The song of distant meadows !!

In my sparkling youth, on a delightful day of the college picnic, an ever-smiling teacher said to me "In your stubborn state, you don't seem to allow your eyes to get wet; aren’t you, really?" I don't remember what I said that day. However, when I think back to that old time today, I feel like I would have tears in my eyes if I heard the song on those early days; and, mto ne very candid, even today, my eyes get wet often when I listen to that song.

A decade before I was born, a song was written by Shri Salil Chowdhury, and, with the immaculate rendition of the song by Shrimati Utpala Sen, it had been immortalized in hearts of music lovers. When I heard the song as a child, my heart would feel a pain. Although, it was not age to understand its contents and spirit, but it qould leave a deep imprint of agony in my heart. When I grew up, with countless loss and defeat in life, the melody of the wailing soul and the words signifying such, lead to let open the mind as a strange confluence of a pure urge emerging out from within the pain. It does not speak about the worldly desires and hardships of life, not the stale balance sheet of victory and defeat; it is the source of great human truth. This pain is blended with the decayed vibration of a fainting humanity. Even today, when I listen to the song, I feel the same. I am involuntarily torn into pieces by the rhythmic world of childhood dreams. What a spotless stream of pain in the heart, what a wonderful image of peace in the all-lost sky; This infinite expanse is the inexhaustible dream of life in the core and the selfless sacrifice of memories that weave panels around it. 

Such simple expression is possible only in the mother tongue. Yet, I dream about many more to read it, feel the flow of his poetry, the beauty of the other world of his thoughts. So I attempt its transliteration to the best of my ability.

Oh! The songs of those distant meadows!

The ballads of wild pastures!

When in a pensive corner of the day 

Do they fade into a smudged horizon?

How do they set the sky aflame?

How do dreams of those moist days

Let my unharvested soul weep in silence?     

In wantonly flow of southern breeze

What leafless words do I listen to?

In calm presence of mind 

I feel loosing these tunes

In unspoken tale of someone’s pain

As if rustling leaves swirl and cry

In sweeping wind of an autumn dusk

Closing my tired wings

I seek for a nest to rest

I crave for the bank 

In endless expanse of a fierce stream

Hours go in futile dreams

Sailing thoughts to drift and far

And, my soul finds solace in 

Trifling means of an endless journey 

I haven’t aspired anything more

But to string sweet melodies for

To pour in the urn of this world

In lonely corner of my room.

Yet, delusions of such dreams

Lay waste to the feeble nest

And, are swept away 

By a dark tempest; forever. 

The original song in Bengali is also given below :--

প্রান্তরের ও গান আমার

মেঠো সুরের গান আমার

হারিয়ে গেল কোন বেলায়

আকাশে আগুন জ্বালায়

মেঘলা দিনের স্বপন আমার

ফসলবিহীন মন কাঁদায় 

মাঝে মাঝে উদাস হাওয়ায় 

এলোমেলো কী যে শুনি

বুঝি কাহার ব্যথার ছোঁয়ায় 

হারায় আমার সুরের ধ্বনি

ঝড়ের হাওয়ায় পাতার মতন 

ঝরিয়া যায় যায় যায় যায়

ক্লান্ত ডানায় নীড় খুঁজি

অথৈ নদীর তীর খুঁজি

শুধুই আমার যায় বেলা

ভাসায়ে আশার ভেলা

অন্তবিহীন পথের পুঁজি 

অন্তরেরই সান্ত্বনায়

আমি তো চাহি নি কিছুই 

শুধু আপন নীড়ের ছায়ায়

আপন বীণার সুরে ভুবন 

ভরে দিতে প্রেমের মায়ায়

প্রেমের মায়ায় ভাঙিল সে ঘর 

ঝড়ের বায় হায় হায় হায়

Untimely...

Racers see only the racers

Count who is ahead or at heels

Crowd cheers, money flies

Floats the craze, rises the rage

But, racers count only racers

Life and death race together

Collars and shoulders up

Who knows which is ahead of whom

Races go on racing

Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hain....

         Sahir Ludhianvi was a different kind of Urdu poet, who contributed majorly in enriching the film world of our country with new wave of thoughts. His poetry infused words with a sense of rebellion, a rare appreciation of human values. I would always carry a different message, even when understanding his poetry, particularly being rich in Urdu, for its intrinsic values ingrained within.

   I have long thought of attempting his work for transliteration, but always avoided as I am very weak getting correct expression of words written in Urdu, one of finest and purest languages in the world; yet I shamelessly did it and bear the courage even to share it...

