The Dream

THE DREAM

Yester night I had a dream…..

Dream full of colours and you….

It was an Arabian tale. Had a wondrous end,

I could strain my ears to hear….through galleries our laughter echoing

sometimes blue ,no green ,lo! a sparkling sheen.

a here and now feeling keeps gripping.

I tried to  hold it but like foam it slipped my clasp.

a dream, moments of recollections or a rebellion of a tired mind?

These visions, the divine colours unto you do me bind.

THE SUICIDE BOMBER

THE SUICIDE BOMBER

she is a curse but a sugar coated one

she dreams every night of a fair and free world

care of the world she bears on her shoulder….

….being a woman she dictates life to earth.

stop.!!.and  lo!  she halts all heartbeats…

….creation and destruction is her whim.

Like a youth’s mangled flower she can squeeze your life.

Indifference is her pride, irresistibility her virtue…..

the world breathes, her vicious yet sweet existence.every moment

she hides within you and ME

fear her she can blast you out…..she is a human bomb!!!

she caresses every field with her black veil.

…..poppies grow naturally ….

…but she concocts reality every moment

allow me to warn you of her..

….your torn tossed head would draw no tears from her .

I know her very well, she is my very dear friend.

she did nourish her desires to kill the political monarch.

death dances at the edge of her smiles.

Dare you look shocked ???

….she does no wrong !!

you asked for her

…she is a manifestation of your repressed dreams….

had you spoken for those rights and wrongs..

had you not triumphed silence

..the sunset in you…. caused her dawn

do not gasp she is  your fleeting soul ..the very living you.

she is a must …as unavoidable as gravity.

reach the borders of your sanity ..

free your soul …free your mind..

she ‘ll await you at the doors of hell

…..drink her rage else you will burn.

A painful but glorious death…

…a salvation for myself and for all…she says

take her, feel her chilling clutch …

… she is the precipitate of a political mandate.

her verdict of death must be her love…

….but its all  over now.

her  head lies amidst a pool of blood

..like bess she warned you of danger with her life

..she killed many but saved you.!!!

…she killed me for you !!!

SO TELL ME WHO THE HELL ARE YOU????

Without a Name!

“Hide yourself ! hide your God !

Or you’ll be dead,” those were his words.

The doors spread open, the sticks in their hands shone

A shout and the crowd , I knew all was done

His Hindu blood messed the floor –

“I’ll kill those ‘mullahs’ ” his scared son swore!

 

 

The streets are empty, the wind dare not blow,

On the other side the light of the burning slums glow.

Through her shut eyes the wretched mother begs –

“ spare my daughter,” but by then she was already caged.

The child’s naked body lay in peace after her rape.

She had gone to Allah! away from all these human apes.

 

 

The elections are done, all the rigging and robbery.

The demons laugh aloud in their own glory.

The blood thirsty sticks and men have now relented,

Only to spill danger again , in times such selected.

 

ঠা উ র করতে পারিনা
আমি নিজেই কি আমার ভাবনা
নাকি সবার সাথে চলতে চলতে আমি নিজেকেই আর চিনি না।

সারা জীবন ধরে সুধু খুঁজে মরি নিজেকে
কখনো পাই সবার মাঝে কখনো তা পাইনা।
তবু যেন খোজা আমার শেষ হতে চায়না।

গ্রামের বাড়ির মিষ্টি আমেজ, নিম কাঠালের গন্ধ
মায়ের বনাই নক্সী কাথায় শীতের ছুটির আনন্দ
সব কিছুই পরে থাকে স্মির্তির খাতায় বন্ধ।

একা বাকা ছোটো নদী , ঘুরি ওড়ার মাঠ
হাথে গড়া নাড়ু আ র অবলিলায়ায় ছুটে বেড়ানোর স্বাদ।

সবিই আমি ছেড়ে এসেছি , এ জীবন তো আমি পাইনি
শহর ছাড়া গ্রামে আমার থাকা হইনি
তবুও আমি কেন এসব গন্ধ পাই
তবুও কেন আমি ঐসবের মধ্যে নিকেনিজে কে খুজতে যাই।

এ গ্রাম হলো idyllic
বলে সবাই উদিয়ে দেয়,
realism বাষ্প তাই আমায় চিনতে পায়।
আমি ছিলাম গ্রামে কোনো অবিসরণীয় কালে
সপ্নের পাতায় তাই আমি নিজেকে খুজি বিফলে।

Touch

As I put the pen to the screen I feel the sound of paper being scraped …the lucid ink flowing smoothly over the milky, white ,lined pages creating a pattern of English words , an abrupt phrase and finally a sentence. Thus, I begin to write.

I am doing the very typical act of sitting pensively at the edge of my burnished uncomfortable chair with the electric heater, blazing like a false fireplace waiting for myself to come to an idea. A pertinent question that the mind asks me at this moment again and again is….what shall write? Would I write to prove a point or express my thoughts over things that bother me most? What shall be my subject? It would be common to say my subject would be me!! But no let me not set my goals right now. I just will write to create …what I donot know.

