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

The country soul !!

I listen to the music of my mind

Eternally mirroring those moments unkind

The words that fail

In blows of gale

Of yes or no of doubts unsigned.

I walk so far from country soul

Judging the road or a rapid roll

The steps that haste

In sleepless rest

Of stony heart of a racing droll.

I sing a song of a lonely bird

Whistling pain of an erring nerd

The tune that splits

In lighted streets

Of grieving notes of a rural bard.

I whisper tales to rains and spring

Passions tied to cluttered string

The dreams that weep

In gallows strip

Of losing nativity in urban bling.

Life traverses the time's way

Living needs to earn and pay

It runs and flees

From inner peace

Through shining black to a boring grey.

(I wrote this decades back...nice to find it back from an old diary)

The day I was born

Long nights and days sped by

To yearn and earn and count and die,
In loving spree and dreams and cry,
In heaps of petals fallen and dry.

Swirling serpents—smoky dread

Invading sky to paint and spread,
Erasing signs of innocent myths—

Cradled so long in cerebral piths.

Promises faded, one by one,

Nothing was lost and none has won;

Reaped not harvest, seeds not sown,

The last wish awaits the last ribbon.

Moments flee, pages burn,

And ashes fill the memories’ urn;

Yet the sojourn shines in glee

When life recounts its first turn.

(A repost)

Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai

"Mera kuch saman tumhare paas pada hai ..." is one of my favourite poems written by Gulzar....I tried  my best to let it carry the deep emotions and wonderfully woven words while translating it into English....never mind my shortcomings in getting near to the original....


A part of me is still lying around you,
A few moist days of a long-parted monsoon,
And a night wrapped in a sodden veil of fuzzy scribbles;
Let all images of that night fade into vacuity,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Heard the rustles of leaves….aren’t there?
And those gentle tunes of falling leaves that
Slipped off my ears casting a fleeting kiss once and reappeared.
Somewhere the forsaken twig in the Fall is still trembling;
Let the wailing branch be wished adieu too,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Sharing beneath a sole dripping umbrella, you and I—
Half-drenched and a bit dry—
And the warmth in me that we shared too;
Those a few wet thoughts, perhaps, still be lying around the bed.
Let it all be set free; let all be just mine,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

The sweet memories of a string of moonlit nights,
And of the beauty spot prettifying your shoulder;
The intoxicating fragrance of soggy paste of henna
And a few freaks of silly play of blame and regret;
And a few weird promises never kept.
Let it all fill me to the deepest down in me,
Let all I left there find me back here as a complete me.

Just grant me the parting acquiescence of the self,
For my lone walk to the grave,
For me to sleep forever….beside you.

(A repost)

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)

Naming life !!

Every life has a unique tale to tell. It scripts itself as life meanders on—staggering in aspirations and desperations, enamoured of passions and illusions, armed with name and fame, induced with dreams and deeds, and inspired with wills and nerve—in wealth of ripening. Numerous bends on its course—some meaningful, some memorable, some forgotten or some tragic—are testimony of its conciliation with the circumstances for sake of securing own existence. Yet, it presents a sheer bafflement in defining itself with an identity—an identity that establishes, who is who, which is which and what is what, in the mirror of the world around. It raises an awkward question, “Do I exist sans a name?”

What is in a name? Even an elementary scholar knows what Juliet expressed in her soliloquy. The name binds the bond, tears apart too. But, does it deny the existence too. It raises my perplexity and I carry it for so long.

Once I met a little girl and her brother (I wrote about them a decade back on my blog too) who did not have any name. Is life such meaningless that we presume that they don’t exist at all? Nameless is not faceless, yet the story of a life seems suffered when it is exposed to social scrutiny. But, is such an average assessment defines existence in life ?

In peaceful settings of Manderley, second Mrs Winter didn’t have any name. She narrated the tale of her life—her dreams, seclusion, haunting shadow of Rebecca, indifference of her husband—the killer of his first wife, and gradual accession to confidence. All without name in the entire novel.

