In pursuit!

 Even when the body, intertwined with another

lay in the sweat of pleasure

hands clasping each other 

lips lost in ecstasy

even when the skin communicated what they call love,

even then

the moody mind was roaming around

within the silence of the mountains

soaring along with the rainy breeze

moving around the moonless nights

seeking

hiding another hunger

more fierce than the forest-fire

searching for something

purer

more sublime!

Witchcraft ...

Those who have left

walking along the shadowy path

merging with the dream-like fog

Those who did not look back

and crossed miles

fading into the crowd in another world

Those who walked the milky way and 

befriended the stars

Do they know that

In reality, they could never go away!

 

In every half-baked smile

In those sudden awakening from sleep

Along those foot-paths and by-lanes

In a quick brushing-away of a teardrop

Within the aroma of the coffee cup

They all stayed, trapped permanently!

 

It is not easy to go-away

It is not possible to fade in the hazy future

You are caught into the web of

Memories.

You are buried into the chest that heaves in pain

You are imprisoned within those eyes that sparkle with laughter.

 

The morning that I had seen in your eyes is still with me.

I had taken that morning in my palm

Only to bury it into the backyard garden.

Now it has branched into a delightful tree

Under which I live.

 

Those who have gone away

Those who have forgotten

They didn’t realize that

It is not possible to go away

They remain imprisoned, caught, and trapped forever!

#GeorgeFloyd ...

You couldn’t breathe

With that knee on your neck

Pressing gingerly strongly confidently

For nine long minutes …

I can’t breathe

Even now

Even before

All along

As the stench of hatred fills the nostrils

from there till here, everywhere

Across countries, across cultures

And all those judgements because my religion is not the same

Or my caste or because I am female and I am dark

And the voices scream from within –“I too am human”

And your voice “Momma” before you became still

And the silence thereafter keeps piercing my ears

And I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!

and 11 others

For the dancing girl’s statue

Hey dancing girl with lotus-lips, carry on with the tango that you had left unfinished

Sway through the earth-scape once cherished, across errors and the angles that are blemished

Dance like the childhood that is gone behind, defying the sculptor and that history and mankind

Your supple curves like waves untamed and blind, hair floating and your dove-eyes wild yet kind

Geometrical frame; dangling bracelets; rippling energy on the forehead as sweats; desperation or disobedience – your hands on the waist,

 Those passionate feet in motionless symphony

Decorating the cabinet-shelf, frozen motion, your statue hey dancing girl, is the cruellest irony.  

That day

That day there was a dense dark cloud in the sky

The breeze was strong and it made the dust and the leaf run helter-skelter, and fly

The trees unfurled their leaves, quivered, shook off the droplets to see those men walking by
And oh how beautifully the flowers bended with an urge to satisfy

About those men - one was drenched, one rain-clad
 Another was happy and the other was a bit sad

One forgot to wear her kohl-liner and the butterfly-garland that she had
One was forgetful in love and wandered like a lost nomad

That day it rained sharp and also pretty heavily

But the day was sweet and was smiling at all coyly

Then the waterlogged lanes and platforms sang in tune fostering fantasy
Seeing them the red and blue umbrella whispered music in rapt rhapsody

Some noticed; some ignored; some were in a hurry to walk away fast

And no one knew who was hiding a shattered soul and who killed someone’s dream with a brutal thrust.

The unease - letter to Ruru

Hi Ruru,

I was thinking of you today. Hope you are doing fine. But we aren't! :) ... you know, it is as if the world has changed altogether! 

I had gone out to buy essentials and provisions for the home. Nothing seemed familiar any more. A group of watchmen stopped us asking a hundred questions inquiring about why we were going out and when we would be back etc. And all that was for our safety. We all looked weird, faces covered with masks, gloved hands desperately clutching onto the sanitiser bottles, eyes gleaming with the nervousness of survival. The streets were empty, vacant, in an eerie kind of way. The shopkeepers, the vegetable vendors, the salespeople at the departmental store, all looked worried and scared. The fear was not just for the deadly virus but also the diminishing prospects of their businesses. There was hardly any stock on the shelves.  Manufacturing units are closed, services are stopped, transport is at a halt and there is no new stock coming any more - they piped in an anxious tone. You know, Ruru, the stores too looked so odd as all of them were kind of half-lit and ready to close down at any moment. the shelves with clothes, cosmetics and toys were pouring out as there were no buyers but just one or two packets were lying here and there for rice, dal and edible oil! it was uneasy feeling to realise one's basic survival need. The whole scene was from that of a movie but it's just that no one knew when the movie would end. People were sitting on the road; no they weren't beggars but they were labourers. Jeet had bought fruits for all of them and the way they snatched those from him reminded me of a scene of famine that I had watched in a movie. My heart was palpitating hard in panic as this world was not the one I have known so far.

