it is 2.54 am here now, and i was walking outside my hostel with a cig in hand.
the sky was clear
and the moon was bright
i sat down somewhere in the open,
on a brick lane and
gazed at the stars..
are the constellations same in barcelona, i wondered..
and then the moon blinked at me
as if in full acceptance of what i feel
she said, fool that you are, the stars are out in barca
and he is possibly studyng his arse off
go sleep and think no more..
so i go up, blew her a kiss and walked the 12 yards back to my room..
the corridors were deserted..
the chill is just creeping in the air
there is a graceful nip stinging the face
even the frogs have gone down their holes
and the kittens are snoozing under the water cooler
only i lonely lass
smitten by your charm,
sleep no more
raise no alarm
silently sit and gaze at the star
distant..
in the distance
thats where you are.....
Friday, December 31, 2010
Amloki konya
sudhu dhu dhu prantor
ar shongey durey,
tire r bege chutey cholechey surjo nicher dikey…
gari tao chutchey
kintu
mon chutey choley aro jorey…
bhabna ta baje bhabey predictable
alpo khoner alaper moton tibro
othocho
khola mather dhulor moton
tarey ami chutey paina…
galey ghosey jae tar choya
hath foshkey jawa roddur er moton
tumio foshkey gele
into the sunset
kono clint eastwood er wild west er cinema moton
shudhu nayok na, ghora chorey amar nayika
kete porlo amae fele rekhe
ar ami shei je kete porlam dilli’r golitey
ajo poth khuje beriye ashtey parlam na
ma dakey – cha khabi to aye
baba boley – portey bosh
kichutei jeno mon lagey na boss
pora khub kothin
tel diye gachey othar moton
uthtey gelei pichley jai
din ta chilo budhbar
dupur dupur lep rodhrey dewar shomoy
dekhlam tomae
tumio chiley chaadey
amloki r bori rakhchiley
ami dekei chilam
mone mone
tomar shonar kotha noy
dak-ta je hariye gelo oi chhad e jete jete
ar tumi phone kaney j kar uddeshye
mishti thont bekiye heshe cheye roiley amar dikey,
ami bhyabachyaka hoye gelam
surjo ta dubeo rodh jhilik dichchey
ki tej bap re,
ajo garir kacher gaye thot rekhe
mone hoy tumi jeno hashcho amae dekhe
amae dekhe, na amar opore
chotto smriti,
chotto rong
bhashan er din heshe hath dhorey mishit khaiyechiley
amar naam tao ki mone pore tomar…
chute choley sumo
chotey pash diye bok
aar mon...
shhe to chutei choley.
Poth Hariye
Aj hothat poth bhule jawar plan holo
Teenmurti,
kintu
dujone dujon er purono bondhu bola jete parey
bola jete parey,
apatoto teen joni teen jon er bondhu.
situation ta alada
cycle er bodoley bike
ar chokhey aviator shades
purono pothei nama holo
jojon khanek dur giyei amar mone holo
kono bikeley baba ma’r sathey
cycle chalanor shei rastatae jeno pouchey gechi
buker bhitor chyat korey uthlo in pain
amar tuktukey lal rong er khudey cycle ta aj nei
kintu boroder sathey palla diye ekkaley ami otae chorey
rajjo joy kore beriyechi
sudhu
aj shei rajjo to neyii
bahon tao missing hoye geche.
Saraswati aj mora khal
Khal eo jol thakey kintu
Sarawatir gaye pana’r prolep
Pashey boshey smriti hatrano r shongey cigarette
Jomey uthtei arekta destination.
Urdhoshash e race, amar amateur photography
Ar tarpori koustuv er chobi tey dekha
Shei aal dhar
Baashboner modhye diye
“Gari choley dum-fhot dum-fhot dum”
Er shurey jekhane giye thamlam
Shetar ek dikey shesh hoyna emon alur khet
Ek prantey aam bagan
Onno prantey bash bon er shuru, jetar
Shamney amra khanikhon ha korei dariye roilam
Kotha khuje pawa jae na emon shoundorjo
Beshi kichui na
Khet, gach, doba, and bamboos
Etey romantic er ki achey?
