Monday, 31 August 2009

O Sleep ! The queen of Night !

I hear you, dear. I hear melancholic rings of your bangles. Through the open pane I gaze upon the lonely moon...she floats gently through a silvery ocean of dreams to seduce leisurely laid middle-aged night. My eyes savour in gentle smiles spread upon the sleeping beauty beside. And, I turn again to observe your stealthy intrusion. I await the tryst passionately. Every chords of my heart yearn to string notes of your melodious footsteps. Why do you stay afar so long? I atone for my frowning glances slapped upon your passionate craving, for all means of neglect that wished to abandon your presence so close to my eyes and for my shameless embrace to quench a thirty pride. I hadn’t left you either for I needed you so much to sustain, flourish and secure myself in life with dreams that you had so wantonly offered. My becoming into myself is only for you. Behind you fragrant dark hairs I have always searched for sparkles of the truth. So much I prodded your advances; you kept on captivating my sense, bits by bits. You remain honoured amidst all my losing entity. The life has eventually blessed me with a sacred longing for you, my dear. I can see a lustrous horizon behind your silhouetted profile. It is neither I nor you that our rendezvous lasts for. It remains only a ribbon that binds us together for the voyage that life has paid for. Time is not far enough; and we will soon set sail for an endless journey together—unhindered, unquestioned and unanswered pursuit of infinite completeness of a mission. Before curtains drop, hold me again, touch me now, and float me in that final dream for a while, my dear. O my sweet sleep ! The queen of my night !

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Would we ever sing a song of life?

It was the first shower of this monsoon. No, it was not. We had had a few spells of raining before. But, it all had graceful descent from azure sky that would let souls to buoy up in delight. It went on blowing gentle tunes of autumn fall on its flute. Moments had flown through hours, days and nights till an August evening before they paused and closed its wings to witness captivating beauty of the queen of night—the monsoon. The last night could barely swear on its becoming a space for to hold sweet dreams within her folded palms of silence and it slowly crept into shrouds of giant waves of grey clouds crushing in from all over. As a mature twilight had neatly buried its last shaft of radiance into towering minarets of western castle, the night swathed herself in an awe-inspiring obscurity while clouds kept on brushing newer tones—darker and darker—that would present its facades more fearsome and ruthless.
The tempest swept in so swiftly and had already drenched long curtains widely hung upon those eastern windows of our bedroom in its juvenile fervour. Those long windows had offered us endless moments of delightful presence of those tall trees in our orchard—some older than us—with broad sunshine dancing down through its silhouetted leafs, and with moonshine showering its silvery shades upon, and in utter darkness of night with sparkles of glow-worms—weaving designs with dreams of the past and nostalgia for the present—and with holding nests for so many beautiful birds that sang the morning tunes for us.
Stupefied we stood in silence—motionless—in midst of ravaging lashes of the tempest. We could hear aches of pain, shrill cries of fright and hisses of sardonic chortles of destiny from above those hidden branches where our little winged friends struggled to keep their tiny nests secured and chicks protected. It was an appalling revelation but for an ordained futurity that some had certainly lost either the nest or the chicks or both before the curtain was drawn. Somewhere deep within we felt missing those unnamed friends, whom we never knew, but whose melodious tunes the dawn would ever borrowed to knock at our door. Were there patches on our faces where confluences of some futile tears and squally spray of raindrops had truly surfaced? Perhaps, we would never know!
The morning—a calm, cool and shining—did knock our door again. And, it again borrowed all sweet tunes that it had always done. Our tiny winged friends kept on singing newer songs of life for us. We got up and ran towards the window. Destiny had left all signs of its unassailable supremacy. So had been the Nature.
But the birds still never forgot to sing those beautiful tunes for us with usual glee. The melodies never turned into a mournful dirge.
Life has so much to offer; so many tunes it holds within that a few realises like our so little winged friends. Perhaps, the Lord has, thus, blessed them with wings to fly high to breathe in lovelier tunes of life from above.
Would we ever sing a song of life?

Monday, 6 July 2009


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.

Tuesday, 14 April 2009

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.

Friday, 3 April 2009

The Numbers--to get connected and disconnected....

It has been for long the pages on my blog remain stoically dormant. There may not be more logical appreciation than dull errands of keeping professional priorities ahead if I am to satisfy myself with known tricks of reasoning. But, the world does not swing with your own priorities, own notions, own beliefs, own ambitions and own aberrations, rather they gather up into another world—the own world—which mostly swings with the world beyond. For some, this inner world, for some moments, remains disconnected to the greater whole; there it may play different tunes with octave incoherent to great orchestra of the outer world, it may rejoice in imagining this small world set afar and explore its solitary presence in seclusion of all feelings felt so far, of all pains borne and known, of all laughter spilled out of rims of fashioned lips, of all compassions generously shared from within soul sheathed in hypocrisy, and of all honoured sacrifices in deeds of a scrounger. There in such tiny space one may again float as freely, as safely, and as serenely away from all rays of wisdom as was once the pleasure of being encased in utter darkness felt for long joyful hours and months within mother’s womb. It is just that vacuity where the Creator spends only by His creation where just one to one relationship flourishes. Yes, there may be some space alike when you enjoy being disconnected, being away from numbers that chase you—the known tracks of race where ribbons bind you at both ends—and you remain fugitive forever.
One interesting mail that I received recently has brought me back to the pages, caught me between the numbers again that once stung so venomously during my youth. A slideshow attachment ( formatted as movie for viewing below ) presents how numbers are connected to its visual forms. While the show goes, you fall prey to it and seem to connect unknowingly to the numbers which aim to rule you for the rest of your life.

These numbers were once my companion in silent summer noon of vacation. They did follow me frolicking when glory of day vanished between those last strokes of brushes of twilight. Scaring dreams in flawless nights too flounced down with dusty pile of those unique elements. It took me several years to learn them, understand them and finally obey them.
They are strict in form, disciplined in action and ruthless in its subjectivity. You must have trust in them, else you are outnumbered. You must count you as one or many or nothing, but you are numbered. They despise anything abstract beyond themselves. They themselves take pride in different forms they love to be associated with—some are integers, some are primes, some are odds, some are evens, some are fractions, some are rational, some are positive, some are negative and some are complex. Only abstract forms they allow within their great world are its complex domain—the roots of negativity. That is the world within its wholeness where it reflects itself to create another competitive virtual world.
But, the most striking aspect of its supreme reign that has made be ever subdued to its power is its amazing sequence of unbounded stretch. Its real domain is boundless, so is its virtual one. They create an unbounded sequence with only a few bounded functions. It’s an endless universe with only a few elements. Whatever number you name, you have more followers than what preceding it. Every number is thus a unique leader with countless followers, still each of them are themselves followers of other leaders ahead. Everyone is following someone—a long unending queue. You shed one of your feather, gets down on count and so you move just a step ahead. You shed another feather—another proud feather of your self-conceit—to move another step ahead. You remain a leader always, but a follower still at the end of another long queue. You go on shedding one feather and another till you have left all you have. You reach the nullity of your own existence. You are none then—a big zero. You are the leader ahead of everyone, yet you never boast of being so; in the world of values, you are not counted, but your association make other numbers valued so multiplied. The known and unknown worlds of wisdom tend to your limiting values of nothingness to seek deliverance. At the feet of its sacrificial altar, all countless counted entities offer itself to finally find peace and bliss in you.
Maybe, the space where life gets it mission succeeded.

The epitaph !

Between leafs of time  S leeps the untold tale of life, In dreams of love and love of dreams. Smudging the margin in between The ...