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.