Saturday, October 29, 2011

The Sisyphus, Segismund dilemma of an unscripted write-

A character is never the author who created him.
It is quite likely, however, that an author may be all his characters simultaneously.
-Albert Camus

Imrul wants to make films that leave you shocked
He is Bergman's 'Aus dem Leben der Marionetten' and more
He knows Jonaki loves him but as in his movie
There is always a BUT that spoils everything
As for Jonaki she has Vronsky and Darcy in Imrul
She has read Imrul's sonnets while copying his notes
She finds his talks fascinating
She is about to call him again.
Diganto does not believe in love he finds it absurd
He has Kafka and Kierkegaard and Existentialism filled in himself
He shall write a story that has no script, no central charecter just life
as it is.
Poushali is confused
she thinks she is an intellectual and reads 'The Myth of Sisyphus'
She knows not much, she knows a lot
That 'the absurd is the essential concept and the first truth.'

Diganto is yet to pen a poem but he dreams of being a writer one day
Meanwhile he is looking for inspiration in Poushali's eyes.
Imrul does not want to work in Calcutta he is leaving for Bombay tonight.
Jonaki cannot bear the idea of letting him go.
She has not read a page of her Albert Camus in the last three days.

Imrul wishes Poushali knew how much he desired her.
Imrul has written fourteen sonnets in the last twenty pages
of his Political Sciences notes copy.
Poushali ray finds this city stifling
Her creativity is at stake here.
She wants to be lost in the swelling crowds of BowBajar
She wants to live and breathe and feel alive and be absurd
Jonaki is all love

Diganto smokes his Marlboro and thinks of an idea
that he could create about the idea of life.
Poushali walks by College Street wanting to run away to meaninglessness
Imrul is going to a whore house trying to live his film
Jonaki is contemplating suicide
'Il n'y a qu'un problème philosophique vraiment sérieux: c'est le suicide.'

In Five Years-
Diganto shall be working in Telegraph, Calcutta
covering local news, married to a girl from Garia
still waiting for that one novel he'll pen

Poushali shall be the second wife of Mr. Salil Kanti Mukherjee
and live in West Virginia trying to decipher her life, still

Imrul will become an intense alcoholic
working as an assistant in Bengali main stream cinema
and still desire Poushali

Jonaki will be long gone

and life shall remain as inconclusive and absurd and unscripted as it always was

...While I
I shall know
that Diganto,Poushali,Imrul and Jonaki
none exist
that it is me who creates and dissolves them
that sometimes I pen things just to please me
that they are a state of my own recollections
of a sub-conscious life
that I shall take solace in the ideas of
Camus, Kafka and Brothers Karamazov.

That perhaps even I am a dream of an old man
waiting to wake up
that it is a dream, in a dream, in a dream
that existential dilemma is and shall be
that dreams may have no meanings and scripts
nor would life
neither my stories...

Monday, October 24, 2011

His Diary-

Tanima told me that I was worthy of being crazy about.
She actually wanted to shout out my name off the roof.
I remained silent and looked at her.

And when she prodded told her that she was mad.
I wonder why I cannot give words to my ideas
I wonder..

PS- If I could
I would call your name
Everytime I Read Salinger
Saw Brechtian's play
Used the Najdorf variation
Speak about Engels
Listen to Beethoven's 9 on 'Ode to joy'
Talk to the four year old nando of the second floor
Spend a winter afternoon at home

Do something that moves me,
strains me,
overjoys me,
makes me smile
If I could
I would call your name quietly
whenever I view the sun set

..Or even when I exhaled.

PPS- And as you would say its bā-ˌtō-vən and not bee-tho-one

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Perhaps-es :

[From the diary of Tanima
about Adam]

He has those deep set blue eyes

He writes poetries
hugely inspired by the likes of Cummings,
but writes good

He walked me to home last night in the chilling winters of Manchester
sans his dinner jacket and still was warm when he hugged me.

He has this wide grin that fills your heart
and an English accent that sometimes makes you laugh.

Jane Austin is just a romantic female author to him
and not someone with socialist connotations

Unlike all men I have known he has no revolutionary Ideals and Ideas

He does not know that Bengal is a place too in India and not just a language

He knows I cannot write poetry but is still appreciative of my know-how of literature

He is too verbose at times
and on others he is a reticent little pup.

He finds me beautiful and curvaceous and tiny

In the last two weeks he has told me twenty six times that he loves me

For him Calcutta is me and Tagore and slums perhaps

For him love happens like accidents or rains

For me love happens like seasons with a slow gathering momentum.

He is still fixated on the Shakespearean idea of love and tragedy

I know that love and even tragedy sometimes just happen
wordless, nameless and unknown they stay.

and the difference is for him falling in love with me
is a natural gradual next step

for me it is like wearing a new soul entering a new home.

And that I want him to find me not just beautiful and curved but like an idea as well
an honest utopian idea

And that I can perhaps love him and respect him but I cannot write poetry for him
as whenever I sit and write it is all about the words that were filled in my ears by him at Presidency

And he does not know that sometimes for me Calcutta is
just a horn rimmed bespectacled young man with vocal ideas

But tonight when he held my hands
and embraced me while walking back it was overwhelming

He kissed me on my cheeks

and told me for the twenty seventh time that he loved me

I smiled

And yet somehow...

Saturday, October 22, 2011

If I Could-

If I could
It is the fragrance of your voice
that I wish I could hold onto,

The aroma of it
a reminiscent
of all things known and familiar.

Things essential to let me be.
and home.

Here in the mornings of my world
there is almost everything
fresh coffee beans,
a sun full of warmth in my windows,
the clean visible lines of the floor
and the approaching known winter.
Yet something is missed.