But odbht byapar ta ei – amar kintu darun romantic lagjilo
jodio hashir byapar, gaan berulo na ektao…
khanik rodh filter korey abar beriye pora holo
eibar disha Sugandha.
er modhye je kando ti ghotlo
sheta obornonio!
bike theke naamtey giye
ami pa atkey slow motion-ey
dhorashaiye.
Amar jonno shotan bhumi jeno,
in the mood for love
Du teen second chartei chailona!
Uttiya’r sathey dudiner alap
Cigarette kintey giye bhaggish chele ta eta miss kore gelo
jeans ta to onek mather dhuloi kheyeche,
rastar dhulo ta ektu lege gele khoti ki? J
jaega ta money hoy kono age kar diner jomidar bari chilo
khola math, pujor dalan, ar pechoney pukur
Ideal adda jaega
tobey
ajker plan ta ektu alada.
Adda
But mobile adda
From jaega to jaega.
Tel er chinta nei
Shomoy maptey hochhcey na
Ar koustuv er pechoney boshey firey takaley
Uttiya…
Puro black and white-e, visualize kora jak
Khola shirt er pranto duto gaichey urtey urtey
Windlashed hair
And gota scene ta capture kore rekheche
Or aviator shades ta.
Hebbi lagjilo tokey re.
(Amader shobhabi jodio bar khaiye dewa J )
And shesh stop
Dhanno.
Rice research institute er jomi
Rasta ta marka mara
Duniyar shob gari, ghora bolod, ba dhumsho mota truck
Shob giye giye
Hamburger er moton bi-convex korey rekhechey
Du teen bar garir chabi ta khuley esheche er modhye
Ter paini
Bike park kore darano holo
Tarpor bosha
Kora rodher tolae
Hariye jawar chestae nanan attempted trial gulor golpo holo
Ami mugdho hoye shunlam
Durbhaggo
Erom kichu howar shujog kore nitey parini kokhono
Shesh dhoya kathitey taan diye takaiye thaka jae
Durey
Jekhaney kono poth nei, shudhu dhanheen,
Dhan er khet
Pashey pukur tae, duto pola tey dariye dariye bola boli korche,
jol tae thanda holeo, pa’er tolae naki gorom lagjey
michki hashi na!
lutoputi to khachchilami shokal theke
aro khanik ta pet pakrey hasha holo…
ghorir kata to kotha boley
Headquarter theke barey barey siren bajjilo ferar jonno
ogotta.
Depressing byapar
Eto shundor onubhutir modheyi koto jham!
Tobey aj boroi bhalo katlo
Amar hothat khub shadhin-shadin lagjilo.
Eta routine hoye geche money hochche
Koustuv er sathey berulei
Ei byapar ta mone hoy J
Free kothatar maney aj abar notun korey bhebe newa jae.
Asholey
Eromta to roj hoyna
Taholey ajker smritituku
shuborno hoye arekta kobitar line hotey parto na
Purono k notun kore pelam
Abar ei notun tai purono hobe
Porer baar.
Ora dujoney thakle.
Abar beriye porbo nirudeshhey
Bhul thikanar khojey.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
a love letter
u know,
i wept last night
again.
maybe i'll miss hostel
but you know the truth more than i do
i'll miss you.
