you hummed it in the middle
then smiled,making me look into your eyes
and I lost myself,
I've forgotten the way
though at times I don't recognize my name.

Ah peacefully it rains soaking all the souls,
it was afterall long overdue.
And it rained out my heart of you,
Perhaps I've wet my eyes too.

And may be now I know me...

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Moon, Tonight

Upthere perhaps its different tonight,
the sky neighboring my window
is coloured with rains and a dotted moon's light.

Through my windows eyes,it seems.
with tears the moon is swell
it too is melancholic tonight perhaps,
perhaps it couldn't sleep as well.

It looks into my eye',
unnerving me,asks
don't you ever cry.

why are you so perplexed then
and look at me this way
with fear I close down
my eyes, my drapes
and the flowing river of thoughts,
my fears make me sway.

...At other nights
when the moon sleeps peacefully
curled among clouds.
The rains still drenches me.
I still look out.

Saturday, May 8, 2010


On other days,
when frigid november winds flow,
I let you in with open arms
to feel you within me,
around me,caressing
with your gentle touches.
And your gentle dance,warmly
all over with glee.

But these days
I dread to look at you,
to know that
you won't comfort me,
your touches would not be caresses
but vehemently wil hold me.
And my pain will be your ecstacy.

I close my windows
cover them through my drapes
and even doors,
I lock you outside
and free myself of you
inside my cage.
and you cry
to be free inside,heavely.

Though you are around always
Yet I ensalve you outside
and we contradict ourselves,
How capricious are we O sun.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Telegraph Lied

Telegraph Kolkata

The next day said

A speeding truck kills a man in the outskirts

And that he was from tollygunge all of twenty five

But they didn't say

That his R's at ends were curved,

And Liverpool was the team he loved.

Was still reading Wuthering heights then

Perhaps the fifty seventh time

That when he wrote his poems and even in life

On certain days he just loved to rhyme

That she still remembered his actual birthday

And not the one registered at the college or club.

That he could never cook rice properly

Or even slice tomato in perfect fours

But he said that there will be a wagon of maids

Who’ll take care of all her chores.

She was finally learning to drive a car.

Only Mondays were worthy

Of his intense painful hate

And when Thursday ended he wanted to have some ice cream

or chicken at Chinagate to celebrate

The last date.

Rains still made her gloomy and she still

Looked for him everytime she crossed tollygunge or presidency.

She Still shivered if someone said ,

I am pursuing English honours from presidency

Or I love Keats

Even when someone called out debesh on the streets.

And whenever her husband made love to her she still imagined him.

Her ATM pin was still, sixteen seventy four

Or she never ever heard Sinatra anymore,

Both her sons and their father knew

She was allergic to tulips

And only she knew she wasn't

It just reminded her of a few stolen days in Munich.

And his Maa-Baba still called her once in a week.

She still had saved his old telephone number,

at times she still smiled at their love day sometime in November.

She still watched Bonnie and Clyde

And laughing she wanted to reach him forgetting he had died.

It was all of it that she knew Telegraph didn't write.

Telegraph Kolkata

The next day said

A speeding truck kills a man in the outskirts

And that he was from tollygunge all of twenty five

But what they forgot to mention

Was even she after that wasn't alive.

But one thing she was sure about

That the Telegraph had lied.


Amidst all the hues of scarlet blood and hut muds.
watching all the noises and smokes perverting.
dreaming of the first rains healing me taking me with her
to places where compassion resides,paradox gnawing.

still somewhere there, look serenity arriving..

When words are not enough for verse,
and all the metaphors go unheard.
while protecting self from guns and deaths
so those rubbles of hopes aren't murdered..

revering to fly in the sky, to talk to the winds to be free,
to heal me from the wounds of rhyme from clutches of poetry

Its faith they are marauding
still somewhere there, look serenity arriving..

Redundant hopes,Refused acceptence
yet perseverance and truth colliding..
Don't let me go..

look serenity is arriving...

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Summer Knocks

Silence breaths aloud
the slow but warm
wind outside
penetrates within
as I pen,
pen away my heart..

A storm brews
inside and out,
outwardly its calm..

A stereo plays distantly
or a child laughs
Its almost indecipherable
and I settle with the child
It soothes me perhaps..

As it swelters,
sweat drips upon the page
onto the words
and seeps past
things unwritten, unheard.

the heat is reminiscent
of something lost as well
a childhood may be

and the music of child
at distances but mute
again evokes me.

The silence deepens
as a void creeps in
something intangible
wants to be touched
my emotions dead are they

or the almost cool unphased heat
that side of my closed window.

And Someone thuds
both within my mind
and at the door,
summer has come,

It will be a long day
I am now assure.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Man and The Chair

Sitting in the verandah,Old Baba's chair.

wearing a forlorn look,

Its been tewnty two months and seventeen days

since anybody has kept twisted and pen marked Telegraph on it

and neither does anyone hum slow soothing rabindra sangeet tunes to it,

even its handles are cleansed of the tea marks,

It just sits their as if a recluse

and keeps on gazing at the veranda,

As if it still waits for someone to comeback.

somedays while he is passing through the hallway.