A cold sensation of a hand touching the only inch of my skin that lay bare in the November winter startled me. I saw the long , straight fingers firmly set against my bare neck and  got glimpse of a thin gold band merely shinning on one of those slender fingers. For a second I felt paralyzed  but turned back only to see the express outline of the dark , beautiful , majestic trunk of an old banyan which I had just crossed. I  stood still for a moment and soon felt too numbed to move forward . My mind told me instantly that I was  going to faint….

The smell of perspiration combined with that of unwashed linen for days wafted in…why do people not wear deodorants I thought  But strangely I am asleep! While I travel in busses, in the metro or in rickshaws I tend to frown when people stink. Perfume for me is one essential marker of grooming…which I feel free to say all should wear. The behind of my skull throbs and a semi-transparent liquid touches my hand …oh god …am I bleeding!!! But blood is thicker….where am I? what happened ? I quickly fight to open my heavy eyelids and see an usual sight. Many heads and  eyes I see pouring inquisitively onto me as they question …”aap kaise feel kar rahe ho” I distinctly hear “…chalo inko hospital le jaye.”

I try to haul my body but realize that every inch of my back is reeling with pain…yet I pull myself .Presence of too many people have always made me do more than I could, right from the age of five when a shy child had to  repeatedly recite before varied sets of unknown guests “ Johnny , Johnny yes papa” with unfailing enthusiasm . “Inko Ct scan karane le jayiye, ” the nurse said. The machine was large like a cauldron and I did change into a robe to get inside it. They put me on a bed and the conductor asked me to keep my eyes shut. I did as told and soon slowly felt the sensation of being gobbled up by a big blue darkness…this darkness….I thought is not black!!!

I touched the bare skin with these fingers, these fingers  ,these very fingers. Astonising, bewildering ,impossible…how could these fingers fail. They are charmed , they do magic , they exorcise the soul of any person, they make one go mad with exhilaration and ecstasy. See there , there, over there on the walls they create the magic of a masque…Juno and Jupiter dance in shadows as they look into each other’s eyes. The orange that the finger still holds I squeeze and droplets of sweet, light honey spreads all over the marbeled floor. As I smooth over the crumples of my red bedsheet I watch the verdant green appliqué leaves unfold and silently wind up and spread from one end of the bed to the other. I lie down, wanting desperately to fall asleep…but my eyes remain fixed at the tall, slender fingers.  White and smooth. Each initiating from the middle of the palm and going straight up to tingle the air. The veins run in blue under the fair skin making each finger look more solid and tantalizing, as they melt with the torn moonlight that’s entered the dark room despite the silver curtains. I see the rounded edges of the nails and wonder at their patena…as I slowly bring the all the fingers closer they languish together making a soft arch towards the tip and the light bounces over the edges to enter the palm creating a chiarascuro. The slim gold band stands gleaming on the ring finger, enhancing the contours and perfectibility of the scene. The sight intoxicates and generates desire. As the spectacle continues my eyelids feel heavy, the hand slowly touches the softness of the bed and a thought lulls my sense as I feel the coming of deep sleep….

…..well Midas your touch could not turn her into gold!!

Anger

 A man is for love,
A man is for faith and trust…
A man is for bond of marriage
A man is for protection, wisdom and Knowledge!!

But Men sodomize, rape and puncture
Men check women as out mules
Men stare, stalk and cause terror and
She is now tired of the ways by which men rule.

They can sleep in silence with a woman
But cannot father the child which out of wedlock could be born
They can pretend to be heroes of every concocted story…
but cannot fight even their MOTHERs
when for dowry the young wife burns.

My little girl still plays with a doll
Dresses her baby as Cinderella
I correct her and yet she believes biting the dust
In the castle, the prince and the fairy wand
She stands in her tattered clothes and says
Mama for me ‘A shinning prince would some day surely come”!

Sonar Kella : A Memory …

I was just watching a part of the many downloadable sections of Sonar Kella. It reminded me of those lazy afternoons in Kolkata of the early 90s when alongside my elder brother, uncle I would sit and hear stories of detectives with rounded eyes.My pupils would dilate as my elder brother,lovingly called “Dadamoni,” would rush us younger cousins through stories where the detective in chase of the killer was actually pursuing one of his multiple selves , as the murderer. With lot of gusto he would speak and like muted, stunned spectators of a thriller show we would listen to him as we remained suspended in disbelief.To make his story more believable he would call it “Detective Jhkhon Nijei Khuni” which roughly translates as When the detectives turns out to be the murder. As we listened in stupefied silence even the drop of a pin would seem to be a disturbance.Soon the resolution of the big drama would be achieved and the story would begin to end….consequently a sudden glut would develop in my throat, a certain a reluctance to leave that the world of suspicion and high drama would overcome me and to avoid the breaking of the spell one would just go for a nice long siesta in one of the dark rooms of the 125 year old ancestral house with lofty ceilings. I still remember that feeling of “being safe”,of being able to absolutely drown my senses into one thing.I wonder at the safety that I felt, each time I would be read or hear from a detective book full of grim crimes.Its ironical that pursuit of a reader (alongside the detective) for the criminal could prove to not only be adventurous but feel so strange and safe! May be it was empowerment, a realization that my own reasoning faculties are as alert as the great crime master’s. In participating in the chase a part of me would vicariously be running through the labyrinth of life to emerge at a certainty and safety. So thank you feluda, Holmes and Kakababu for making my childhood such a success.