recently it has become a metabolism
without which sleep is impossible
but i guess you do not know
maybe someday you will understand the
sadness behind those tears
futile half hearted love
going away is a process
i cannot explain
its like tearing a liver out of your system
or maybe a nose
with which you have grown so used to breathe
im going home to a group of people who love me so
but you will be left alone
maybe i'm wrong
with 85 other residents
not so alone then
watch girls come and go as much as you like
watch people eat, play, laugh
watch the days go by and dusk set in
like we used to
sitting up on the terrace with a spire of smoke
coming from the fag end of the cigerette
the dlf lights...an eye sore
place for elite unthinking insensitive crowds
but this terrace was solely for us
i felt like a king of the world
with you beside me
you laughed and told me to study
thats what you always did
study
loads of things to do in life
as if i had none...
as if running up to see you and spend time with you
left me not working myself..
as if...but love,
i keep my work aside with a clean head
because i donot want to think while im there
its rest time
indulging the brain to fly and unravel
in its empty glory
you refused to hold my hand last night
you refused to even look
let alone make love
you refused to...
a tiny fear which had bubbled up burst inside
and i turned away to face the wall
atleast it looked back at me
unlike you
i know you will not understand
you're not meant to.
still i love you.
i always have.
yours
oyn.
i wept last night
again.
maybe i'll miss hostel
but you know the truth more than i do
i'll miss you.
recently it has become a metabolism
without which sleep is impossible
but i guess you do not know
maybe someday you will understand the
sadness behind those tears
futile half hearted love
going away is a process
i cannot explain
its like tearing a liver out of your system
or maybe a nose
with which you have grown so used to breathe
im going home to a group of people who love me so
but you will be left alone
maybe i'm wrong
with 85 other residents
not so alone then
watch girls come and go as much as you like
watch people eat, play, laugh
watch the days go by and dusk set in
like we used to
sitting up on the terrace with a spire of smoke
coming from the fag end of the cigerette
the dlf lights...an eye sore
place for elite unthinking insensitive crowds
but this terrace was solely for us
i felt like a king of the world
with you beside me
you laughed and told me to study
thats what you always did
study
loads of things to do in life
as if i had none...
as if running up to see you and spend time with you
left me not working myself..
as if...but love,
i keep my work aside with a clean head
because i donot want to think while im there
its rest time
indulging the brain to fly and unravel
in its empty glory
you refused to hold my hand last night
you refused to even look
let alone make love
you refused to...
a tiny fear which had bubbled up burst inside
and i turned away to face the wall
atleast it looked back at me
unlike you
i know you will not understand
you're not meant to.
still i love you.
i always have.
yours
oyn.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
iNKED
When was the first time you held an ink pen? They taught me to hold an ink pen in class 4. Blue “chelpark” ink with an “artic fountain pen” with a big silver-golden coloured nib. I didn’t even know how to hold it, sometimes I would grip it too tightly lest it fell from my hand and as a result I came back home with perforated pages in my notebooks and a broken nib much to my mother’s desperation. And sometimes I would grip it too lightly resulting in faint cursive lines which I myself would be unable to read by the time I opened the notebooks at night! But learning to write was fun.
We possibly were a class of … I don’t really remember, there were 4 double rows and 7 benches in each row, so possibly a total of 56 boys and girls – oh yes, we had boys till class 4. We had the entire boy brigade right from kindergarten and there were regular outflows from both the sections each year into the don bosco school nearby. But a handful remained with us till class 4, and then like dinosaurs they disappeared without much reason and rhyme J my class teacher Miss Connie Francis was very strict.
The sweetest teacher I ever had was Miss Neeta Choudhury in KG, and after she left school , I never saw her again. Class 4 was a time for terror, because the class was in the senior building and the feeling ran high that we were already into the senior block…only house colours remained to be distributed and then after, we were to be dedicated soldiers for our houses alone. but deviating from the ink part, I suddenly remembered that each day after amateurish ink attempts most of us, except the goody goody ones, (and oh there were some very dis-likable good kids in class) Dear God , how I despised them.
