Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Just A Word..

Awake
looking at the ceiling,
thinking,
breathing,
being miserable,
weeping.

The day
seems
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.

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

Perhaps
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.
..am 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

1

- " 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..



2

Before Sunrise by Richard Linklater

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

-" 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.


3

-" 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.


4

Frankland ,

Casablanca,
'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..

5

- " 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,
moments
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
known.

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.
Irony,
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
Ishtiyaq,
in his early teen,
as it would be
a travesty
them turning terrorist
at the ripe age of fifteen..

Ishtiyaq
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,
terrorists.
We have to protect
the greatest, grandest country,
at gun point, in need.

let us, let us all
make each one of them
bleed.

Around the world in a life

Siliguri,

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”
Abridged..

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


Kolkata
Or Calcutta
,

Ah,
St. Xavier’s,
Park Street,
Tengra
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..


Boston,

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..

Berlin

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..

London

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

..free
rhymes with poetry..


PS-
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

..free
rhymes with poetry..

PS-
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..




SHEs

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..

Though
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.

Instead
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

Stereotypes

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
near,close
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,
eyewitness
it is not a reality show
rather reality shows.

Malnourished
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.
..you 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?

Maybe
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


1

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.

2

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.
..

3

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.


4
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.

5
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.

Photographs

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
..you 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

Amidst
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..