Truth

It’s another dull July morning—sodden, deadened and passionless. Gray sheets of clouds are stacked, one upon another, in abandonment of all expectations and expressions. An unexciting dawn slowly steps in.
I fear this stolid presence of moments. I fear this suspense surreptitiously buried in prospect. I fear these frowns of eventuality so perfectly painted upon my hopes. I lie defenceless, curled up in own tiny space with all judgements neatly proscribed.
The reasons are imprisoned, brutally crushed in soul cages for all past revolts. They have no pain to hide, yet it remains secreted for expressions not being so forthcoming. Still I glimpse a veiled hearth of rebellion tenderly smudged into patches of obscurity upon walls and roofs of the coops while the sullen sky bluntly folds of her smoky wings to conceal all radiance of the sun.
Only stream of pleasure flows through an infinite valley of dreary moments is of irrefutable divinity in truth.

Bless me with that silence, mother!

Those droplets of tears, I still remember. I still remember those few words and a long silence following. Still I remember the last cast of that angelic smile. I only remember not how hours turned into days, then nights, and months and years while flowing stream of life went on aspiring for the unattainable; and, within dark irises of those unnerving eddies of gone-by moments, all treasures of memories are sunk deeper and hidden. Memories slid into sheathing of omnipotent time. The ring remained sucked inside that unknown fish. Yet, once it is held upon the palm, it resurrects; one after another, gems of life’s only possession dazzle in shining beams of remembrance. Forgetting is an art till it bears the passion for remembering; till it has innocence of truth and love at its core. Memories have no divinity if it resurface as matters of fact—just some routine errands. I enjoy this gentle summer dawn with one such ring held upon my stretched palm, my dear Mom!
I sit alone, face to face, with them—those last few moments of ours. I hear sweet tunes of its supple stream. I enjoy holding them long, smell fragrance of its guiltless presence, and get drenched in sprinkles of its innocence. This fascinating rendezvous let my dreams run wantonly seeking pleasure of juvenility. I fear not to lose it forever; yet, I fear that my sins are enough to smudge the painted past of virtues.
Still I journey through it—through them—through those moments immortalised by presence of only you and me. Yes, mom! I hear you! I feel you by my side, holding me. The worms of cancer crawl in, silently invade every castles in your lungs, liver and body. The marching army plunders every cell and burns each pages of life. Nero plays the tune. Tiny rivulets of endurance end up in few droplets of tears leisurely disappearing in glistened eyes. Yet, I see a gentle overcoming of all unendurable agonies slowly spreading its wings over those feebly thin lips. It hangs unknowingly there till you I hear you saying something. Yes, I hear it—“It is time now...., my son!” A long silence follows stretching itself to eternity. The sky looks on, so the trees and I. The life hides itself in life and its pains and pleasures. Words ever fail in paying tribute to a soul that only loved and loved and loved. Love, perhaps, only blooms in silence. Bless me with that silence, mother!

Woeful darkness of night

It is my vain attempt to present transliteration of another Tagore’s masterpiece, “Dukkher Andhar Ratri”. This one followed by his last poem, “Tomar Shristir Path”, was dictated by bed-ridden Rabindranath during the last fortnight of his life. He could, however, edit the first one only. In that way, it was his last edited poetic composition. I have no dream even to expect that my words would either hold literary brilliance of the Great Poet or would it ever touch those fine threads of philosophy contained in the original, yet I would love to share it here with friends who are unable to access it in Bengali.

So often has woeful darkness of night
Had its sojourns to my door;
I stole a few glimpses of its sole rapier
Shining in buried beams of ruses;
Those perverted pretences of anguish,
And bizarre gestures of terror were only
The prelude to its feints in utter darkness.

Ever so I relied upon its wily mask of fright,
It only offered some hollow defeats;
This weird game of loss or win—
Sheer delusions of life, and
Of each steps entangled in horror
Ever since the days of infancy and beyond—
Remained satiated in quirks of grief;
And, betrayed animated streaks of dread—
A complete art by the Death deftly diffused upon the darkness.