Perhaps the knowledge of my being,
maybe a sense of belonging
or the assuring glow of your eyes.

I wish I could clasp
all our goodbye's in my palm
give them a perceptible human form.
And then I would've lived with it
until the end of our shared hiatus.

But then
however greedy I may sound
it is good somehow.

As the flickering light of your thoughts
and the known absence of you
gives life to the dying poet inside me.
And I scribble something akin to a poem.
Without which my poet shall cease to breath.

... You know,
It's this way
I grope for your voice in the unknown
and I end up catching a verse

Sunday, October 16, 2011

nothing else happened-

and then
the sun rose
as if the night
had consented itself
of its crime

and I was left with
a strand of your hair
and your smell on me

and the sun stayed
as if nothing else happened.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

And it stays-

Once every winter morning
when the sun in this town of mine
is too lazy to wake up
and little dew drops clasp my window,
my window turns into a canvas of a smokescreen,
of fog
and recollections

I draw your face in it
and the tiny water droplets
flow like a tear through your eyes
your image is what I hold onto

Once every winter morning
the season stays
with the fog
and dew
and me

On other days I write
like there has been nothing
I ever knew,
that resembled you

...I write of the seasons
and the city
and the people
and the unnamed,
guileless emotions
of mundane

But I write not about you
but voids
so that the melee of my words
abandon me
and am left alone
barren of my poetries
and my stories
and my defenses

...So that am left alone just with you...

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Part Us

And I live in your stories,
your words even pauses
structured into well knit commas and fullstops.

As you paint me a horizon
that is just about to come in existence
with the first rays
accompanied by a newly lit sky
and some floating clouds over sea.

put me in the sketched canvas of your memories and presents
like glowing mornings and passionate nights.
Make love to me as if this pause shall end my poem.


And let me live
in your thoughts and ideas
juxtaposed into a now and then
and if's and surity's.

I live as a mirage of your love.

Peruse me and keep me as a bookmark
of all your readings.

And know that
I evolve and grow every moment
with every bit of broken laughter that you send my way.

Marinated in the warmth of your cares
I transform
becoming part love
and part you

Friday, October 7, 2011

Making Senses

In the silences
of ocean and my shadows
dwell a few fragmented memories
a long walk back home through woods,
soft murmurs of my name on your lips,
dusky evening lights on your satin skin
a hint of a kiss that stays forever.
and I make love to you
like a traveler of a hundred countries, finding home
But as indiscretions of memories are
they have a way of making you a martyr
and you know for all I am around everyone,
inside am just a victim of your kiss.
And your voice amidst a thousand voices
remains alone just like me
letting me walk through
the dreary plateaus of this unknown land.

sometime soon
I shall lie quietly next to you
and perhaps then
everything will start making sense

For happily ever afters-

‎[makes no sense]


For a moment just a moment
Sayantan feels that he still is with Tanima.
Stark, raving, mad
as they were always
and that he reads PGW to her
a perfectly funny anecdote in some wild country side Europe
but like the ghost Heathclif
the picture of a tall imposing Adam breaths again.
He sees London like it was always the place he was meant to live in
and not Calcutta.

Calcutta of Madhushudon,
Fort William,
Wyatt architecture,
and Tanima.


Tanima has no memory of Sayantan
or even Calcutta
for Adam knows none of it
she loves how Adam dotes on her
and how everything seems so perfect
and she still maintains
that she has never read any PGWs in her life,
I just cannot fathom them.

But somedays she thinks of an unknown ocean of a city,
that never existed
where there lives no man
and all she allows herself to think of
is a moment just a stolen moment
where he recites in all the slowness of his breaths
with each word falling to her lips

"I know 'tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish
Than if 'twere Truth. It has been often so:
Must I die under it? Is no one near?
Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?"


Sayantan recites Coleridge to no one in particular
and when it rains outside his windows
he walks through "Fears in Solitude" as his only companion
and writes about a set of palms
that caught rains midway
only to splatter on his face
and he smiles.

He knows there is no blank verse better than this.
Someday he shall go back to Calcutta
like a visitor and sit around hoogly
and the slow gushing steam of silence that it is,
of all the broken verses he has,
and a torn memory of a moving picture that was,
shall move in this ocean of a city where no one now lives
but a shadow story
and a rumored remnant of a smile.

Perhaps he shall write a poem someday
a poetry that has nothing in it but blank verses
and dark tides.


Now, Sayantan packs his bags
for an ocean of a city
and a blank verse of a river
and a city sans a what if

And somewhere else
Adam sleeps peacefully
and Tanima feels his breath rising and falling.
She just woke up of a dream.
She has never been to anyplace but here she knows
but she had a dream of a river dark tide,
some rains outside windows
and an unpromised blank verse.
That never happened.

But they are just dreams
that make no sense
nothing ever happens
never did

And Adam sleeps peacefully

And they stay
Happily ever after.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Longings and Lodgings-

the lazy warmth of a lost summer day
perches stutteringly in the branches of a broadwood tree near my home
there are no shadows left of evenings and the orange skies
just the moonless twilights live
sprinkling bits of darkness through the doors

my eyes recognize the dark
unknown of the white silences
and those days
when my soul was not roped with the desire to be stoic
where smiles still had names
and a home of bougainvilleas called me back.

but that is gone now and a subtle chill of rational resides
in the tampered nests of my heart
where there is no poetry
only the rhymless letters of my name
bereft of you
and sunrays
and nothingness

and with the approaching darkness
of winters
things move
like time

as am left with
a withering cloud,
few nameless kisses,
a broken metaphor
and your memories

and all while i long for
a forgotten summer day,
lost childhood,
and me