What shall I bring you from the far far-away land?
What?
I asked. “What shall I bring you from the far far-away land?”
You are going there? When?
Soon. Very soon.
Can I come?
Umm…would you know it when you saw it?
Would you?
No.
Alright. How do you go there?
There’s a winding road. And one has to walk or fly or swim. That’s all I know.
Swim? On a road?
Yeah, it’s a funny road.
Okay. I’m coming with you.
Please don’t.
Why not?
There’s a charm in returning for someone and knowing that someone is waiting. It’s an old charm. But there’s also a magic in knowing that I will return for you…and…never really return. It somehow extends the horizons.
Like the horizon extends when you lie on your back on a green field on a cloudy day?
Yes. But vaster than that. Besides I want to bring something back for you.
I don’t want anything. And how will you bring anything back when you say you shall never return?
That would make the wait all the better for you, don’t you see? There would be something to look forward to everyday. Every morning you wake up, you will look for me, the afternoon will be dreary and gloomy I know, but the night shall fill you with anticipation once again. And I will return someday, you’ll see.
Are you this cryptic with everyone?
No. With them I talk of puppies, temples of Madurai and bitter chocolates.
I am honoured!!!
But tell me, what do you want me to get for you?
Nothing. Just come back.
There must be something.
Yes.
What?
An end to my wait.
Are you quite sure?
More than ever.
Okay. But that will end a lot of things too. Your love for instance. Or my value. I don’t like conclusions.
Nothing will end other than my wait, I promise.
:).I will write to you.
Oh no! Don’t. The postal system is horrible here.
There’s a charm in reading old, lost letters that after many days of sunshine and rain, dirty mailbags and all sorts of fingers reach the right address.
Every weird thing has a charm for you?
Not quite. I don’t find that goatee-d, auburn haired rapper friend of yours charming. Nor Mr.Reshammiya. But every little every-day phenomenon that people love to hate appeals to me.
Are you trying to be Romantic?
No. Only truthful.
I give up. When you go, let me know.
It rhymes! Delightful!
Will you?
No. I don’t think I’ll have time.
I expected so.
I never denied that you know me better than I myself do. I adore you.
I wish I could say I don’t. Bye.
Bye.

This is entirely fictitious and totally impersonal.

Don’t stare at me quizzically
with your black crystal eyes
when I am writing of love and pain.
The light of the table lamp,
you interrupt with the shadow
of your lanky frame
and head full of noodle-curls.
You hover like a constant refrain
at the back of my mind.
Like some catchy tune
that would not let me alone
and go on playing inside my head
even when I am thinking of
something else…someone else.
I try to be impersonal.
Can’t you see?
Can’t you refrain from
devouring my words
and upsetting their coherence
making my poem
dance to your cadence?
But you will push your face
close to mine…
so close that nothing distances
our skins…not even air.
So close that I can see
your pupils dilate and retract.
your strong perfume suffocates me.
The same one you called masculine
and I, obnoxious
and yet craved for
behind the façade of lies.
You keep drawing my head
onto your shoulders
knowing full well that
I have given up needing them.
I hate it when you smile
your slow lopsided smile
as I search for metaphors
to explicate love.
And that’s not only because it distracts me.
Don’t you realize it has to be impersonal?
Bringing in my schoolgirl mad love
like that! Immature, juvenile!
And don’t you realize it’s all gone now?
Gone and dead!
Dead and gone!
How is it that we always forget
that you killed me and I, you?
There! That clouds your eyes
That wipes off your smile.
Leave me now, please…alone...
to write impersonal poems on love.
where all the characters are fictitious.
The boy doesn’t grin like you
The girl isn’t full of quirks.
Where our shadows do not linger.
Yes I promise
I’ll give them a happy ending.

Happy valentine's day everyone. Enjoy!!!

Anonymity.

Your eyes touch my face.
I feel like the poor pebble,
One among those hapless millions
that the heedless stream leaps over,
touches for a moment
And forgets in the next.

JUPC...short for Jadavpur University Photographic Club (how I wish they'd let us change the 'ic' to 'y') is as the name rightly suggests ,a photography club I belong to and which belongs to me. Excuse the cliche' when I say it's my second home because that's what it is.
Arranging for a photographic contest every year falls under one of the many activities of my club. This year we have arranged for a national photographic contest on portfolios- 'MONTAGE' to be judged by eminent photographers.The last day of entry is 15th February 2008. So if you are interested...Hurry up!! Not much time left now.
For further details log in to http://jupconline.com/MONTAGE.htm.

