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.”

On Departing

Travelers we are who for some span of time
Have Crossed each other’s way,
Holding one another, smiling together
Companions for a day’s play.

Now we move, but we shall know
Days together were golden were true,
You may not see me, nay remember me again
but behold this dear
O! My friend. with me always will stay a part of you.