Saturday, September 22, 2012



Opu sits alone in a bar at westbury.
He thinks of Shubhomita's prolonged battles with cancer and orders a drink.
He is yet to go to work even after two weeks.
And somewhere in his mind a voice still says,
"Opu, kedo na."(Do not cry.)

But he would, Shubhomita.

There is something endearing in your absence.
In your waiting I live a thousand lives
and in your hopes I die a million times.


Arghya is down on Succharita right now.
He lives amidst sore kissed and bruised skins.
He has read Nabokov and sometimes in Succharita he can see a grown up Lolita.
There is no love that sighs in the contours of this passion
what resides is the concrete structure of an urban loneliness
and a forest of foreplays that breathes in their minds.

Succharita knows Arghya is flawed and probably does not lover her.
But in all her thirty five years of existence no one absolutely no one saw her that way
and so she would let him indulge.
Because she is a voyeur of her own life and tonight she would just be loved.

And Arghya takes a bite of the gossamer skin, as now he goes on top.


Binod is walking down the stairs of his thirteen floor office space.
He can feel the silent screams of sunrays falling at him.
He can listen to people talking and TV sounds and all the city horns blare at him.
But right now at this moment his heart is with Trishna,
he is back in 1998 walking alongside her from the football ground.
There is no beginning there never was and he lives in days
and he comes home in hope that he would find her.
Until he realizes she left him
for HIM.


Sayan, writes long monologues.
He sips coffee and stays inside his Lymington street home in London.
He knows she never knew that he learnt French just to impress her
that he wore those stripped jeans to make her love him
and wrote seventy nine poems in three languages just for her
but of course he never gave her those
and she had no idea who gifted her Anna Karenina on her nineteenth birthday by post
And she is alone and a spinster living in Bishnupur.
But then,
she never knew.
And he fantasizes about her.


Shreetama who learned to walk two months before Sukanto did.
Read Divine Comedy an year before.
Drove a car almost six months early.
Saw 'Before Sunrise' Two days before Sukanto and Casablanca two years.
Has also moved on in her life before him
and Sukanto hopes he will follow soon.

An unknown couple is making out inside a shanty lodge in lower east manhattan.
And breaking up in Rippon st. Calcutta.
And having a baby in Spandau, Berlin.

People are happy, sad, broke, wild, hurt, ecstatic
Living and dying right here at this moment.

And I,
I just miss you.

Land of talking poetry-

In the long rantings of my brooding pen
I have found that poems never answer 
but they groan, ache and talk 
whatever is left unspoken by them 
can hold the vastness of pacific, 
that their metaphors are nothing 
but lost lovers who speak in thoughts 
fulfilling themselves in illusions 
and that what poetry asks, must be answered
and fullstop them to an end.

We talk like old friends
(which we are)
and I promise them their lives
while walking to a synagogue 
of unknown distances.


If I could 
I would travel to a place as far as carpatus
where words have home and the doors they are bookmarked
where forgetfullness is permitted and I am naive 
a place, where the sky rains into prayers; where wishes resign to end 
and clouds are a prophetic darwish to tell you what you need. 

There, perhaps
I would know how your name on my lips 
leaves me with the sweetness of baklava.

How your skin is filled with the softness of a breeze 
yet the warmth of a sun.

And just how your eyes can hold 
all the powers of the galaxies and stars 
and days and nights
and me.