There might be no time.
There might not be time enough
to step out of this silk-spun cocoon
and walk under the glare of
the ruthless, mirthless sun
after the security of artificial lights.
It takes years to tell a man from another
and an eternity to tell a face from a mask.
There might never be courage at all
to plunge into eyes lined with false lashes
and trace the route of tears,
or read out loud the unwritten tales of defeat.
There might never be freedom enough
to swim against the flow
or ride on the winds of change
or hear a turbulent sea sing
the song to set all free.

Something Like Love

I saw love today, felt it, almost touched it. All my senses could perceive it without any difficulty even in an intensive care unit ward in a nursing home.
He’s not my blood relation, but he is more than that. I call him Pishemoshai [that would be my father’s sister’s husband]. Aged and ailing, in his late seventies my Pishemoshai is now in a nursing home. Pishi [father’s sister, not related directly by blood either] who is a good ten years younger to him, and I visited him this morning with a change of clothes and today’s newspaper.
*************************************************
Even in the cold white light of the neon lights and the typical smell of illness, medicines and anti-septics, I can see his face light up as soon as he sees Pishi and me.
Pishi has to lean over his bed to hear what he was saying, his voice now low and raspy. Their hands are touching carelessly and they are looking at each with anxiety and love writ in their faces. Love is almost tangible.
He asks about all his neighbours’ health, if she has taken her medicines, if the domestic help turns up regularly, if their son has called her up and keeps assuring her that he is alright. At the same time he reports every detail of his health meticulously.
“Hyan go, Gopal ke dekhte ichhe kore” he says.
[It’s difficult to translate ‘hyan go’. It’s an informal way in which Bengali spouses address each other. I’d say it’s equivalent to the English ‘dear’.]
* Dear, I wish to meet Gopal*
To which, she promptly rings up Gopal and asks him to try to come over.
He cannot talk much, it makes him cough and the excitement makes it difficult for him to breathe. So pishi admonishes him for talking so much and straining his nerves. He obliges, but for a moment or two and then he goes again, all words pent up in the twenty-two hours that he cannot see her gush out. He asks me about my parents and sister and then looks for a longish moment into Pishi’s eyes and like a child that has erred and is now ashamed, says ‘sorry’.
I read out to him from sports section of the day’s newspaper. Watching cricket is what he misses the most, cooped in a nursing home cabin with a few other ailing aged people. He’s characteristically calm, composed and cooperative otherwise. Everytime I hand him the glass of water he calls me “sona meye” [darling child], everytime a new visitor drops in to see him he draws his attention towards me, showering praises on me generously.
I tell him “Tumi taratari sere otho, bari fire cholo, ami tomake dekhte asbo”*Get well soon, come back home and I’ll visit you*
He sounds excited at the prospect “Nischoy!” *certainly!* “but not at the cost of your studies.”
I can only smile.
***************************************************
It’s time for us to leave.
He has been telling pishi about a dream he had the previous night. Both Pishi and Pishemoshai are God-loving people and he speaks about seeing his God in his dreams.
Pishi petulantly pouts her lips and asks him to stop dreaming. He can only smile indulgently.

Then he says “Tomar jonyo koshto hoy” *I feel sad for you*.

I can see she’s near to tears but she looks ever so affectionately at him and consoles him.
He hears about my Maa’s decision to stay with Pishi for a couple of days and animatedly exclaims “Such a sweet sister! Such a sweet sister!”
He holds our hands in both his hands, he is not willing to let us go but he is one of those few men who never complain.
We leave him sitting with a newspaper, propped up against a stack of pillows, wrapped in a blanket and an air of sadness and hope.

I wish you get well soon Pishemoshai.

The road winds like a persistent question
Through shadows and regions of light.
Huge mansions and run-down slums
Peer from either side.
Men stop to look up from their works
And women lean on doors
with children in their arms
As the morning light peeps
From behind dark, gaunt concrete giants.
Young green leaves sprout from the crevices
Of their weather beaten bodies
Little children finger the patterns of light
Carelessly painted on the paved street.
Ancient streetlamps sputter to life
When twilight comes in soft unheard steps.
For a while the aged daylight looks
At the hazed yellow halo around the lamps
And retires with slow tired footsteps.
Let us walk on that road, hand in hand
Through curtains of mist and cigarette smoke
And in the fading light, let us get lost.