It was precisely because of this tiny horrendous population, I was scared to sit beside my mother in front of the scrutinizing eyes of the teachers at the “parent- teacher’s meetings”, where poor mum was tortured with tales of me which turned her ears red. Kids my age, if they weren’t naughty, well… I wouldn’t like to be all prim and proper… There’s an age to be naughty and an age to be all prim and proper, now that I’ve been there and done that I know) had a sizable amount of ink on their clean white shirts, on their ties, on their handkerchiefs ( though Miss Connie was very particular about ink erasers and blotting papers, the quickest way was to blot it with your own hanky or anyone else’s a girl called Shakuntala Pathak had an enormous supply of blotting papers somewhere in her magnetic pencil box, and by the time she had finished blotting her leaky pen and her equally leaky written class work before submitting, the entire class helped themselves to her supplies, and few of us helped ourselves to extra pieces to make proper fighter planes)
The palpable proof of rigorous hard work and studious effort was seen by the parents when the kids went home stained from finger to shirt with blue ink, who would have the heart to shout at these innocent Angels drenched in ink ??
We possibly were a class of … I don’t really remember, there were 4 double rows and 7 benches in each row, so possibly a total of 56 boys and girls – oh yes, we had boys till class 4. We had the entire boy brigade right from kindergarten and there were regular outflows from both the sections each year into the don bosco school nearby. But a handful remained with us till class 4, and then like dinosaurs they disappeared without much reason and rhyme J my class teacher Miss Connie Francis was very strict.
The sweetest teacher I ever had was Miss Neeta Choudhury in KG, and after she left school , I never saw her again. Class 4 was a time for terror, because the class was in the senior building and the feeling ran high that we were already into the senior block…only house colours remained to be distributed and then after, we were to be dedicated soldiers for our houses alone. but deviating from the ink part, I suddenly remembered that each day after amateurish ink attempts most of us, except the goody goody ones, (and oh there were some very dis-likable good kids in class) Dear God , how I despised them.
It was precisely because of this tiny horrendous population, I was scared to sit beside my mother in front of the scrutinizing eyes of the teachers at the “parent- teacher’s meetings”, where poor mum was tortured with tales of me which turned her ears red. Kids my age, if they weren’t naughty, well… I wouldn’t like to be all prim and proper… There’s an age to be naughty and an age to be all prim and proper, now that I’ve been there and done that I know) had a sizable amount of ink on their clean white shirts, on their ties, on their handkerchiefs ( though Miss Connie was very particular about ink erasers and blotting papers, the quickest way was to blot it with your own hanky or anyone else’s a girl called Shakuntala Pathak had an enormous supply of blotting papers somewhere in her magnetic pencil box, and by the time she had finished blotting her leaky pen and her equally leaky written class work before submitting, the entire class helped themselves to her supplies, and few of us helped ourselves to extra pieces to make proper fighter planes)
The palpable proof of rigorous hard work and studious effort was seen by the parents when the kids went home stained from finger to shirt with blue ink, who would have the heart to shout at these innocent Angels drenched in ink ??
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
When The Clock Struck Thirteen
Some of the most memorable books in one's lives are forgotten by the time they grow old. i remember when i was in class 3, we did not have the permission to go to the school library. the library was meant for classes 5 to 10 only and it was so tempting to peep into the huge room with so many brown polished cupboards , a gateway to the books of all the famous authors in one place! ande for that one had to wait till they were promoted to class 5! its scary, what if i failed a year suddenly? it would mean the library doors would remain closed to me for even a greater period of time...
my class 3 teacher was Mrs Valsa Anthony , she used to give out thin coloured children's storybooks to us each wednesday after class was over from a cupboard at the back of the class beside which we used to line up our bags and bottles. there was a boy called shrey who used to always spill water and the class used to tease him saying - oh shrey - you have WETTED the floor again! i fondly remember a book, by the name of "the clock struck thirteen". i donot remember the author at all, because i did not know that one had to even read the author's name, as logically for a child, it was a storybook she was holding and only the story inside the book seemed important to her. the story was about a boy and his family and the world that surrounded him . he did not believe in magic and one day, he lay awake to find out that after midnight the clock in the tower struck thirteen times, suddenly everything changed all around him and he was filled with a mesmerizing sense of charm and magic all around him. i remember the cover vividly too. it was a figure of the boy in pale blue against the dark night sky with a barn in the background and a clocktower where the hands of the clock was showing 13, studded with a sheen of stars giving it a haunting look.
