Kolkata, A lover's Tale.

Kolkata. A city. An entity. A culture. A song. A romance. A graveyard.

Being my mother's home, Kolkata was the fairytale city of my childhood. Even though I never had the typical Bengali Kolkata-prem, my destiny has always sent me spiralling into the chaos of this city. Be it the choice of St. Xavier's or my PhD life, Kolkata unfortunately will bear the stamp of my gain and loss, more loss than gain.
A school friend once said, "Kolkata kills ambition!" How vehemently I had disagreed with him at that time! I must say this guy was well ahead of his time. Kolkata slow poisons its prisoners and does so beautifully. It gives you hope, provides you with a ladder, even allows you to throw the dice but it never shows the snakes on the board! You can be this close to victory and yet so far.
The funny part is that you cannot blame anything else but yourself.
This is the city that gave me freedom and snatched it away . I find it amusing how Kolkata lets you breathe, yet chokes you at its will. This city gave me a friend for life only to slowly reveal chinks in the friendship armour!

At times, when I've felt defeated, this is the city that took me in her shelter and gave me new hopes! Yes, Kolkata has shown me life like nothing else. She has been a mirror, reflecting the inner turmoil as well as the light that lies buried inside. For all my disturbances, she has always drenched me with the western wind. She has shown me the Sun breaking the veils of darkness and she has led me to darkness when I had wanted time to stop.

I have lived in her glory, smiled with her when change set sails on her banks. I feel helpless today as the wind reverses its direction. I want to stand right up against the wind and claim her for me. But she never was mine to protect. She belongs to the history books. Writers will load College Street with stories of her desires, lovers will pack shelves with collections of her pictures. She doesn't need to pose, my Tilottoma. At least, in my world of words, do I get to call her mine. If I were the phoenix, she would be my fire and my hopes, the ashes.

I am just another admirer, like thousands before and after me. I wish I were one of those blessed ones who actually had something to give to this city.

Someday, my dear safe house, I hope you know there lived a guy who loved you.

The day he turned Fifty : Part I

Year : 2039
Date : x/1/39

The alarm gave a violent kick to the beautiful morning dreams of Neel. He slowly pushed open his sleep deprived eyes to check the watch. Yes,  5:30...time to wake up.
There was one trait Neel had acquired from his father- sleeping late. But he knew well enough that Dad will be enjoying a sound sleep at this hour. Neel smiled to himself. He had so many things in common with his father...love for parents being the primary one.
At seventeen, Neel was matured for his age. The main reason for this would be his father, again. It had always been his father's priority that Neel understood from an early age how the world functions , something he wished that he himself had.
Neel had been a bright boy since childhood. Being good both in sports and studies, he was a favourite among most in school. But it was his understanding of social issues that made him the star in his father's eyes. This was a father-son relationship that bordered on friendship but dived deep into protectiveness, a fact Neel understood all too well.

Today his father turns Fifty. Neel left his bed and ignoring the cold walked steadily to the cupboard. He was still feeling a little unsure about what he was about to do. Was he stretching it too far? But the boundaries were never sharp enough! He opened the cupboard and carefully took out an old diary. On the top right hand side was inscribed, Diary 2014.

Neel has always known his father as a passionate person even though his father keeps mewling over exactly the opposite. He had asked his father numerous times to hold the pen again but the only response was that the passion wasn't there anymore. Yet on enquiring on what made him give up writing his father would maintain silence. At times he would read out his favourite pieces to his son but wouldn't write anything new. His father, somehow was lost in the past. To Neel this veil was an injustice to his mother. When accidentally Neel found this diary, he was so overwhelmed that he thought it best to keep quiet. But how could he? This was a chapter in his father's life which had had the most significant impact.  
Twenty five years ago, a different man existed - a boy more than a man, yet a man, nonetheless.

Neel flipped through the pages and finally made up his mind. The clock showed 6:15. He hurried out of his room and ran into his parents' whose doors were always kept wide open for Neel to sneak in anytime, he wished. He saw his parents conversing softly, as his mother's palm circled on his father's chest. They love each other. Am I doing the right thing? Should I really be demanding answers? But why not? If they have love for each other, shouldn't everything be out in the open? Dad loves the past. Neither me nor Ma will judge him, ever. He can and he should be free! Neel knocked on the door with the diary in his hands and smile on his lips.

Sujay and Anuradha looked up brightly at their son's smiling face. Here comes the boy to wish his father. Oh! there's the diary. His parents looked at each other and Sujay spoke first, 'Come here, son.'
Neel : Happy Birthday, Dad!
He handed the diary over to his father and said, 'Is she the woman of your life, then?'
Anuradha who was messing with her boy's hair let out a chuckle. Then she turned towards Sujay, "Ebar bojha chele ke! Nije pakiyechis."
Sujay took the diary from Neel and smiled effortlessly, "Afterlife."