The world of these mansions, thrones and the crowns,

The world of those societies, hostile to the mankind,

The world, infected with an endless greed for wealth;

What matters if such a world is bequeathed to us?

Each one is wounded, every soul is thirsty,

Eyes bear only confused glances, and souls are dampened;

Is it a world or a formless expanse of an unconscious whole?

So, what if such a world is bestowed upon us?

Where human attainment is just a piece of plaything,

It is nothing but the land of the worshippers of death,

Death still comes cheaper here than life;

What if such a world is bequeathed to the mankind?

The prime of youth gets distracted by misperceived growth,

The blooming beauties are saleable pieces on the floor,

Where love is a nothing but a trading deal;

Does it matter even if such a world is conferred upon?

It is such a world, where mankind is never valued,

Neither commitment is respected nor a friendship,

Where love doesn’t get the honour of love even;

If such a world is gifted, does it matter even?

Ignite the flame, burn down this world, blow it up!

Remove this world from the frame of my sight,

It is all yours and you take care of it, if you like;

So, what if such a world is even given away to me?

Amidst trammels in life there still floats a promise of renaissance !

Death—premature or likely, accidental or natural—always leaves an impervious void in souls of those near ones where gentle tunes of life resonate in strings of togetherness. Even memories of sweeter moments fail to replenish such vacuity. It remains secreted somewhere deeper forever in only a few weeping souls. Yet, such death does not offer ripples beyond a limited pool of human relationship. At times, it may infuse a greater collection in society with inspiration, or courage; but it does not leave deeper impact of sense of losing within. The martyr remains honoured as a social hero—a dedicated soul sacrificed at social cause—but not as a soul whose absence is felt deeply only for being no more.
But, when a death transcends beyond a thin horizon of kinsfolk to create an indiscernible hollow in broader ocean of people that gets instantaneously filled in with a dread of losing confidence, a fear of subjunctive sense of calamity, a fright of apprehension and a panicky state of insecurity; then it a terror. It cripples the society as a whole with a collective sense of vulnerability. With such psychosis prevailing, the society often rebuilds itself on more compatriotic sense, reconnects itself with more reasons and human values; but it may also fall prey to imprudent comprehension of reality that eventually leads to impregnate social mindset with a sense of retribution, hatred and ruses of crafty enemy of humanism. It often leads to war. It only travels from one form of war to another form. And, in every war, the victims are innocent people and the values of human civilisation that again take years to revitalise and bloom.
If there descends an eerie darkness, only flicker of hope still shines in peace. Camaraderie of conscious people can only prevent the peace from being at ransom. Let us not leave another page of history of bargaining peace at the cost of vengeance. Let us rekindle deep spiritual consciousness embedded in our culture, heritage, art, philosophy and all other creative forms of human civilisation through solidarity of respecting souls.
In concluding I would only wish to share those beautiful lines of great Bengali poet, Jibananda Das, written some forty years back, but are still relevant (Never mind my poor transliteration) to this present world.

The earth is now sheathed in an eerie darkness;
Those who are blind now see the most,
Whose hearts bear no love or affection,
Where ripples of compassion do never surface,
The world now sways not without their counsel.
Those who still have deep reliance in humanity,
Who still find intrinsic values in great truth,
Or in culture, or art or its fondly pursuit,
Their souls now lay offered at vultures’ feast! 

(A repost)

Sound of silence !!

It was a noiseless path….in a leisurely afternoon of early lockdown phase. The Red Road of Kolkata was utterly desolate….not a single car visible till the end….not a single human figure or shadow of life anywhere. I drove through the silence of the soul after the day’s work. The Club Houses, The Eden, Fort William were all so silently arrayed on the western sky while the Maidan was sleeping on the east….slipping under a green sheet of gentleness. The Nor’wester clouds had engulfed the wide sky from all over leaving only a tuft of blue over the crown of sacred while Victoria Memorial. Upon the verdant expanse of Maidan, I came across the first sign of life—painted like a surreal image—a little before the turn of the Queen’s Way….one black, some piebald, a few more brown and a lone dazzling white…the horses were unbridled, wantonly grazing upon… elegantly painted upon the dark canvas of sky, so softly spread over the lush green meadow.