i never came across this book ever in my life and in my sheer excitement of wanting to share the magic with my classmates i had eagerly traded the book with some other fantasy tale. that was my first taste of magic, without a magician, without a wand or even a spell book... but it haunts me even today. The melodrama queen of hopes and foolish dreams that i am, still believe that this same magic which struck me at such a young age, brings me back that book some day. i would love to read through it again. we tend to forget many things in life, good memories we keep and disturbing ones we force back to the back of our heads. this is one memory which will stay with me forever. its a direct link to my childhood. i want to be awake too when the clock strikes thirteen the next time.
my class 3 teacher was Mrs Valsa Anthony , she used to give out thin coloured children's storybooks to us each wednesday after class was over from a cupboard at the back of the class beside which we used to line up our bags and bottles. there was a boy called shrey who used to always spill water and the class used to tease him saying - oh shrey - you have WETTED the floor again! i fondly remember a book, by the name of "the clock struck thirteen". i donot remember the author at all, because i did not know that one had to even read the author's name, as logically for a child, it was a storybook she was holding and only the story inside the book seemed important to her. the story was about a boy and his family and the world that surrounded him . he did not believe in magic and one day, he lay awake to find out that after midnight the clock in the tower struck thirteen times, suddenly everything changed all around him and he was filled with a mesmerizing sense of charm and magic all around him. i remember the cover vividly too. it was a figure of the boy in pale blue against the dark night sky with a barn in the background and a clocktower where the hands of the clock was showing 13, studded with a sheen of stars giving it a haunting look.
i never came across this book ever in my life and in my sheer excitement of wanting to share the magic with my classmates i had eagerly traded the book with some other fantasy tale. that was my first taste of magic, without a magician, without a wand or even a spell book... but it haunts me even today. The melodrama queen of hopes and foolish dreams that i am, still believe that this same magic which struck me at such a young age, brings me back that book some day. i would love to read through it again. we tend to forget many things in life, good memories we keep and disturbing ones we force back to the back of our heads. this is one memory which will stay with me forever. its a direct link to my childhood. i want to be awake too when the clock strikes thirteen the next time.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Race
As you know and i do
this year is about to end in June
the dry summer will be drier still
when i will leave against my will...
of this winter chill i love the air
i let the wind kiss back my hair
its icy cold, but i do not care
once this is gone
the truth will be too much to bear
As i know and you do too
my throat grows parched
at the thought of you...
the seconds tick their time away
a deadline set in the month of may
its one race i will never win,
its one silent plea amidst the din,
its one heartbreak,
its one lost match,
its one budding story
that will never hatch.
this year is about to end in June
the dry summer will be drier still
when i will leave against my will...
of this winter chill i love the air
i let the wind kiss back my hair
its icy cold, but i do not care
once this is gone
the truth will be too much to bear
As i know and you do too
my throat grows parched
at the thought of you...
the seconds tick their time away
a deadline set in the month of may
its one race i will never win,
its one silent plea amidst the din,
its one heartbreak,
its one lost match,
its one budding story
that will never hatch.
A solitary lamp
...
remember that night
of colors so bright
in darkness we lay
with a lamp giving us light..
i hated the day
but i loved the dawn
in your arms, my dear
in your arms so strong...
remember that night
of crackers and cake
of young souls and ghouls
all taking a break..
i loved the dark
i loved when stars came
but i loved it best
when you whispered my name...
remember next day
when you were asleep
i woke up long before
making memories to keep
i gazed at your lips
i gazed with sheer love
closed my eyes for a prayer
to the heavens above
but you opened your eyes
to glance at my stare
to cross a warm finger
along my long hair...
my heart stopped in place
it ceased to strike right...
you pulled me closer
with a scrumptious delight...
i mumbled and fumbled
my words were all wrong
you swirled me and twirled me
and sang me your song...