Of a life currently influenced by Game of Thrones and Amitav Ghosh

The latest season of Game of Thrones has finally got rid of its artistic (protecting) hood. We have finally found the glimpse of a bank which chooses a side to back in a war. The bank, no, not even the bank shits gold, let alone the Lannisters! The bank will back whoever pays the debts! Today might be your time but alas! The time runs fast in Westeros, faster than in today's Earth.
Isn't it amazing how a fictionalized political drama states fact much more simply and honestly than all the so called news and information centres?
We even see characters as brutal and true as life permits. A man in love with a woman since they were kids, rather obsessed with her seta a whole kingdom on fire. What happens after the woman dies? This lover hits on her daughter! True, assholes exist. In the third season, we found love. Sadly though, all the love stories were torn apart by the end. Yes, existence calls for sacrifices. Some sell swords, some souls; the few who are driven by love end up dead - thus playing no role in the world ruled by banks. Funny.
In the sixth episode of the 4th season, we find a helpless boy searching for answers of his father's murder from a Queen who believes in justice : Is it fair to counter violence with violence?

No, it is never fair when you are at the receiving end.

Amitav Ghosh. A Bengali, who writes in English and creates spectacular magic.
By now, I have read four of his books. The first one, I recall was The Calcutta Chromosome. A science fiction spanning both time and space, the book introduced to me his amazing story telling. I followed it up with the brilliant, The Hungry Tide. This was an English novel, yet it always felt as if I was reading a fantastic narrative in Bengali! Apart from the research that forms the core of his work, the characters still win as the highlights of his books. Kanai will haunt me forever, for it was in him that I could and can still see my future. At times, it is good to watch the world as it is. May be that's what God does. He writes the code, sets the parameters and runs the simulation. Experiment. We are mere particles worrying about our existence while He cares truly about the result. Only when the result doesn't seem to be that interesting, he probably perturbs the system accordingly. So what exactly is in our hands, I ask again.
In The Glass Palace, Ghosh praises the dark room - where something is created out of nothing. Being a physics graduate who's not an atheist, I can easily relate to it. What is the source of the first ever thing that existed? Pity, the question loops in a contradiction.
The last book I read was the Sea of Poppies. We see a proud, rich Raja, also a passionate lover, lose everything only to discover himself. Yes, there still exist people who don't give in. The cruelty of the world only serves to make them stronger and smarter. They don't do to the world what the world does to them. They live on; in pages, mud and winds. Then there's Jodu. A man who rows his own boat, which breaks. But the exact opposite happens with him. He makes his way to the top of the ship, where he belongs, in the world of winds.

Yes, the name suits him, Azad.

p.s. Being a Bengali, who loves aloo posto and discussing politics, poppies and thrones make a combination one can't resist.

The Dark Room

A few open pages
Hold a series of lines
As a cool breeze
Flows in through the open window
My darkness, egulfs
All but my face
As the woman plucks the strings
In the sands located far away.

The sounds of various darkness appear
And disappear within the vaults of memories
A fusion of despair and rhythms, colourless dreams;
And a voice keeps haunting through the arteries.
Winter has left a bone too many in the paradise
The returning shephard hides sins in the eyes.

So, my dear darkness
Run over me tonight
Like a dice rolling through history
Take my hand and embrace me
Make my childhood flash
All over this silent sky
The stretches of my imagination
Are demanding to fly.

Khnuje Paoya

Sheeter dupure hnata shei pata jhora rastay
Ajo oneke hnete berai ;
150 bochorer holud sobuj bari rod pohay;
                    2tor por direction bodlano shei byasto sarani ajo one way
                    Koto goli, koto rastai na eshe or buke pore;
                    Premik, sramik, sahityik keu dam, keu naam chay.


Cha-er cup hate konodin shei chhate uthle bujhte
Sokal kake bole, nihswas kake bole;
Pollution mukto gambhirje bhora Itihasher chhite;
                                     Bohudure Howrah Bridger kuasha bheja steel
                                     Ebong rate sojasuji Eden er alo rongin;
                                     Bus, taxir awaj, 4 tolar ghor, premika r physics.


Kader je shahor tumi ami janina
Amar chotobelar smriti shuru tomar kole
ekhanei shikhechi abdar, ananda, bhablobasha;
                                  Aj bypass er gaa beye cholche roj opore othar chesta
                                  Dhulo, mosha, chitkar - nijeder tomar ango bolte chaiche
                                  Kobi gaichhen, "Tomake khnuje peye chaina harate abar."

Mone porche ei rate onek kichui,
Boyesh hothat phire takiye aj hasche
Protiti muhurto nijer kore bnachte hobe
Khnujte hobe, harate hobe notun kore
Uthte hobe, mishte hobe, jagte hobe
Kobitar Kolkatay fyataru ra mukto hok, bastab hok.

The Shadow (City of Lights)

I'm a shadow
I walk behind many leading men
and women
Along the dirty history of this city;
I don't rot, I see others choose
Hell over heaven, even earth!
I only follow, like I've since the beginning
And there might not be an end to my end.