Jane, an orphan raised at the home of her aunt, when was asked by Mr. Rochester, “Am I hideous?”, replied affirmative with certainty. She was the governess in his house, love him, he didn’t disclose about his earlier marriage and it all surface when she was about to get married with him. Rochester had a name and fame too. Yet, his real face is hidden. He was still bearing a faceless identity before Jane, and with certainty. They got married and the novel had a happy conclusion. Neither name nor fame nor its suppression was a matter of rejection in life.

Meursault was enraged and brutally killed the Arabian. The glimmers of the sun on the edges of his rapier generated so much irritation that he couldn’t resist himself from such crime, and without any future remorse. Was it the Sun, or the Arab man or the knife or the hatred or the intent of crime to be blamed; or the namelessness of the Arabian? The killer had a name and pride of race, but the Arabian didn’t. The novel of Camus evolved around the life who was nameless native and justice was faceless. The stranger remains a stranger so long life doesn’t attempt to know it. Knowledge is, perhaps, also something which exists when known. Does life have similar existence? I exist only when you know that I exist and get attributed by a name to be known? My confusions have grown up with me since childhood.

Jeanne’s life unfurled itself in exploration of delight in everything and died in disillusionment of its staleness. She tells her life through the events of her life. Nothing more than that. Yet, the existence retained itself without her professed identity in social mirror. She spent her end days forsaken—the dreams dried, emotions died and prospects baffled. In concluding sentence, she tells Rosalie, the maid and the mother of her husband’s son, “The life, you see, Rosalie, is not so good or so bad, what people think.’

Life, perhaps, is an impression. An impression has complexity of explaining the truth and value. We run after it without knowing, and leave it when experience. Our pride confines us only to its grave.

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  

Destiny

Dreams breaking into memories

Passions destining …keeping some,

Some not….why?…perhaps,

Only seashells know

O rain, sweet rain

O rain, sweet rain !

Keep falling like laughter

Weep alone through my pen.

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.

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

Love is a ticket to eternity !!

The life is an amazing experience. The amazement emerges from not from its uitility or futility; it simply finds itself in love that mesmerises the moments spent by. Love portrays itself in romance or in affection or in reverence or in trust or in understanding or in dreams; but it hides itself beneath images it paints upon the soul. Love is a self-validating ticket to eternity that blesses us with the birth of a soul and carries a license to free ride through the walks of life with a companion to explore one of such images it leaves at the show. It resides in those moments only--shorter or longer--for the ride together. The images changes with the company it keeps one for the ride. The portrait of a mother floats in the sense so long the warmth of her stays around. The journey does not demand the presence of the comapanion to feel the delight of the moments of love. The ticket grants the ride with someone, without someone, with memories of someone or with failing to remember someone and even with the company of a sense of being only--with someone incomprehensible or with nature or the just wholeness of spiritual contentment. The images of the first fits of romance or infatuation spread itself in moments of dilemma, trepidation and emotion for the soul that travels along. The images of confiding the triumphant delight of the first encounter of romance or of tearing apart--of great expectations or deadening despair--with a friend sketch the moments of togetherness with rich colours of confidence and trust in itself. Anything prior to e posterior to does not relate to the same set of imageries. Every image is differently associated to the moment of the journey. These portraits reveal itself within and are buried within. They remain only with the soul that carries the ticket and none can ever behold it beyond the self where they were born. Buried under they may fade away forever or may resurface on walk through the memories. But, whatever be the destiny of each such portraits fruits of love that glorifies the moments of riding together, for sometime, to an eternity never preconceived. It never stops blessing us with the sense of walking together till the senses are gone. It carries the mission of bringing joy within, treasuring the memories within and glorifying the moments of being together in the walk of life. It leads us from nowhere to nowhere ever brightening the sense of living with simple joy in between.

ভাবনা—কাঁথা

চাঁদের সাথে গল্প হ'ল না—

ফুলের সাথে মৌমাছিদের আড়ি,

বসন্ত-খাম ভুল ঠিকানায় পাড়ি,

স্বপ্ন মরে চৈত্র-হারা রাতে৷ 

Couldn't.....

Couldn't ride that fast car
Couldn't be someone
Couldn't be a moon for you, mom

Couldn't be a sun for you, dad
Years smiled to let months grin
Moments sobbed to let days cry loud
Couldn't restrain leafs destined to fall
At the end of road, I stand alone
With just a lone rose for you