Untitled 4 (A love song)

And true love waits
In haunted attics.
True love lives
In Lollipops and chips.

Hang on.
Don't leave
Don't yet leave.

And true love hates
Hearts, ductless.
True love breathes
In kitten smiles and sleeps.

Don't leave.
Please, don't leave.

And true love bleeds
For sinking paper ships
True love weeps
On drying petal lips.

Sleep, sleep
Oh, just don't leave.

Untitled 3 (A short story?)

The door opens with a creaking monotone. 10 years. It's been 10 years since anyone has enterd this room. This used to be his mother's room.
Mother. The word doesn't bring back much happy memories. Shouts, counter shouts, obscenities, abusive behaviours, hurled between the two sides like ultra-modern missiles.
He moves and stands near the giant window. He opens it. From here, nine storeys above the world, everything is so small, minute, unimportant. When he was a kid he used to measure how much time his spit would take to travel the nine storeys. 4 seconds, surely not more than that.The day Maa jumped from this very window, he had thought, how much time did Maa take to hit the hard, ignorant world below?
He leans over. Does the world look a bit larger? Not really.
4 seconds. What can you do in 4 seconds? See your whole, pathetic life lying like a Kolkata Sewer system map before you? Regret all the decisions you ever took in your life? Feel the sudden urge to live your life once again? Start to love your children once more? You can do a lot of things in these 4 seconds.
He took 1 hour. After Maa committed suicide, he just needed 1 hour to decide, that he is going to go away from this house. Go away forever.
And so he did.
After 10 years he has come back to this city, to his home. And he has come back only when he has been assured that no else is left to disturb him.
Baba is dead. He passed away two days ago. Heart attack, or stroke, or something of that sort. Shona Jethu had called him up and requested him to come back, for the mukhagni. So he is.
Baba is dead. Just like Maa was. No more need to come back to this *darned* city anymore. No more need to receive disturbing calls, like he has for the past 10 years. In the end the frequency of these calls reduced significantly, but they did come. No more requests to come back. His umbilical cord has snapped, atlast.
A gusty wind hits his face, and rids the room from its dampy stink. He looks around the room in the artificial twilight. Much hasn't change. It's obvious Baba never entered this room, and so did not the servants. He remembers Baba once told him that Maa still lives in this room. He doesn't doubt Baba. He always knew Maa would never be able to leave this house, leave Baba. Maa is still there. He can feel her. He can sense her smell, the typical smell, which every mother has.
Memories. He feels scared. He comes out of the room, and locks it tight.
Bolted. Now they can't disturb him anymore.

Untitled 2 (An Apocalyptic Painting)

A Maroon evening. A Blue mountain in the distance is visible, with Grey forests covering nakedness of the abdomens of the mountain. A solitary Birch tree stands in the forefront, shifted towards the right, an unusually Red Birch. So Red you'd think it was dead by now. A boy sits below the tree. A seemingly tired boy. Blue hairs veil a pale White face from us. We cannot see his face, but a frozen tear dangles near his chin. One of his hand rests on the Sepia-toned grass. Two Ash smitten joints roll on the grass before him. In the far left corner of the canvas we can see a bare-footed girl running away towards the mountains. We can't see her face. But her bleeding feet stabs a dagger in our eyes. Her Green scarf waves like an ominous signal.


The canvas remains still, only the colour of the sky slowly turns bright Black. This Black now starts bleaching the canvas. First the mountain, then the forest, then the boy and his tree, and atlast the girl. The canvas becomes Black.


You need to read this piece with eyes closed, or else you won't be able to see the painting. Happy reading :)

Untitled 1

Clouds. A wing.
Drop. Gun in hand.
Salt in eyes.
Subterranean Sitar.
Another war-like trance.
Is the king?
One without a name.
Drop, drop, and hit hard.
Being without being,
And wings without feathers.
Ugly truth.

Shadhinota Dibos

Kal Shadhinota Dibos. Deshattobodhok, that is patriotic songs are being played in the streets, the shops are getting decorated with the tricolours, today’s 14th August.




Scene I



In one such shop, a shop where notebooks and pen-pencils and graphs and the national flag are found for sale, a boy enters-



Boy: Uncle, uncle. Indian Flag hobe?

Shopkeeper(a man in his 60s): Ki?

Boy: Arre uncle! Flag, National Flag of India pawa jaabe?

Shopkeeper: Oww! Jatiyo Potaka? Achhe to, kirokom chai bolo agge?

Boy: Ki size-er achhe?

Shopkeeper: Chhoto, boro, majhari, kagoj-er, plastic-er, ja chao paabe.

Boy: Amay oi glossy-ta dao, chokchok korchhe jeta. Garite lagabo.

Shopkeeper: Garite lagabe? Kintu ota je boddo polka, chhire jabe haway.

Boy: Na na, A.C. gari-to, amra janla khuli na. Flag-ta besh gari-r modhhe dulbe, kalke Independence Day je! Celebrate korte hobe to.