Ruru, Italy doesn't remind me of Art and fashion anymore, Paris doesn't remind me of romance. China's wall appears weak and the Statue of Liberty looks vulnerable. My perception, my memory, all are invaded and jeopardised. I, the mother, who would give anything to be with her son, is now asking him not to come to India for the entire year. Love is now staying apart. Hugs and kisses are a curse. 

I do not get ready to go to the office in the morning, no one rings the doorbell. Chatterjee aunty died from Cancer but her children couldn't come from the other State because there were no flights allowed. My mausi-aunt died in Kolkata but the entire family could not attend the cremation as not more than 4 were allowed to be together at the crematorium. If you are sick, people would be looking at you with suspicion and not sympathy. Hasn't the world changed overnight? 

Will the caged humans (including I) now understand the worth of living, the value of humility, Ruru? 

This too shall pass like all the good and bad things in the world. But those of us who would survive and come out of this deadly phase will surely not be the same persons. I just hope that we become better.

 But whatever it will be the music must go on!

P.S. - Did I tell you before that I find your eyes quite hypnotic? :) ... This music is for you Ruru ... someday I want you to close your eyes and dream, and then my beautiful dreamer, please wake unto me ... 

Stay

Stop.
Stay.

In this rat race
with this mad rush
Stopping is your act of self-compassion
Staying-in is your loving home all over again.

Sit at home
Write haiku love-poems on paper and make paper-airplanes
Send these planes flying, across tall buildings of a sullen cityscape!

Sit at home
Paint laughter on paper and make paper-boats
Float these boats beside the flower-pots at your balcony!

Stay.
Stop.

Vulnerability ...

Vulnerability is strangely liberating!

Be so vulnerable that
the falling of the flower from its branches makes you sob incoherently!
Be so vulnerable that
the raindrops on your palm make you fall in passionate love!
Be so vulnerable that
the flipflop wings of the butterfly fill your heart with intense joy!
Be so vulnerable that
you don't care to hide how your heart melts with a smile of his
how you remain awake thinking of him
how you seethe in anger at his betrayal
how you forgive him, nevertheless!
Be so vulnerable that
you are not afraid to listen to the whisper of the universe
to create the new you in your imagination
and then again, to lose the creation in your careless whimsicality!

Be vulnerable,
For,
Vulnerability is strangely liberating!

Home - letter to RuRu

Hi Ruru,

Today I will tell you the story of my home.

Home, for me, was that huge bushy tree standing all alone in that timid field, looking at me, shaking its leaves, welcoming, smiling whenever I would go and stand in my balcony. It kept me company as I sat there staring, writing, reading, sipping coffee, day-dreaming. I tried to google out its name but other than its handsome unruly head, umbrella-like leaves and a thick straight spine I couldn't find anything relevant but then that's my own ignorance about the names of these Indian species. Nevertheless, it remained mine and it remained as my friend, and it remained my home.

On the days it would rain, two small children who kept reminding me of Apu and Durga from Pather Panchali, would take shelter below the tree and then they will start throwing those strange-looking small tamarind like brown fruits to us. Aayu, Neelima and I will be of the same age at that point, busy collecting those fruits and giggling and befriending those children. Someday, when it didn't rain and the heat is mounting on the grey of the field and the tree is stubbornly flaunting its green amongst all those grey, the red-brown greater Coucals couple will keep playing around the babblers and the sparrows will chatter in shrill voice sharing their stories with me. And I would be the happiest soul sharing my space and the same wavelength with the tree.


But like every other good thing as well as a bad thing, this too passed away. One day, quite suddenly, it all ended. The construction on that site started, for another skyrise. Soon, in front of me lay the lonely grey of the field and those broken rocks like a wound that oozed pus. Everyone was gone; the tree, those birds, the Apu-Durga children, all were gone. Aayu left for another country, Neelima for another home. I stayed. trying to collect those broken parts and building the tree in my mind. My home lay in its branches, among the light and shadow mischief of its leaves. Since then I have been wandering to other countries, states, houses, but, till now, I could never build another home!

poetry ...

When Reading your poems ten different men think that you have written for them, and ten different wives curse you, cooking up a storm in respective homes, you sit back and smile, continuing to weave magic words, stitching a patchwork quilt, wondering how universal the word poetry is!

Letter to RURU - 3

Hey there, RURU,

I am excited to share that I am planning for my solo tours.

I have started taking baby steps towards my plans to travel solo. The reasons why I wish to do so are more than one. May be because that's the way to grow 'icche dana' - wings of wishes and once they are strong I can flap them around soaring high into the sky, feeling the soft cotton cloud in my palm.

