The Way She Looked That Night...

I bet its the last day that the Mother looks her best..with a vermillion smear adorning her face. And she seems to make every other woman acquire a fraction of that beauty she defines. Just like I've always wished to look exactly a copycat of the way my mother looks on every Dashami evening. The beat effusing from the dhaak on this day, I feel, seems the most elusive and irresistible, slipping out from everyone's reach in the blink of an eye and engulfing the festive spirit alike quicksand. The last few hours of the festival seems to pass over in no time. And its when you pointlessly argue with yourself that it would certainly have been better had the Pujas arrived a little late. Its always a sulk that the fervour is finally over and I'm really getting short of words and rhyme and thoughts to write something that'd be somewhat a pleasure. Seeking a vent, its imperative to walk the optimistic way..that we are surely getting nearer to the festivities awaiting in the forthcoming year.

P.S.:- Subho Bijoya to everyone out there. Hope all of you had a great puja.

She...

And this time the wait has presumably been the longest for me. There is a certain unnamed aroma I've always linked with Her. Probably its the product of sweets and incense, flowers and clay..but I've always called it 'Her' smell, which floats around since days before Her actual arrival playing the messenger bird of the homecoming. That idiosyncratic smell of Her arrival has never left to enchant any of my fractions, but this time it seemed all too irresistible. Too heavy a feeling to carry around. And now that She's here, that She's finally perceivable from my balcony, it seems all too surreal..to perceive, to smell, or to reach out for a touch.

This is seemingly the last Durga Puja of my 20 year stay in Kolkata. And next year around this time I'll probably be missing classes to stay near home, near Her. But what I'll really miss is the countdown to the festival..the moment since when monsoon starts drifting away giving way to cottony clouds..when a clayey aroma wanders between us, implying that She's on Her way..and the mushrooming shopping destinations which go berserk with their offers. I'll miss the framing of the pandals at almost every corner, which first bring about Her smell..and Her arrival at midnight amidst some euphoric dhaker baddi, when on such an event, once a kid told me.."Didi, Dugga Puja eshe galo!"These will always frame the bits and pieces of my life that can never be shrouded under ignorance or oblivion, irrespective of how much tears they bring about. And there'll always be some little things like the occassional dhaker baddi and vibrant dhunuchi naach, whose mere thought will convey the smell of my city to whichever corner I am. Leaving apart all the political and economic changes that it imperatively requires, I'd really wish to stay alive to see Kolkata exactly this way during the Durga Puja ever and forever down the millennia. And seek that ethereal smell through and through my marrows that plays with me so often, and that, which has and always will help me to keep myself spirited, effevescent and alive.

When Imaginations fly...

When the day sets afar with the Sun
The queen of evenings peeps through her veil..
Alike the bride blushing scarlet,
As she dissolves in her new found delight
All that’s dreary and withers away..
All that was gloom till last night.

And someone alights a blown out candle
Renewing the vigour of a new dusk in life
Along the horizon where thoughts cease to wane..
Across the courtyard where dreams shimmer bright..

When grief conquers the course of life,
And the sun adieus with a tear and a sigh
When despair gathers murk too dense
To behold the zenith of the twilight..
Someone stretches a hand through the mist
Someone, who is nowhere in sight..

Somewhere the mind trails a wrong way
Somethings make it falter to sway
Somewhere the mind faces its end
Someone it seeks as its only friend..

Times when solitude throttles every might
Deserting behind with multitudes of plight,
The kiss of a breeze whispers it all
That beyond here there’s nowhere to fall..
From where the sky gathers all its white
And hopes fly high and free as a kite.

Adieu..

