Friday, December 30, 2011


That morning in his empty studio apartment
He had left a diary open with a few scribbled lines
No one knows if it was Faiz or him
He had a bad handwriting
He desired penning a book
He had recently fell in love with this too beautiful a woman
He never told anybody the full details
He was saving money recently
He was suddenly talking of monogamy and the values in society
He was reading Neruda and "Canto General" a lot these days
He wrote sad poems that lingered around
He wanted to see Liverpool win the championship again
He wanted to buy a taat'er sari for Nando'r Maa
He once had critically evaluated Garcia's
"Chronicles of a death foretold" for Vidya's literary pleasures
He sang Imagine like a bad copy of Lennon
He always read the Telegraph before he slept at nights
(That day he could not)

Ma said, there was no sun the whole day
Or her eyes were blurred all the time
Memory of that day get mixed up for her
She remembers though that she kept on looking at the door all day long,
I don't know why

When he was in school she had taught him to cross the roads
Look left and look right and look left again
He was an obedient kid
The night before the incidence he called Maa up
and before hanging up he told her that he missed her

Arghya was somewhere in Srinagar for a photographic sojourn then
Ratan wanted him to proof read his article
Shikha promised him a Brownie the next time they met
Abani still had his 'Nine Stories' unreturned
Jamini never believed that this shall be the fate
She still has his phone number saved
Biman and he took a life insurance policy just a month back
He had a plan to go to NYC with Shrijeeb that spring

He was there to leave Arghya at the railway station
Shoulders hanging, boyish grin and still making jokes
They laughed on the Monty Python that day
And before leaving he said, "Good bye Jeeves"
The moment that it happened
Arghya had just taken photograph
of a setting evening sun
And even after a year has gone by, Nilotpal still feels guilty
Just a few hours before the incidence he had told him
"You'll live till hundred. As I was just thinking of you."
But it was Veena that he was to meet that afternoon
And only she has all his nineteen poems intact
And she shall

Two people died in different road rage cases around Calcutta

something idyllic

There are evenings
hidden in the closet of memories
a fragrant smell of the
faint dry winters
and incense stick
and of prayers
with whispering voice of grandmother

Of memories at home
of childhoods
refusing to let go

And then there are you
walking by me like a moment unadorned
like a night
of a thousand fireflies

where I sit by the river
calm yet enchanted
and you
.. you walk and draw a ripple in the silent night waters
becoming a quaint white shadow
of me
and sometimes
my home

Making Love-

And as the night slowly fades by
like the slow burning amber
fluorescent and yet dying

I dream it to be
something like this night.
When I shall be held
by the moonlit shadows
of your face
with my moans slowly burning
on the wax of your lips.

And there is a voice
perhaps it's yours
perhaps my soul
calling our names together
as the curve of our skins
smudge into each other
and what is left
is a dripping rain of passions.

There will be no one
but the darkness
and a slow fading moon
which is privy to
what you and I have become
as whatever is left
of the ocean of our bodies
are a few salt lakes
scattered all over

Am nothing
but your wounds inflicted on me
am a kiss brushed in your sighs
am our love
and am ecstasy.

And with every warm breath
you exhale, fueling the light
of our shared pleasures
O love, you fuse life unto me.

There are better writes out there-

Somedays I do not desire to be cryptic
Somedays I just want to elaborate myself
in broken sentence
incomplete ideas

For example,
explaining how your voice is to me

like uninvited rains
like hard bound covers
like quality literature
like 'The Double Life of Veronique'
like Surrealism
like Liverpool with Premier league, someday
like Miguel Najdorf's style
like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight
like college street book shops
like a cashmere shawl in winters
like jaggery sondesh
like childhood memories
like world peace
like John Lennon's Imagine

And yet I find me incapable

like a slow drizzle
like dry leather
like Kafakaesque fiction
like Ray's Nayok
like escapism
like Liverpool dropping to number 7
like Boris Spassky
like A Woman called Golda
like Calcutta crowd
like minus three
like calories
like grown up failures
like Nuclear threats
like Mark David Chapman

I wish I could
write my feelings better

The other one-

Succharita still has those dreams
of things that never did happen
where she ran out of the wedding
never to be seen again
and she finds herself alone
standing somewhere near writers building
and it’s raining like it never did

And all while Rajeeb the guy that she did marry
sleeps next to her holding her hand
like a baby who needs continuous assurances
that she is there
and she always holds him
to assure she is
but sometimes only she knows
she is not

Life is so much about so many things these days
the Morning Darjeeling tea
Rajeeb and her offices
their occasional dinners
his special renditions of Paz
her making sure that Rajeeb gets
the correct proportioned maach fried
the way they occasionaly make love
Rajeeb's clumsy kisses those sometimes are cute
and a shared sense of destiny

They were the heady days of University
The days of the common Janta Party
Of Siddarth Shankar Ray's terror
Of Canning and Morichjhapi
Of dreams of utopia
the student revolutions
And Binod

The guy who had a voice like Bogart
The guy who always seemed taller than he was
who had a permanent five day stubble
and who always had a dream and a few poems
to leave you with

"Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show"

Sometimes Succharita, Shakespeare can make you feel all emotions that there are
She just nodded, willing to believe in every word he said
And while they kissed
she could strangely just think of Roses
Red scarlet Roses and a few thorns scarlet hued too

Later she met Rajeeb in Bangalore
He was quiet, shy and Rajeeb
And being Rajeeb slowly became an adjective
Of everything that is so normal that its almost unnoticeable
It seemed as if he was made to be lost in the crowds
He had read Merchant of Venice but no Sonnets
He never believed in struggles and armed revolutions
He who was strangely so comforting even in his presence
That you almost suddenly felt alone

They went to Kasauli and stayed there for a month, after that eventful wedding
The first words that he uttered after their Marriage was
You must be hungry after all this
And even in Kasauli when he made love to her
It was as if he was afraid that he would leave his marks on her
As if he was never meant to claim her

Rajeeb had read Sonnet 105
During one of the sunday lunches at Succahrita's
while he was glancing through her library
and found the brown diary
There was no name
no other mention
but he saw the hand writing
and he knew that he was
just a choice

Rajeeb has since
left office at lunch without notice
for she was running temperature
read Wuthering Heights
ran through esplande to buy her the exact flowers on her birthday
when it was pouring hell
stayed at home on mondays faking loose motions
just to see her the whole day
Fell in love with her every morning
Brutally killed his ego

In her dreams
There is a voice
'Love is selfish
Love wants this regular need of expressing it
Love makes you weak in knees and everywhere else
Love would bring no revolution
I love you but..
There is life beyond it too
Succharita for once live
and not just breathe'

Rajeeb still lives with this constant need of her being around
Succharita sometimes is around
Binod is mammoth in his absence

And we know there are things
'Stranger than Fiction.'


She slowly got used to it
with him
the way her ideas evolve in time
they say Everest was an ocean a few million years ago.

She always knew that the silent,
uninterrupted mark
on her left eyebrow
made when she fell out of bonu didi's hand
through stairs
was considerably poetic
and on certain Saturdays
a few years ago
when she showered for hours
she looked at herself in the mirror
she tried to wipe it.

It was like
the famous writers unappreciated favorite book.

And he told him
being the first guy ever,
would it hurt a lot if I kiss you there.

After eight years of consciousness about the opposite sex
and the knowledge of sex.
A few men who were there and yet not.
Writing poems on white A-four sheets with a perfect handwriting.
Whining to friends about females being objectified.
Reading Pamuk, Tolstoy and sometimes trash.
She met him.

He who would gaze at her for hours.
Who would describe her beauty impromptu and anew every time.
He who would write complicated poems about her.
Who would never agree that she was 'just normal'.
Who saw her eyebrows,
sad sketches,
pain of waking up in the mornings,
hatred for colleagues,
love for knowledge
and fiction
and choco-walnut brownies.

Who would constantly remind her
that full-names are always more beautiful
and life is so much more about now and ahead
rather than gone by's.

And when he wasn't around
she strew his clothes and slept.
Tried to smell him in his left over tooth brush.
Stayed indoors.
Touched her eyebrows while looking at the mirror.

Flash fictions,
red wines,
abstract modern art
and football nothing made sense.

And she later got to know
he saw Seinfeld and could never laugh.
Read the same books again and again
till they felt meaningless.
Saw reruns of Liverpool getting thrashed
and felt at ease.
Look at her photographs
and caress the eyebrows.

For them
it was still about
the mundane things
like his aftershave,
her small palms,
going through unread books in stores,
laughing madly at powerfully poor jokes,
sleeping on shoulders,
listening to heartbeats
and breaths
and Jim Morrison.
And love.
And adding on to their continued story.
Like this one...

After twenty years
two brash teenagers
many arguments
equal anecdotes
almost two hundred common poems
breakfasts on bed
intentional sick leaves
unslept nights filled with talks
and sometimes tears
and running towards each other
whenever alone.

They still write
their book of life.

simple love-

somewhere far away the wind scales
the burning skin of the land
slowly brushing pass
and the hum can be heard clearly
like on virgin sea shores

in the mind of my mind
there is a wilderness
a sense of a haunted night
a calm river bed
and i drown

a few tiny fireflies in my eyes
that light your face
and a sense of pause exists

it is not poetry within the sensibilities of skin
there is no aftertaste of the lingering warmth
that captures us during that instance.
it is simple, straight forward and matter of factly

and shouldn't it be this way
the slow swells of your breath
just there and yet beautiful
like moon shine out of a white night cloud
bereft of the overwhelming presence of poetry
the cage of rhymes and meters
slow, enchanting, felt
and just there
forever and more

Forgotten Verses

And that day I had written a verse
now I have lost it somewhere
a place I do not know
words, meanings, interpretations, names, signs, smells
all have metamorphosed in a void now
where did my poem go

Did they give her new attires,
hidden intonations
and buy her
or did she just walk through an unknown terrain
and is dwelling now in some dense forest as a native
I am left as a wordless, weak emotion
I am not a poet anymore
am merely
a human now.