I feel, by being alone I can see myself clearly, I can understand myself  better. So far, I am used to think of myself as other people , my relations see me. I  have formed an interpretation of myself based on the perception of my relationships. I get a feeling that I am way beyond that. I am much more than that. Or maybe a lot less than that! And so you see RURU, my solo trip will be a path towards self-discovery :-D

Moreover, I am scared and paranoid about safety. My parents and family have grilled a sense of fear withing me in the name of love and protection. So, now, I believe that by being alone will make me a target, and I am being irresponsible by going out into this big and scary world on my own, and my own inner-voice is holding me back with visions of worst-case scenarios. So it is time that I screw all of that!

Though related to work, but I did visit Hariyana, Uttarpradesh - Panipath, Sonipath, Karnal, Gangoh, alone, in the recent past. And on the contrary to my impression of the area, what I experienced is that nature is beautiful and magnificent there and so are the people, the locals. As I traveled through moss green mango orchards, pale green wheat fields; as the cool breeze of river Yamuna kept tempting me; I listened to the endless anecdotes of the cab driver who let me know about several enticing local cultural experiences.

My mini solo travel enabled me strengthen my intuition, my awareness, my mental stability. So, my dear RURU, I am all set for the next and the day is not far when I will be able to liberate myself from all the emotional shackles and be detached in the most beautiful and enchanting sense.

Betrayal

Betrayal is like the oldest Banyan tree at the corner of the playing-field
its branches droop towards the ground with its own weight

Betrayal is those huge dark paintings on the whitewashed wall of the museum
you leave the hall but they never leave you

Betrayal is Pablo Neruda's saddest lines
you will learn to love again, dilating pupils, learning to hold gaze, but tears will still well-up

Betrayal is like the wound on the beggar's hand
from which hurt drips and it changes color from bright red to white patch, but stays forever

Betrayal is the constant sound of footsteps behind you
you hear them even when you do not look back

Betrayal is like cooked boneless chicken from the roadside tiny stall
you enjoy the soft flesh and muscles in your mouth but fall sick afterwards

Betrayal is a nice boy's interest for watching pornography
you get the momentary high but can't do away with the puckish nausea that stays in your belly button

Betrayal is like first love
rushing, lingering, breathing down, always there to touch, smell, taste, rock like, forever staying in the privacy of the silence.

Letter to RURU - No 2

Dear Ruru,

It was my birthday.

As I crossed and reached the other side of 50 among all the warmth and love and wishes, I become grateful yet contemplative (as always. Even in my childhood days my sister’s school friends used to ask her, to quote them verbatim, why I always wear ‘a gyani buddha’ expression! ). I suffer from a peculiar seasonal sadness that has nothing to do with my real life existence. As I continue to cherish a strange joyous ecstasy with a weird deep rooted melancholia, I begin to wonder about the binaries and paradoxes that I live and think in.

I keep protesting against comments like ‘Girls, you should always walk in groups’ questioning if ‘aklaa chalo re’ is only for boys! But, it is taking me months to make up my mind before I venture out for my solo trips and tours, something that I intend to pursue as I know this will liberate my soul. As I am constantly reaching out to friends, acquaintances (at the risk of being repetitive and hence boring) expecting them to convince me that it’s safe to travel alone, I keep struggling through my fear and paranoia.

Another one is when I take pride in the fact that I am aging gracefully, yet every alternate month I postpone my plan of not using hair-colour to cover up my greys. Also, I just can’t suppress my thrill when people say Gosh, you don’t look your age at all! :-P 

Increasingly, I feel uncomfortable among my age group. Most often I find their way of thinking as odd and weird. I relate to the millenial and the Gen Zee more easily, and comfortably, yet my boomer-self needs a 'print-out' of the flight ticket :-). I guess my religious/spiritual orientation could be a reason behind making me feel out-of-place most of the time. Despite being a happy Hindu, most often I get bored with rituals. My most favorite people and pillars of strength have been Nilima Khatun, Yusuf, Aayub, and Yasmin. I have enjoyed Eid along with them to my heart’s content and allowed them to touch me ‘thakurer ashon’ (the tiny temple at home) without batting an eyelid. And I have continued to be extremely uneasy among people who squirmed at the prospect of anyone from other caste or other religion touching our God. And I do not know whether I am right or wrong but I have no intention to change even a minute bit.

Again, usually, I am the most practical one around but it takes just one bout of rainfall or a whiff of petrichor to transform me into Alice in the true sense of the character.