I got off….…walked down a little farther to get out of the shades of those giant trees and sat on the floor of grass of the city after so many years. I kept on observing them endlessly while darkness got encouraged and strong wind started blowing. They had no obligation to pull the ornamental carts in dusk….good or bad luck…..to toil in carrying the sightseers around the Memorial and garden….they had freedom for the days frozen in the catastrophe….yet, they continued to confine themselves only to the patch of the field they had been used to…..perhaps, they knew nothing more.

The silence of freedom was evident. The shadows of reality…the existence…was revealing and fulfilling. I let my  dreams walking through the caves of Plato….the prisoners chained to the dark wall for life with the fire lighted behind and counting and naming the shadows—coming and going….the shadows were the reality….the perception of reality….the impression of liberty….in oblivion of anything better known to them than that. The drama of nature had lost all meaning to senses…..no bondage of souls….freezing eyes and ears to the impression were taught to keep the silence….it was all about counting the shadows and attaining the sense of liberty through the eventuality….not to disturb the sound of silence.

The soul seemed sunken to the happiness of surviving the dread of the death so long it was affecting the shadows…the other shadows……without knowing if it was mine or else….counting and naming them as it wished……a perfect tribute to life and the indifference to it….and whispering the sound of silence. The freedom was sleeping in the other world…..up above in the heaven or in the unfathomable depth of the hell….accessible, perhaps, only when the silence would be broken.

The horses were fortunate….they learned it quick….the cave would wait for the prisoners to see the Sun….maybe, at the end of the cosmos…till then it would be an enjoyable, delightful and satisfying soul drowned deeply in the sound of silence.

Last moments...

It stretches the day a little longer

Memories of the Heaven’s blue

Still not died, still not dried up;

The sky is dust of gold

Still alluring

Floating in those vacant eyes

For a few moments left;

The life is a gem,

Spoilt by a failed palmist,

The band of clouds

Over the wings of horizon

Crimson—a stream of blood—

Through the darkness of Hell

Whispering tale of death-eaters;

A dream yet survives

To be there, to be there,

Carrying wounds,

Scars on the path

On those weary feet;

Still a dream survives,

To be there, to be there,

Miles away the home is peace.

An obituary of a dreamer

Was it real? I questioned many times before reassuring myself of its true happening. It had been an ache persistently pestering since before the containment of choices imposed due to assault of the invisible invader onto the earth and it just aggravated as soon as the freedom got stifled by the wishes of men and women in securing an escape from the curse of death. The pain had a simple origin and a single mission. Just to flee. Cared not whether it would a run through the jungle or cycling down to the foothills or sailing the yacht to nowhere or just wandering through the shapeless alleyways of the memories. It was an intense feeling of just running away from a world that spoke a different language what I could understand; and I accepted that it was all my inability, my unsuitability to walk in the middle of the world peeling out the muggle sense and stature. Yet, the world has its own chain of freedoms and keys to allow or deny one or many in a single turn. It would define the liberty in its own wise way and it would certainly be all for my welfare and in course of such, my wishes were tamed to soberness.  

The privilege always dances in a peculiar rhythm. It came unexpectedly when the world got suddenly engaged in a fight for survival. They had no luxury time then to see who all had fled, why and to where. And I fled on a bright broad day. 

The jungle was thinner and, in the noontide, the radiant rays of the middle-aged sun were streaming through the hairs of those tall trees. It dancing footsteps were alike the transient images of the golden deer in the deep forest of Chitrakoot and chasing it had already left my memories turning into pebbles on the trail, shining here and there. I could see the track getting narrower as I began ascending through the clouds mystically veiling the shoulder of the mountain. The jungle was getting denser and dark too and gradually I lost the margin between the day and night. I kept the walk on the edge of the coin without annoying either face. In that day or night, I had my insomniac eyes glowing green to guide me through an invisible path and the thoughts driving me to preserve my existence in a contrasted sequence of experiences. The thoughts were dreams animated and dreams were thoughts frozen while they coexisted without much resentment or integration.  In a similar non-confronting mood, I saw the God, Satan and Lucifer sitting a little far upon a dead branch of an old oak tree. Together they asked, “What’s the purpose of a man here?” I said, “I’m not a man. I don’t have that enamelled soul, those suave lips and that holy wisdom. I am an outcast; an outsider to the world of the man. I am a fugitive who is a seed of a dream that couldn’t prosper into reality; but the dream has lost its prime in the pursuit. It is now like a white beard that shines and swings only.” Satan said, “Then you must be in my team. Hey, God, see! The time’s changing.” Before I could further explain, the God and Satan fell into a real squabble. Lucifer intervened rather timidly, “Come on, friends! Don’t fall into another trap of devious man. They have learnt all the spells to wreck our spines and split our spleens. I lost all credibility only in believing them, loving them. Satan was right to foretell that man was not at all an adorable creation.”