Friday, August 20, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
its funny to be in an a.c hall
with lines of white computer facing longer lines of students
and there is a pin drop silence engulfing us
funnier is that i have come a long way
from the haven of those poor parents who shielded me from all decoy
from my brother's innocent questions
from another's care
and as i sit in this sterilized library
amidst the teeming heartbeats,
i seep in the loneliness
does it reside in the mind or the heart only.. i wonder
and i wonder if i had been lonely throughout inspite
of what i had got down these years...
but the screen remains blank with no answer.
network failure, i say.
cast away
castaway
in your ocean of bliss
am left free to roam
free to feel and kiss...
castaway
in your sky i dive
dark and blue
and sometimes true
i need to die to feel alive.
Friday, August 6, 2010
rehab
door,
you close yourself on me,
crossing my threshold you choose to seek
a room of blank moans
of the starving souls...
dust and heat,
and i retreat
into the black abyss of
those days from which i thought
i recovered long ago.
hands stretched out they scream my name
and abuse what i had been,
what i am..
am i the same?...
...
door,
you close upon me
without a slit of a breeze
without a gap or space
you pound the half risen thoughts to a pulp
and i gulp
terror welling up within
tears clasping
relapsing
into a sodden mould
of nothingness
...
door,
the latch turns you solid
i can't waste away again
it is too white for my taste
the bed, clothes and chair...
i need sunlight not a tube,
i need love not lube,
i ask for the key, not the strength
...
door,
let me out once again...
you close yourself on me,
crossing my threshold you choose to seek
a room of blank moans
of the starving souls...
dust and heat,
and i retreat
into the black abyss of
those days from which i thought
i recovered long ago.
hands stretched out they scream my name
and abuse what i had been,
what i am..
am i the same?...
...
door,
you close upon me
without a slit of a breeze
without a gap or space
you pound the half risen thoughts to a pulp
and i gulp
terror welling up within
tears clasping
relapsing
into a sodden mould
of nothingness
...
door,
the latch turns you solid
i can't waste away again
it is too white for my taste
the bed, clothes and chair...
i need sunlight not a tube,
i need love not lube,
i ask for the key, not the strength
...
door,
let me out once again...
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
chawa pawa, na hariye jawa...
ami notun pother pothik
sudhu jatra ta jey bhul
pother pashey hajar ta
murchhe jaoya ful...
tomar mukh bheshe ele
boi er faakey dilam fele
ami achi mogno hoye
sudhu hariye gele tumi
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Shonai
and what did you just say?
you being a student of literature, you couldn't express yourself better?
my dear...my darling shonai,
it was a beautiful evening and will last forever
last time we visited the woods, it had been dark,
leaves rustling in our fall,
rocks standing bare gazing stonily while we sat and smoked,
trying to distinguish the planes which swept across the sky
leaving a twinkling trail in the clouds...
and this time,
amidst the bottles and the crowd,
you held my hand while we traversed back to our nook
feeling giddy with pleasure that we found the same hidey hole
we gazed up at the sky.
only in place of the planes, i saw the mute moon.
you held my hand as you took me in your arms
i felt 6 years fall back as i lifted my face...
