Long ago I went to a desolate place in Assam called Rongpur
during one of my whims
the mornings were cold and damp
and I saw the sun, waking up the clouds
the sky was littered with clear blue trails and miniscule dotted birds
and I thought of this girl who was so faraway
and all her quirks
for those moments
I became her
the Tanima that was inside me saw it
like juxtaposing an alternate reality with this baffling-ly calm Rongpur shokal.
Somedays when we crisscrossed each other
with muted breaths
and I felt tangibiliy worthy enough
I crawled inside you
I saw you like the mornings of Rongpur
with you-and without you
sometimes the meanings do not matter.
In the early morning toasts
sometimes I try to hide your shadows
while I look at you sleeping carelessly
and that hazy toast shadows over your soft linen morning skin
you are captured by me an almost poetry
and yet not.
I fall at your feet like bread crumbs.
Tanima who wrote things
not poem or prose just words on a white sheet
the girl who was never alone
someone who would cry while reading a tender passage by Marquez
and yet would eventually stay stoic while Opu slowly died of leukemia
and I wandered, jostling with alcohol and failures
Tanima the tiny droplet that caused ripples
in the sometimes silent waters of hooghly
where the horizon began and ended somewhere, no one could grasp
Tanima that untamed city called Calcutta
which pained, burnt, erased and metamorphosed like a Kafkaesque novel
unfathomable like Nostradamus
unflinching like the Amazon
I held you in my hands fidgeting with your skin
that rubbed my palms still smelling of you
and I held you until you slowly wept
and the tea vendor shook me, "Babu, what happened?"
And you tell me-
'How we leave so little of ourselves behind
that we almost stay outside the periphery of each other’s memories
like a tune that you know with words forgotten yet almost there on tongue.'
I have never written you
you are never an episode that can be chronicled
for you know, words they give away
and I have never been adept enough to describe a picture postcard
and so, I leave it at that
and as you would say,
write a word no more
to write sometimes is to sin
undefined I let you live.