I decided to move on as I had neither any love nor hatred towards any of them, but did not enjoy their presence in my blissful journey. Yet, I couldn’t resist asking only a small question before leaving, “What makes all of you together in such an awkward place at such an awkward hour?” The God whispered diffidently, “We are in crisis now. As you are neither a god nor a demon nor an angel and, most importantly, nor a man too, we can unhesitatingly tell you that we are in a deep crisis to secure our realms from the shameless attempts of man. They are out to dislodge us. It was all my foolishness to bless them with freedom of choices alike I did to the angels. Now, I, rather we all, are victims of their cruel manoeuvrings. In their manipulative tricks those divine choices are now delivering disastrous outcomes. We need to defend the earth and will thrash them, punish them, curse them. We shall regain the world from pervasive ambitions of man.”

As I had no interest in who won and when, I took leave and slowly reached the summit of the mountain. It was dazzling bright with ice speaking to air and sunshine. I could see the small earth below under complete lockdown. People breaking the laws created by own and imposing it also by own might. I wondered if I had grown wings. I could feel my hands were not moving, but fluttering. I was delighted to have wings at last to fly; to fly around, over the mountains, over the dales and meadows, over the rivers and lakes, over the forests. I spread the wings and soared higher and higher in the sky. The earth began to wrap itself and turned into a blue ball floating in a sea of space. I relaxed in a free flight. But, for spreading it for a long time, my wings had melted in the warmth of the naked sun and it almost lost the air in its shrunken sleeves to hold me afloat. Gradually I started falling, floating and falling. The fall was inevitable that I could also sense. The blue earth was appearing closer and closer and I could see her face more keenly. It looked like an innocent face of a child. Did I break the innocence of its crescent face? Can one reclaim the innocence once broken? Wondering and falling, I found myself floating by her side in an eternal sea of thoughts. I drifted and floated and it floated along with me. When waves took us to the shore, I was out of breath. I had no strength left to rise. I could barely open my eyes. I was on the shore. I was on the shore of the mankind. I was lying upside down, my chest pressing the wet soul of the weeping beach. By my side I saw the earth lying; motionless, upside down. Her blue face still I could see. I struggled hard to open my eyes to see her for the last time. Her faced seemed to look like the gentle face of a Syrian kid. A little soul from the other side of the world—bruised and cursed—lying upon his tiny chest on lap of the angelic shore of Turkey. Bloated and floated in a failed pursuit of dream. A dream to see the world in peace; in loving care of little wants of living. I was journeying a new path. A path leading to nativity. To the innocent past of man; the child in him down through the ripples of the sand dunes, where bubbles of ocean were sacrificing the wishes of the expanse; to a world never known, in all darkness, through the solitude of Macondo; erasing the image of the chivalry on the back of the ancient coin. In deep silence, I sank; drowning through the bubbles of memories, rising above from all around, leaving me in an emptiness of mind, thoughts, dreams and desires. I could see the last dream, the last memory, the last desire leaving with those smiling sparkling bubbles; perhaps, they were to build a hope, a true hope to return to the freshness of the day; a forgotten childhood of man.

Illumine...

O cute little Blue bird!

Sing me life

Take me to the caves

To an untold era

Under a stormy night

I shall learn to light a fire

A lamp is awaiting me  

Despair

The moment is fading...between the pages of time…

Beneath the clouds—building courage for the fall—

Denser and darker, in complete silence.

The earth is split, spoilt in emotions unchained,

Colours sacrificed for painting a black yashmak,

The day and the night meet no more...kiss no more...

O the traveller of the noontide! Stay far,

I shall walk on in the dark, beneath the flapping

Wings of that night heron, subtly wiping the moonshine,

Denying the sense of being and becoming.

The lone star on the west is just a smudged dot,

An earnest effort to survive, shapeless...inert,

Yet, to trudge up the stairs for it to live a little longer.

O the Supreme! Riven into many, you broke us in many,

Pouring the venomous wisdom into our ears,

Deafening, with endless call for unity and peace;

Turn your wretched head, open your morphine eyes

See the devils designing weapons, honest they are,

Arming to untie the bond that has loosened within,

To scatter us—fragmented and faithless for long,

United they are, unbroken in dream and deed.