Canteen, Quadrangle, Baddy, Derozio Hall,
the entire college flashed past me
and i wondered for a split second if you felt the same...
did you ever feel the same back then?
and when i thought i would die without you, did you care?
life moves on someone had told me
but was it possible to love even after letting go?
you eased me on you while erasing the doubts off my face
you sang your song of love
"o' friend, thou hold me close and fulfill me with yourself..."
stone to stone and grass to grass
flesh to flesh and lips to pass
gently then..
and more fierce with each breath...
fiery and fiery still...
the phone lit up in its uncanny white light
suddenly jolting me back to my senses in the dark...
standing up with jittery feet but with a timeless unquenched urge
i turned and ran...
you poor soul, standing aghast in the moonlight
tried to reach out with a cry.
but i had gone.
long long time ago.
someday when you had broken my heart.
you being a student of literature, you couldn't express yourself better?
my dear...my darling shonai,
it was a beautiful evening and will last forever
last time we visited the woods, it had been dark,
leaves rustling in our fall,
rocks standing bare gazing stonily while we sat and smoked,
trying to distinguish the planes which swept across the sky
leaving a twinkling trail in the clouds...
and this time,
amidst the bottles and the crowd,
you held my hand while we traversed back to our nook
feeling giddy with pleasure that we found the same hidey hole
we gazed up at the sky.
only in place of the planes, i saw the mute moon.
you held my hand as you took me in your arms
i felt 6 years fall back as i lifted my face...
Canteen, Quadrangle, Baddy, Derozio Hall,
the entire college flashed past me
and i wondered for a split second if you felt the same...
did you ever feel the same back then?
and when i thought i would die without you, did you care?
life moves on someone had told me
but was it possible to love even after letting go?
you eased me on you while erasing the doubts off my face
you sang your song of love
"o' friend, thou hold me close and fulfill me with yourself..."
stone to stone and grass to grass
flesh to flesh and lips to pass
gently then..
and more fierce with each breath...
fiery and fiery still...
the phone lit up in its uncanny white light
suddenly jolting me back to my senses in the dark...
standing up with jittery feet but with a timeless unquenched urge
i turned and ran...
you poor soul, standing aghast in the moonlight
tried to reach out with a cry.
but i had gone.
long long time ago.
someday when you had broken my heart.
Today at 10 am
The water, it falls with the silent rush of emotion
I lose track of time
The boys play cricket in a wet ecstasy which only they know
I am not part of it…
My mind is occupied elsewhere
Fever and blank verse strikes me from within
And I cannot understand the reason I donot feel the mirth that I should
Nothing comes straight,
Cloud, grey, wall, darkness reigns supreme
Its an irritation, an itch I cannot scratch
I'm left with nothing but the desire to sneeze!!!
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Nostalgia
Your words cut across the green glades of my thoughts
like a solitary bell tolling on the hill...
i wonder if you feel the urge drowning the love...
in this parched spell from above
i simply yearn for you still.
like a solitary bell tolling on the hill...
i wonder if you feel the urge drowning the love...
in this parched spell from above
i simply yearn for you still.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
loose trail of thoughts in sail
i sit and dream of the warm yesternight
and i wonder if it should made me cry
tears, they ebb, they do not come
and i fail to bring out what i should feel
too numb to even try
while pain hasn't hit me yet
it is the shock which keeps me still kicking
in the dead of the night.
and i wonder if it should made me cry
tears, they ebb, they do not come
and i fail to bring out what i should feel
too numb to even try
while pain hasn't hit me yet
it is the shock which keeps me still kicking
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
afterthought in less detail
as an afterthought,
the day out with abhijit da at red fort last week, was a very nostalgic experience for me. i remember the last time i was there, and it was exactly 9 years ago, when i was a girl in class 9, and we had not even completed our final examinations. we were a group of 99 girls and the destination for our school excursion was delhi and agra.. of primary importance then amidst several other places on the visit list was the red fort. i wasnt as smart in those days as i am now :) and more so for the fact that i did not have a Google box right next to me..i had to depend on knowledge being imparted to us. it was fun and educational at the same time, and i remember the traffic getting held up when 99 girls in two almost straight lines scurried across the road to the lal qila...
