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.