Why deceiving us more? The faith is a licence to deceit.

The spring shall be no more...the sailor will

No more chase the horizon...waves will only rise,

For just a final fall...to break into bubbles,

I can see the shore sinking....drinking....the last drop

Of his beloved...the blue ocean...

I can see the forest advancing, now and then,

The lonely moon weeping in the grey…alone,

The flickering lamp is about to be burnt out.

The journey to nativity

Darkness….lovely darkness…the smoke around..

Swirling up…sketching elf in white cloak…fading somewhere;

Alone…the silence…mind drowning thoughts endlessly…

Lay me there….sink me deep…to the native land

Where once I floated for a while…

Before laughter came out of loud cries…

Where it all started before it all about to end so soon…

Destiny has already scripted the epilogue….in absolute darkness.

Being a stranger...

Am I just a name? Or just me what they see?

Or a stranger to the way they know?

Am I just what seemingly I am—in life and beyond?

Or just a few footprints on my walk

On a path lost forever in a meadow unknown?

Am I a soul, far away from life’s roll—

Stuck onto a changeless boll—

Like an unnamed flower in an unknown knoll?

Or a path never walked before, yet awaiting,

Or a dream forsaken in dreamer’s eyes, yet shining,

Or a trampled hope in a frozen cell, yet undying?

Maybe there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

In being a stranger to the way they know

Or to me or to what seemingly I am.

Am I just a few senses that paint me as I am,

Of unchained thoughts of defeats and scars,

Of motion stalled and stymied wars,

Of glorious triumphs and crowned stars?

Or are they just what I lose, one by one,

In becoming a stranger to what they see in me—

To me or what seemingly I am.

Perhaps, there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

Of knowing the way I become a stranger to me

Of becoming a stranger to the way I know myself

Of refining an image of being a stranger within—

To myself indeed—or the way they see,

Or what seemingly I am—in life and beyond.

Mirroring life !

There is always a bend on the path where one pauses to look back and feels that much of the life has been spent up in dreaming nonsense, doing nonsense and talking nonsense. It starts the day with a frustrating tone as dampened as a lonely umbrella left outside under a raining sky and fills the heart with a sense of utter dejection. Time is ruthless, so is life until we learn to obey its rule. One is extended with choices of either loving it living through or abhorring it dying through. But, one cannot deny of having opportunity of numerous turns and twists through the walking way. And, at certain point, maybe, at certain moment, one more turn reveals a different horizon and raises altogether a different feeling. It may not be a wise piece of thought, may not even be a sense of philosophic upliftment….and it may also be so; but irrespective of what it brings along it sets a different tune to the ears so accustomed to listen to a scheduled playlist….it may be worse or better, but something significantly unlike than the experiences of the past. It widens up the thoughts that it arouses as if evaporating somewhere never known, yet there is not much of passion left to hold them back or knit them in any defined texture. It may induce with a sense of losing identity or getting closure to it; it may be a song that sounds like a hymn or may also appear like a dirge; and, it may also infuse the core inside with an utter dilemma to discern about which is what. This turning point is just an inescapable certainty of life. The life flows like a river with vigour and vibrancy of youth through its initial exposure to the company of the time, with the rebellion  in defying the obstinacy of pebbles and stones and with the laughter in meandering through vales and hills; and farther it runs, it seeks to be kissed by gentle banks,  caressed by leisurely touches of fatigued oars and obsessed by the beauty of the setting sun upon its placid face. And, flowing on it once reaches somewhere, which it has never even dreamt of….the banks fading far into vacuity, islands surfacing like upturned boats, the horizon doesn’t anymore define the margin between possession and submission. It sea-saws between a complex state of attaining revelation and sacrificing wisdom, of having pleasure in losing identity and slipping into the agony of retaining it so long for not much of purpose. There is always such a phase in life when river sees its face upon its mirror and the life finds all peace to be blessed by the wishes of river finally.

Destiny !!

Destiny reigns; silent and ageless in the

Mortuary of passions and thoughts;

An indisputable certainty in the vacuity  

Of an eternal flow of senses—within and without,

For a deadened soul to reprieve and reproach.



Life denies life and death derides death;

Delight and sorrow walk away—hand in hand;

The proximity of the present erases the face

Of the past—the moments, hours and years;

Shrivelled eyes fail to mirror a path unbroken.



Time smudges the image of a decent moon

Painted upon a dark face of young night;

Jacob and Esau battles within her womb

With promises of two distinct futures;

Never knowing which will shine the dawn.