Its quite eerie to feel bad on the death of someone who is related to you in no way..not a friend, nor a foe, neither a chance acquaintance. Someone you just happen to know. And someone you had least thought of bothering you, even by means of death. Its really strange to feel remorse on someone bidding adieu whom you have always learnt to despise. And yet, after he departs, you hear your idols whom you have always listened to, speak good of the deceased. Mr. Subhas Chakravarty, one of the age-old veteran leaders of the 'yet'-ruling political party of my state ceased to exist this morning, amidst dreadful pain and suffering uncalled for. And it was till last Monday that the hymn woven by the Pied Piper thriving in him made people flock blindly to the meeting grounds in multitudes. A saviour of some, if not many, he supposedly had never expected public hearts pouring out on him on any event, belonging to the most severely criticised creed of Indian men. But nevertheless did he speak the truth outright, even on the face of his fellow partymen. Gray trousers and white formals with a Panama hat on top and buns of hair peeping through the sides- he has always looked the same in his trademark attire since the day I first saw him on my school grounds during annual sports some 7 years back, till today, when vignettes of his glorious era were being displayed incessantly in the news channels. A visualisation that, on a lighter note, have inspired many a go-as-you-like and mimic sessions. God does pay for all deeds, and so the people's leader has been saved of going through the agony of viewing the disappearance of his party's waning pallor. And time indeed can heal all that hurts...and the late leader's world will undisputably conquer the grief pervading over his loss. Dirty politics will follow. So will the practices of mud-slinging between some gray-haired naive country captains. And news channels will forever continue to lure behind TRPs by leafing through a person, even after death. But will the fissure created by this adieu ever get filled? Will the party ever manage to revive again under the eyes of such waning veteran leaders? I doubt.

His Masterpiece...

I had been wondering about the Creator. His fluid masterstrokes that bring about the essence of childhood, the fragrance in flowers, and all that is so profound in the name of poetry. But then, childhood wanes and fragrances fail to intoxicate. Even poetry falters to move. And the forgotten leftover is the abyss that seeks refuge under the dwelling of nature, onto the lap of the Creator. For it is Him, who thrives in the midst of drenched meadows and rainfed rivers. And trickles onto our land through the midrib of a leaf. Truly enough, if the world is the Creator's canvas, rains have been His masterpiece.

Hangover...

At my door the leaves are falling
A cold wild wind will come
Sweethearts walk by together
And I still miss someone..

I go out on a party
And look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
'Cause I still miss someone..

Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes
I see them every where
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there..

I wonder if he's sorry
For leavin' what we'd begun
There's someone for me somewhere
And I still miss someone..

and i still miss someone...

This is to something I haven't yet been able to put to words, or speak out to someone. And to a friend who just had a heartbreak.

It's been an year...

...And the day has come again. Its one of those things that, of late, I have awaited the least. And yet, its here again..with all its hues of blight. Its again that I wished to wake up a little late, and cry a bit more into the midnight. To drive recklessly down the streets, oblivious of what may happen, or is yet to happen. And search for a blue under the city's sky which always seems somewhat incomplete without him. The blue that is reminiscent of thousands of tears and tussels, panics and promises. And the blue furry overcoat that he wished to buy for his twins. Its again, yet again, that I clawed my fists to fight a few tears back. And wished learning to play the flute to allure someone to stay back a few more moments. I wished in the least to do this to him today. But yet again, I had to bid him farewell with another counterfeit smiling face. It haunts me to see the innocent smile on his face. For the times I've wronged him, and ruthlessly stained that innate innocence. And on the way to the victory of my fruitless pride, losing the piece of himself he asked me to secure. God, it kills me like anything. And how hopelessly I crave to beg him on my knees..for a single moment of atonement. Maybe he'll never ask for an apology..And may lend his hand to guide me through this redemption. Maybe I'll never know how he felt when the last bend made us go out of sight..Or what he had to say apart from wiping my tears. Maybe I'll never know how many nights I've made him cry..And how long. Maybe I'll never know him crying..Or he'll never show anything but a smile. But it's been an year. An year less than the years we're destined to stay apart. And an year towards the future we have painted together. And yet, another year, of what makes you feel proud of. I'll miss him. His innocent smiles. His earnest attempts to make me smile some more. And the image of my helpless smiles in his eyes. For he has indeed being the one, who has brought about the eternal spring in my life..painted my days green and nights scarlet, like the imminent rains resting on the evening sky..and fabricated the abstract essence of happiness somewhere between the troughs and crests of my life.