Thursday, April 28, 2011

Inspirations and Loves-

And now she sees herself
Meandering through pages
Well formed into words and very descriptive
Almost with Tolstoyic authority
Though with beauty that was never hers
She watches herself crawl out of the book
And glimpses of Anna Karenina in her
Head strong but funny
Guileless yet smart
And better read than she ever was
She makes the hero fall in love with her
Over and over again.
Like she did years ago
With a real man
And not the chief protagonist.

And he told her
That I shall make you immortal in time
And we shall live together
Slave of pages
As I need your inspiration more than your love.
And she laughed then.

She closes the book
And stays there for a moment while thinking
That life unlike books
Is always imperfect
Before retiring to her bed.
And in the end they live happily ever after.

Somewhere faraway
He too is reading his book
And midway he stops to think
Of the woman he sculpted
And smells her in the pages
Caresses her physically and waves through her-
I wish she was an imperfect fiction, he thinks
And drowns in the happiness of his smarts and pains.

Monday, April 11, 2011

In a Moment -

And with every breath
a fragile moment ceases
and in this moment
I leave a thought
and catch a new one
a little breeze flows by
swamped by a windfull of them
a few leaves grown yellow fall
and in a distant space somewhere in mind
an almost forgotten memory crawls

Things change unseemly
like a blink of eyelids
a gulp of a bitter black coffee
a small twitch in your hands
as you remove mine
and a small heartbeat misplaced
unnoticed by any machine.

And in the next moment
I smile a little
the facade begins
you play with your fingers
looking at the ground
and both of us count
all the passing seconds
in the growing density between
now and then.

In a moment
acknowledged not
we grow a million miles away.
Just a moment stays
Just a moment stays

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Ghosts of Love-

There is an old bench
Near the calm sea shore
Made of wood, rotten and thickets coming
On all of it galore

She sits on them on all nights
All nights and waits for him
They say on all nights he comes he does
Wearing a sailor tunic, a bow and a red trim

As youthful as ever he stays
While she holds him in her wrinkled hands
As he sprinkles kisses on her forehead
And also strokes her white-gray ancient hair strands

A few drops through her eyes fall
On his war insignia she wipes them caressing slow
Through all her tears he walks backwards
A few paces to the shore and bow

She does not stop him
She never will
He said I shall come the night he went
And all she does is believe him still

And he always does
And he always does

Tomorrow she shall wait again
On that old bench alone for her man brave
And like their nights of unending wrinkled love
These words shall be immortal as well on their grave.

The old bench awaits us.

Friday, April 1, 2011

His Wife

Perhaps -Perhaps we never did meet.
For all I could remember is a faint black mole on your neck
And the early morning smell that you spread all day
...And the tiny ring on your nose which reflected sunlight
But I never saw amidst all the emotions
That you had an emotion that was bent on leaving.

And she says-
No I never infact.
The last thought in my mind
When I was about to leave for the mandap was You.

And I came
Just then
When she smelled of Kevada, Gajra
And not her morning freshness.
That mole was barely visible with that heavy benarasi.

-You know, I am perhaps
The most inconsistent lover ever.
And perhaps what I write is vaguely like Bukowski and Paz, not my own.
That I watch those French movies which depict too much sex for you
And that I can never make myself to understand your eyes
That you wanted to be loved and not made love to.
That mostly you gave in.
That you shall never like soccer the way I do.
That my love is not you but your body
But you have to trust me.

And someone thuds on the door.
Mamuni, it’s getting late.

Amal was waiting with his whole entourage of people.
Sitting in the mandap
Looking at the doors with nervousness
afterall he had never been in love before.

-You know, she says I am not the most beautiful women ever.
I am not Grace kelly as you like to think.
I look aweful in the mornings.
And I have mannerless sleeping habits
That I just watch old Hrishikesh Mukherjee stuff
That I like re-reading Jane Austin often.
That I don't know what the off-side rule is.
That your poetry seems self obssesed to me.
That I shall not sleep with you when you drink.
That I shall need you to cry on.
That I love you right now like no women can.
That I cannot marry Amal at any cost.

Amal took her to Prague for their honeymoon.
Amal did not even touch her for the first three months of the their marriage
as she said she could not.
That he burned the funeral pyre of her mother
as she had no son.
That he cried with her when she passed away.
That he took her to an Italian Opera
And then a soccer match and told her painstakingly that why that goal was not allowed.
That she told him that she loved me the first night.
That he just smiled and kept quite.
That he stood up for her when Dhrubo da remarked on her cooking.
That he was a teetotaler.
That he has bought her twenty M&B's till now.

That she has almost obliterated me from her memories.
That I am just a one page poem to her
That they caught my voice through the door
that day forced her to marry.

Now she looks at Amal when they are making love and says-
A woman can be wrong, you know.
And he still smiles.