I've seen men lose fortunes
And disintegrate into me
I have seen Venus burn
All forms of morality
And I've seen time flow by
On its own desires, unaffected
As the lanes of my traversed path
Have entangled and made the scholars say...
"History repeats itself!"

So many women have suffered heart aches
And have tried to redeem themselves with
better lovers;
So many poets have faltered on the lines
Lines of passion, of mistrust, of civilisation.
Yet does our Kolkata live, in its pale yellowish glory
With a few shadows like me, vigilantes.

 I look at my palm, lines again
Sins? Yes, there are a few
But a shadow must not investigate
Light might be quite a harmful excitement!
So why must I feel bad of what I know?
I, myself am a carrier of darkness
For centuries, of inhuman truth and lies.
But I roam in the night, not alone... not alone
If I have sinned, so have you
If I have loved, so have you
If I have dared, so have you
If you have survived, so have I.

What if a lady broke a few thousand hearts
Half a century ago?
How many of those hearts were actually pure?
What if a woman breaks another heart
Tonight, in this city?
In this age of probability, what is purity?
For a poet, may be the night is romantic
For a helpless lover, it's a stranglehold
Pages bury themselves in each brick of your city
The shadow keeps learning, keeps bluffing,
Deep inside a vault, resides its very own secret.

The Invisible Dimension

Music flows through your fingers,
And streams towards mine,
Passion, ignition, souls, desires
Have awakened within me
A long forgotten march.

A divine purity has washed over me
My sins are dancing in your hue
A light drizzle caresses the west wind,
I long for my beloved by my window.

Am I the only one enjoying
The dance of a thousand peacocks
My out-stretched hand moists itself
As distant thunders provide enlightenment.

Take me with you, O chords of time
Land me in the past or future
For I do not care anymore
Let me out, set me free, put me on fire.

Burst me into flames
For my words have left me
Where to am I floating, I know not
The need for gravity has never been so strong!

Light beyond the door

Something shines beyond the door
My dark room, our bed ; my body
Aches, yet never does it move ahead
I can see the intensity increase, blinding
Me through whatever restricted entrance;
My strength overpowers morality, once again.

Evening sky looks through the South window
I hate being alone for I've felt your fire
For all I know, the light beyond the door
Has its source in you, inspirations and submissions
Make this life worth living, a strange light you are
You don't fade, either you glow or there's darkness.

Does burning hurt?
If yes, for how long?
I don't have an answer,
Numbness has taken over.
Yet, there's but one feeling
Let that be, the night's calling.

Come, dance with me (A tribute to Man on Fire)

The Sun sets in the east
To rise right above me
Westwards a cuckoo sings
Of all the silent miseries.
Yet, tonight I'm on my way
For the flower on the far away tree.

Come dance with me...

They are counting the dead
But isn't there plenty left in me?
Let's forget the lost ashes
And ride along the tides of spring.
A soft humming can be heard
See, the cuckoo's flying east.

Over heartache and rage
Come set us free...

Let the Sun shine over our sins;
Rejoice and take a dip in the sea
Let's do some somersault
And make the old and young smile
Let's run down to the base of the mills
Let's throw ourselves to the blowing wind.

Only one desire
That's left in me
I want the whole damn world
To come dance with me...

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08WeoqWilRQ

The Stage unfolds

The curtains have started to rise,
The stage is set, the audience looks on
The spotlight illuminates the center stage
Act zero: The voice beams from within.

                        Silence grips the actor
                        Stage fright or a deep concentration?
                        The comfort of the green room
                         Has to be forgotten, and ignored.

Act One: I'm here, darkness,
The spotlight glows ever so slightly
And you emerge, my illumination
I have to reach you, but chains bind me.

                          Fade to Black
                          Blue and red lights take over

Several chains hang from the ceiling
Morality, Ideology, Hopes, Desires
The hue turns yellow as a siren sounds
The chains oscillate rapidly, the lights go out.

                            Act Two: I have my feather and ink
                            Green light shines on you far away
                            Leaflets fly around the auditorium
                            The universe someday shall know my past.

You speak: "You are not the soldier I dreamt of,
Neither are you the magician of my childhood;
You live in your closet, immersed in your invisible ink"
I feel numb, the bottle isn't empty, don't you see the leaflets?

                               "No, I don't! I believe what I see
                                You live in your illusions, in your fortress"
                                I want to complain but I refrain
                                My ink has left me, my truth hasn't, yet.

Bells toll continuously
Yellow and red lights play
All around the stage
Curtains come down...           

                                                    INTERVAL

A Strange Poem

A bone hangs from the ceiling
With blood dripping like tears
And the Sandman wakes up
Deep in the moon-lit desert;
And last remnants of this grass
Turns towards the light, the fire.

Here I am, writing for myself
Words in me, through me, for me
In a world of my harmony, peace
Nostalgia, curse, insult and stings
I lay bare my arms, good and bad
With a locked door and a wry grin.

A movement, a failure, a beginning
My path has crumbled time and again
The ash floats around me with a sneer
Asking questions about the origin,
The end, the versatile chameleon
Will survive among the bones of winter.