Shopkeeper: Gari-te potaka lagiye celebrate korbe?

Boy: Na na, kalke amar schoole-e Independence day program. Amader Principal Flag hoist korben, tarpor amader cake-patties khawabe. Kal to khub moja!

Shopkeeper: Haan, kal khub moja. Ei nao tomar potaka.

Boy: Thank you uncle. Happy Independence day! [Leaves]

Shopkeeper: Shubho Shadhinota Dibos tomakeo.



Scene II



One of the roadside temples of Kolkata, where every Saturday, some or the other kind of Pujos are done. One such Pujo is going on in one such temple. A large number of people are crowding the road adjoining the temple. A group of 9-10 year olds in tattered clothes can be seen loitering around at a distance.



Boy 1: Ei sala shob ekhane dariye thak, ekhuni bhog debe.

Boy 2: Ki debe re?

Girl 1: Shei to ek-i khichuri bhog debe.

Boy 3: Orre amar moharani re. Ei khichuri-tai baa kobe pash?

Girl 2: Ei, nibi kishe? Maal-ta to gorom hobe.

Boy 1: Thik bolechhe shala, ajkal to thonga-monga kichhui dey na.

Girl 1: Cho amader pelate peye gechhi.

Boy 3: Koi?

Girl 1: Oi to kagoj jhulchhe dewal-e, chhire nilei holo, amader plate.

Boy 2: Mairi etar mathae budhhi achhe kintu.

Girl 2: Kintu otato Bharat-er potaka. Kal oi ki bole, Shadin-na-ki ekta achhe na! Bharat Shadhin hoyechhilo kalke je.

Boy 3: Haan haan, Joy Hind, mera Bharat mohan. Shob bujhe gechhi. Ekhon cho to.

Boy 1: Ei bhog dichhe, cho cho, joldi kagoj-gulo chher.

They quickly tear the paper flags, and run towards the prosad bittoronkari man.



Kal Shadhinota Dibos. 63 “glorious” years of Independence. Being the “proud” citizen of the next superpower in the world, I feel so pathetic, err.. I mean patriotic. Kal Shadhinota Dibos. Mera Bharat... Mahan?

Acid Trip [edited version]

Trapped in another world, all alone, strange vibes loiter around me, an almost subaquatic trance is wrapped aound me like a raincoat. Not knowing who I am, what I am, where I am, why I am? Pretty terrifying, huhn? But believe me, at that moment, you could care more about the death of the neighbourhood skylark. All one believes is what one sees, or doesn't see, in our case. But do I really see any thing, or not see anything? Even if I do, is it really there?
              I feel death. When one is dead, one looks at the world in a much broader manner. Don't believe me? Don't, as if I care. The things I experience, are undefinable. I see things that are really not there, such as faces, faces I never knew existed, hideous faces, and goodlooking faces, and faceless faces, all coming out of the closet tag-marked "forbidden childhood". The walls start moving, clamping down on me one instant, and spreading out the next. The floor becomes a jelly ocean, or a very wobbly quicksand, it starts sucking me in. Everything is white. I start feeling beyond time and space. Starting to think myself insane becomes an understatement, but am I? Or am I not just another piece of dirt, or a puppet? Or are they just trying to frame me, frame me because they know I am the avatar, the spirit. The spirit which will save mankind. Everything becomes a question, but without any answers. And I see, hear, taste, touch, feel god.


This is something I wrote long time ago, about my experiences with intoxicating stuffs which a teenager should not know about. An edited version is posted here.

End of a World

It's the end, or is it?

Recently I've started practicing deep diving inside my mind. It's easy. Believe me. Just open your Reality oxygen mask. And take a deep breathe.
Whoosh.
I'm there.
What I find inside reminds me of Lennon. Remember Lucy and the LSD soaked diamonds? Well, I find gigantic cities, inside. they have porcelain skies, and  marmalade buildings, and naked men and women (what's with all these clotheless people, surely i'm becoming more and more perverted these days). Anyway as I was saying, the city portrays a happy, post-apocalyptic setting were the alleys are as wide as the the alleys in subaquatic cities. And everyone looks happy. Scary, huhn?
Comrade, it's not the time to be abstract and surrealistic, as losing touch with reality and putting a man on the moon is the same thing nowadays. I know, I know. But uncomprehending bugs bite me. And I can't even beat the shit out of them, after all, posha bole katha. So all I can do is search around the cities for some leftover liabilities. I could destroy the cities, and probably bomb the skies into million pieces, but no, instead I wait and wait. Walking in the streets is scary, with all these happy people around, isn't it comrade? Believe me it is scary, what with all these happy people chanting like hundred Jim Morrisons. Don't ask me what they chant, they're happy, free, they can chant anything. Anyway, time for my sedatives, so I climb out of the manhole and come back to Radiohead and Trigo.

So much for writing something fruitful. Sigh.
It's the end of the world as we know it, and strangely, I don't feel fine.