i remember standing at the entrance and i distinctly remember the click clacks of the 99 cameras from almost the same spot and the same speed. i mean there were almost 5 - clicks from the same camera of the same frame, in case she missed out something in the earlier ones!! what immature kids we were then... i remember a whole lot of details and i wish somebody hadn't told me that we could look at the qutub minar from the red fort, because for the love of god, even if you stood on top of the highest building from anywhere near the fort, you still will never be able to catch a glimpse of the qutub minar!!! now i can see it everyday, because it is plainly visible from my university :)
we were never taken to the jumma masjid. maybe it wasn't a very good place to be in coming from the missionary school background, and i didn't understand it then, but i was for ever more fascinated by the place from a very young age, and i promised to myself that if i ever returned to delhi, the first place i would go to was jumma and pay my respects. it was by sheer luck that i returned and i did go to jumma. it simply took my breath away. my friend and i were walking from the red fort side along the road, when suddenly up ahead in the distance i could see the minars standing tall peeking out from behind the narrowly congested houses, and suddenly within minutes of walking, it suddenly loomed up in front of me... but some how you never get the feeling of being intimidated...
and it is so peaceful inside, there are crazy foreigners dressed in crazy funny garbs, and there are kids bawling on the steps, and there are also pious men who do their regular ablutions to get in time for the namaz, and women cover their heads and we all have to keep the soles of our shoes together and yet... there is peace. whoever said that the muslims are anything but a peace loving people, should not only watch their tongue, but also come to the jumma once...i mean its personal preference, but this place has something about it, some sort of a mystic effect which either will wrap you up in its entirety or will repel you i think... and every time i climber up the stairs in the hope of entering the masjid again, it surpasses my expectations.. every time... thats what aashique told me when he took me to the "traditional triathlon" (thats another story as of now) we were about to enter chadni chowk - "oyndrila, you'll either like it, or you won't. there's no 3rd option about it". but this "city of djins" (name taken from another kindred spirit by the name of William Dalrymple) has a charm of its own..whether you call it being soppy and mushy about a place i'm new to and thereby am quite attached to, or whether you call it to be overt nostalgia of coming back in a full circle...
and it is so peaceful inside, there are crazy foreigners dressed in crazy funny garbs, and there are kids bawling on the steps, and there are also pious men who do their regular ablutions to get in time for the namaz, and women cover their heads and we all have to keep the soles of our shoes together and yet... there is peace. whoever said that the muslims are anything but a peace loving people, should not only watch their tongue, but also come to the jumma once...i mean its personal preference, but this place has something about it, some sort of a mystic effect which either will wrap you up in its entirety or will repel you i think... and every time i climber up the stairs in the hope of entering the masjid again, it surpasses my expectations.. every time... thats what aashique told me when he took me to the "traditional triathlon" (thats another story as of now) we were about to enter chadni chowk - "oyndrila, you'll either like it, or you won't. there's no 3rd option about it". but this "city of djins" (name taken from another kindred spirit by the name of William Dalrymple) has a charm of its own..whether you call it being soppy and mushy about a place i'm new to and thereby am quite attached to, or whether you call it to be overt nostalgia of coming back in a full circle...
i love delhi, and its each nook and cranny i wish to explore...
most of all, i love chadni, and thanks to Aashique (the awesome), i have had the fortune of discovering what chadni is like, discovering the taste, the colours and the vibrant vibrant place it really is...
i love delhi.
fags
spiraling up like a wiry haze
the strings from the cigarette
flew back into the lungs
and i die from cancer
without even knowing what it is
to smoke
and i wonder
lying back on squeaky white sheets
amidst figures in white
how does it feel to inhale..
how does it feel to breathe..
everything is so clogged up now
even imagination
the strings from the cigarette
flew back into the lungs
and i die from cancer
without even knowing what it is
to smoke
and i wonder
lying back on squeaky white sheets
amidst figures in white
how does it feel to inhale..
how does it feel to breathe..
everything is so clogged up now
even imagination
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