As I continue to remain grateful to all who like me, love me, accept me despite my odd paradoxes; as I continue to nurture an exuberant, sensuous 25 year old mind within a not-so-young body; I keep living life, happily, among my paradoxes, (though It may be a headache for those who are close to me).  I am in no hurry to bridge those differences or gaps. I have learnt to trust them, to allow them to do their quiet, subterranean work. Meanwhile my pursuit to evolve and grow as a human being continues…

Letter to RURU - No.1

Hi Ruru,

It's been quite sometime since I promised to write to you. Actually, I have written to you, in my mind many-a-times, played hide-n-seek with word scrabbles, but it all got jumbled up. So, today, I thought let me reach out to you. Otherwise, you too would be lonely in your mind, waiting for me. Well, may be not, but I love to think it that way. :-)

You know Ruru, with age I am realizing certain things. I am realizing that all the people in my life are like window panes. I keep pressing my face against the panes; I press hard, liking the coldness of the glass against my cheek. But at the fag end of the journey, I realize that all my life I could only carve and draw different designs and impressions on those glass panes with my cheek, nose, eyelashes, lips, but I always remained outside, standing for long hours, pressing my cheek and nose against the glass-pane. May be I too am a window-pane for somebody, may be that's the way it is.

Hey Ruru, I like those pigeons who fly in freedom. I like how they shake their feathers and hop around in dignified gait. Those peacocks too. They are not ashamed of talking about love.

listen, after reading my letters, make paper boats out of these. let the words float and swing along the rhythm of the water.

রুরু

তোমাকে আমার ভালো লাগছে না আজ। তোমার সঙ্গে কথা বলার, তোমার কোথায় কষ্ট পাবার মন নেই আজ আর। আজ ওই অজানা আকাশের সেই  অজানা পাখি কে খুঁজে বেড়াবো আমি। অজানা পাখির নাম দিলাম রুরু। আজ সারাদিন ধোরে রুরুকে চিঠি লিখবো আমি। 

The Sunlight and the Afternoon

An afternoon from the past

came to spend some time with the lonely sunlight at the rooftop.

Carrying those fireflies of memory, it asks her, “shall I stay with you today?”

Unwilling sunlight moves away to the branches of the Gulmohar tree, her eyes do not hold nostalgia anymore.

The restless babblers shout from behind the branches

 “Do you remember? Do you remember it all today?”

But, by then, the sunlight has already shifted to the top of the Gulmohar tree, nestling those yellow colored leaves.

She stares at the calm lone star above the head.

Someday, she believes, it will come down to kiss her forehead.

Footloose

These days my feet are wobbly and wonky

They stir within my shoes tickling me to be tall and spunky

I plan to sit below the tree away from the dins and bustle

But those feet jump and dance clip clop, clip clop, shush and shuffle

I keep urging them to calm down and remain on Earth

They rebel, refute and argue that this is of no worth

Even the spider web network of the varicose vein

Fail to keep those feet under a steady rein

To imagine them dance across the highway and the field

 Defying all queries if they belong to a woman or child or a mind that's healed

O feet, you have conspired and joined hands with that untimely rainy season

You nudge me saying there’s always a fourth dimension, as you break your own prison

Whip and whoosh, you plan to take me to the Centre of the Sun

I agree as you promise that there will be flowers and spinning fun

The rhythmic beat of life, now, is footloose and fancy free

The fireflies within my fist are glowing brighter and more stubbornly

This poem is called age

The squirrel hiding within my chest is half awake.

I imagine, peeping snowflakes outside the window.

The broken tune of the music that I was humming and

the fluttering wings of the noisy babbler outside the patio,

they all carry a new rhythm, today. 

Those old questions are fading away from the touchscreen keypad.

There is a winter walking within me.

A cold winter that strangely bears its own fiery warmth,

making me bow down in reverence.

অভিমান

অভিমানের  রং নীল হয়। সে এক্কেবারে আলাদা। এমনকি ইংরেজিতেও তার অনুবাদ হয় না। সে কখনো জমে থাকা কুয়াশার মতন গভীর। কখনো আবার গরিবের ভাতের হাড়ির মতন কালো অন্ধকার। আবার কখনো নদীর মতন তিরতিরিয়ে সদাই সঙ্গে চলে। চলতে চলতে খেলার ছলে গল্প করে, কখনো বা শুধুই চুপচাপ দুজনে পুরানো বন্ধুর মতন। হওয়াতে মনখারাপের গন্ধ টা যখন আরও নিবিড় হয়, শুধু তখন বোঝা  যায় যে সঙ্গে চলতে চলতে কখন যেন সে ডালপালা শিকড় ছড়িয়ে এক মস্ত বৃক্ষ হয়ে দাঁড়িয়েছে মনের মধ্যে। যে পথ বেঁকে চলে গেছে, তাকে যদি ডেকে আনা যেত তাহলে হয়তো সে অভিমানকে বোঝাতে পারতো যে ভুল হয়, ভুল হয়েই থাকে। তাই  বলে কি এভাবে বেঁচে থাকতে হয় চিরটাকাল? জানোতো যে সব্বাইকে চলে যেতে হয় একদিন। তাহলে তোমার বেলা অন্যথা কোনো হবে? এবার যাও তুমি। দেখো, আকাশে বাতাসে মিশে যেতে পারলে আরো বেশি ভালো লাগে।