He steals a furtive glance at the old chair kept their

and he paces up fast

as if to run from something,

something he can never run from though.

The chair almost always stays on his mind

like Chekhovs-through the looking glass

or the beatles

or like its owner his baba.

How he used to look at the June Calcutta rains

through the balcony sitting on the old historical rocking chair ,

he used to call it the Marx chair

as the chair almost always had a version of "Proletarian Era" neatly folded

and The Telegraph crumpled like an illegitimate

the chair is still there

but like an unwanted guest, rather a feared guest,

He does not want to think of it, But knows

It is sitting besides the shelf

containg all the volumes of stories and poems

of Chekhov and Keats

a passion he shared with Baba.

Resideing lonely looking towards the balcony, it waits,

Just like he waited for him even after two months had passed since his funeral

for Baapi to be back with a bag of Illish and an office bag

The chair too waits for someone who talked to it,

of Lenin's and Basu's and Pele's and Gavaskar's

It waits for the telegraph to still be kept at its handle

with a cup of black tea with one fourth of lemon.

It waits for someone to sit again

and hum slowly "Purano Shei Diner Kotha" to it

and then in the alternate moment to be told

My son is turning into a money eating capitalist.

So many afternoons he had sat on it

Baba's lap listening to his stories and poems

And then after a few years reading Ayn Rand on his own

detested by baba, the chair still let him read it.

and now he was afraid of it.

what if it asked him where was he,

Where was its best friend and his baba,

Of how he went suddenly

just a week before Durga puja's

he could still figure all the seven and half wrinkles on that face.

While he was crying, through his tears

Dying of an attack.

The chair still must bear a few old signs

one or two hairs ,snow flake white

or the circle carved by the cup which kept tea,

a protective lap, or hope, or keats

Perhaps baba

The chair must feel lonely nowadays..

Just like him..

Have You Seen Him

Have you seen him,
the one
who hides behind his words
evrytime the world comes
running for him
and then as if
their ain't a place else
drowns into them.

Have you seen him
who looks
at faces and roads
and dreams of things untold
then talks to the trees and birds
asking them the stories
that went unseen,unheard.

Have you seen him
who asks clouds
where they live
and unanswred runs behind them
just to catch a glimpse
of that abode
where peace resides.

Have you seen him
who sings
to the breezes and rains,
songs which still have hopes as word
and then smiles to himself
then on his thoughts absurd.

Have you seen him
who wants not to be seen
living in a world
where hopes still have a place
peace still a possibility
and utopia a known face.

Have you seen me...

Friday, April 2, 2010

A Meddle Into The Middle-East

A wall and a bank cry,
People unknown die,
in the land of Reich
and even in fiefdom
of sheiks,
But more so
under the sun of Gaza,
but the world sees quietly,
as blockades are built
at human hearts
and the world sees acquiescent.
Partly malevolent.
Boiling sun ,people undone.
Sabbath works,Azans unheard.
And none to blame,
Holier art thou O Jerusalem.
Arms are added
for enemies to take a bow,
for all we could do,
Mazel tov.

Fools Rush In

A running shower could not prevent Karabi guha’s voice to spread out of her bathdoor

As she was reciting

“To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed …”

Anindyo Pakrashi has woken up at five and is still seething with pain

Of last evening, those yelling and hurled abuses, but somehow gulps down his morning tea.


Never has she felt such happiness since, she first bought

Her pair of red Stiletto Shoes on her sixteenth birthday or may be even more,

She smiles dreamily as she puts on the light lipstick forbidden by her mother.

She has never been in love before

And all the while she continues humming Shakespeare

In a slow husky nonchalant tone. Which she does not even realizes.

She has looked into the mirror twenty three times

Since the last forty five minutes and had changed into

Five different pair of jeans. As she reveries of,

Those perfect forlorn eyes of that tall imposing man

Who versed while he talked

And could let you swim into the deepest oceans of romance

Through Keats and Shakespeare

She was sure that he too felt for her the same way

When he asked her to explain those lines to the class

and she said,” Love is immortal as it is in these lines…”

He then gave an assuring smile as if to say, just like ours dear.

And then looked back into the book as if hiding something

Maybe these emotions he had felt

after the class she hastily picked up the page which fell when he did that

thinking of it being some kind of letter

but it was some gibberish coded language she could not get

It was still precious nonetheless, being from him

She knew she had fallen for a perfect man.


Prof. Anindyo Pakrashi couldn’t recollect the faces of most of his students

He could hardly recollect anything apart from his English books

Like yesterday he had forgot to buy the grocery again

And his wife had yelled at him and all his demi poet Gods

He felt saddened and stabbed, after all where was all that love

Which had blossomed entirely due to their common love

For the written word.

Life after the death of your youth is a curse he hollered within himself.

But he wasn’t a complete fool as she made him to believe

He could recollect an exact moment where

Where he had remembered grocery in class

When a girl had explained the meaning of

“To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed …”

And he had smiled then remembering it he knew he had even made a note of it

but after a moment looking into the book somewhere like most of his belongings

He had lost it.

He would surely buy the grocery today.

And all the while through the radio Elvis was singing,

“Wise men say,
Only fools rush in.
But I can’t help
Falling in love with you.”