From the vacuity it rises and dies within;

The margin between the fortune and misfortune

Is wiped up in the hollowness of events;

Enduring a greater fall to attain a loftier ascent—

Oblivious of the certainty scripted for the End.



Destiny defines; the present is of sheer suspense

Secreted within the bankruptcy of a dead past,

And the prospects of an unborn future;

As night is stifled between the legacy of a day spent

And the certainty of a fresh dawn.

A journey within.....

Only roses know the best of love
And lips know the saddest lies
So do I of a weird dream
That bleeds but never dies

The temple bears the deeds and sins
And the rainbow bears the rays
So do I of an autumn morn
That shines but never stays

The faces hide the nicest soul
And wings hide a deadly flight
So do I of a fallen leaf
That severs but never loses delight

Only kids listen to unknown tales
And hearts listen to a sigh
So do I to the mourner's dirge
That surrounds but is never nigh

Trees whisper to new-born birds
And dews whisper to aging night
So do I to my own reasons
That revolt but never fight

The winter walks to season's seed
And the spring walks its green
So do I to the Holy Cross
That beckons but never lets me in

আবার সকাল.....

আবার সকাল.....

ফেলে-আসা রাতে’র ক’টা বস্তাপচা লাশ,

আর খবরের উল্লাস,

বিবর্তনের খামে-মোড়া আর্তির বিকাশ।

তবু নিত্য প্রকাশিত তমোঘ্ন,

তবু সুর প্রাণ খোঁজে পাখিদের গানে,

তবু এক-মনে রঙ-তুলি-হাতে ছবি আঁকে বসন্ত.....

যদিও, নিশ্চিত আমি, আরও কিছু ভুল জমা ক’রে তুলি

আগামী ভোরের ঠোঁটে বিষ ঢেলে  দেব ব’লে ।

Money

I feed you with money

And you make some feni,

He buys, but, she dies.

I buy him now,

Buy his love,

Money fly,

Turn truth to lie;

He sleeps in your shack—

Drunk to lips—

Fills your purse,

And, you pay me back.

My money grows like a monster,

Killing you, killing me,

Killing everyone else,

With surgical precision.

Don't press the doorbell

Don't press the doorbell, my child,
The society is sleeping......
You go on getting beaten up,
You go on getting raped,
You go on getting killed,
But don't press the doorbell, my child,
The society is sleeping.......

Reality....

The pavement borrows romance
From dry smile of a dying moon;
The night bleeds in unprovoked assault of moments
Redefining the mirth and birth of hunger...
The dawn remains an elusive dream forever.

The paean and the pyre

He had never seen gentle smile on his mother. Never had he known his birthday. Since sensing the beauty of this world, his only own and known person was Father Brown.
Father Brown was a clergyman who had spent several years of missionary service in his native place. Devastated Europe after two great wars had a handful of people of ability and sincerity to work for the society and after his successful attainment of a degree in medicine, he wished to spend rest of his life in social service. When he opted for serving lepers in some remote Indian village, a great society of missionary colleagues had considered it a huge loss for Europe; but he travelled thousands of miles with a sacred smile spread over his face like wings of a springtime butterfly. He was soon seen cycling around a few small hamlets—bulged with numerous humans of diverse age attempting to sustain with primitive superstitions, poverty, and ignorance. The soil of civil society was yet to be irrigated with moral values, education, and basic living conditions. It was long past when the man of fifty-four years started residing in a small hut at one edge of those clustered darkness.The boy pressed his weak palms over bearded face of his old friend; a few drops of blood oozed out from those lips that smiled for its last time. The boy wept for the first time in his life. Through a hot smoky curtain, he could see Mother holding her son; burning and melting, still holding. Within his swollen eyes he held that image so long he could keep those open. He stared at. His body, soul, blood and existence—all were melting along with his dreams—his mother. She held her close to lap, comforting. He could see that divine smile on her face. The boy smiled for the last time in his life. His eyes were dreaming—closed with pain, sorrow, and joy for being through the life; it went on dreaming until darkness evaporated into the eternal slumber.
The next morning was bright. The peace was perfectly pervading all over while a burnt hut and a bundle of charred life inside reflected its muted existence in life, in its entirety.

The End

The kite floats —just severed—

Seesawing leisurely

In rhythm of kissing ends,

Of promises and dejections,

Of remembrances and forgetting,

Of reliance and betrayal,

Of pleasures and angst,

Beneath dark eyes of monsoon clouds.