Yesterday

My verses

You broke my verses,

into tiny shreds

and blew them to the wind.

It was out of shape,

had no depth or flow,

in your roving eyes.

Endless moments

of my musings,

were my words.

You will never see,

how words can,

make or break.

They were pieces,

of my scattered soul,

stitched in a pattern less weave

You failed to see beyond,

within and without,

you failed me.

Maybe, now when you find

the flow, in these words,

keep them as memory.

You broke my verses,

into tiny shreds,

but you did not break me.

Bookmarked

The sight was so familiar. The white Chantilly lace fluttered against the pane almost making a pattern as it blew with pride against that rare evening wind. The paint bordering the perfect squares on the window needed paint, she thought. The whites had faded to greys, chipped off from random areas, the edges of the glass conjoined with the wood had gathered dust. It looked worn out. 

The lace though seemed bright and vibrant.  She took care of it as if it were a precious gem. An heirloom in a way. Her mind drifted and fluttered as the breeze floated through familiarly. 

Nyra thought of her mom. She was adamant on the name “Nyra”. Never truly divulging the meaning she always told her that it was lyrical in a sense. It would add the music in her life. The name had grown on her though whether it was adding any rhythm or purpose, she was not sure. 

“Antra was a much nicer name.”, she thought. Ma and her name were synonymous. She was Antra. It meant the body (the second para) of the song in Sanskrit. Ma was Antra, she was the lyrics, she was the tune and she was the song itself. The one you could sing and never forget. The kind which would imprint in your soul and taking up a corner forever. 

 It had been a while since she saw her. Somewhere deep down it still hurt. When life throws a curve ball and you just have to ride the tide. Though she still had unanswered questions, the hurt remained and that abated rage stayed warm in her soul. 

The bell rang. She woke up from this array of thoughts and ran to the door. The bell sounded familiar. “

“What is it with door bells?”

“Each one has their own style of ringing the bell, even the ting tong could sound different.” she thought.

She opened the door in a hurry and was scooped into these familiar, comforting and safe arms. Kabir was back. Nothing like familiarity. The kind which you need when the world around you is whirling. 

“I missed you.”, he said. He always said this after few days of travel. 

“How have you been?

It is so hot today though the breeze is a saving grace.

I hate to travel and be away for long. Is there any food?”

Kabir had indeed returned. The silence was replaced with the familiar cacophony. 

She smiled to herself knowing fully well that if she attempted to answer the flurry of questions. He would not hear it till he had settled, had a hot meal and paused. 

“Did he ever pause though?”, she wondered

The left-over rice from last night and the chicken curry was devoured in no time. Kabir had that “I am full” smile. 

He pulled her close to him. He smelt of musk and vanilla.  She snuggled and buried her head in his chest. It was home, in a way. His hand moved swiftly as he pulled out the stick which held her hair in a bun.  He untangled her long tresses as if he knew his way around. His lips sought hers with a burning desire, hurried and impatient. She responded as she arched her head while he nibbled his way down her neck. He knew what worked.  They moved in unison, drowned and floated together. Panting and breathless, he lay on top of her. 

 She smiled and wondered about the ending. There was this story she was working on. It had been three months and she could not work out the ending. It just was not coming her. It was not even writer’s block. She had written four different ends but no one of them was it. It just did not seem like the end. It just did not seem right. 

“I think I will go finish buying the groceries and grab a cup of coffee on the way in”, she told Kabir.  

Kabir mumbled something back as he slipped into a satisfied slumber. 

She eased her way out of the bed. Grabbed her dress from the floor. It was white just like that lace as she looked back at it. Something about the lace which kept beckoning her today.

She quickly grabbed her laptop, her wallet and headed out.  Groceries could wait, she thought. The corner table was a her favorite in this forgotten coffee shop around the bend of the street. 

Thankfully, it was empty. The server smiled at her. She grinned back sheepishly. She sometimes wondered maybe she was the reason they continued to exist. The shiny coffee shops down the road attracted the crowd and this café with the forlorn chairs, the dog eared books, the ceramic cups kind of faded away against all the sparkle around. But, she loved it.

She opened her laptop and stared at the screen. 

“Is there an ending”, she wondered as her mind again wandered off.

She went back to the bookmarked website, the painting of the saree clad woman braving the wind against the banks of river seine was her favorite. Why was it untitled, is what she wondered. Ma could have named it “braving the wind”, “my moment”, “letting go”, “freedom”. Untitled seemed not right. That abated rage was brimming. 

The phone call on her 16^th birthday was a memory etched in time.

“I am sorry Nyra. I wish I could be there. It is just that I had to go. I needed to fly. I could never be chained, you see. Someday, as you grow up you will understand. I will always love you”

“Why? Ma. Why? Could you not have stayed? Loved me. Held me. Laughed with me. Taught me.. “, I wished I had asked this. I wished I had called her back. Written to her , flown to Paris to see her, shaken her, hugged her, yelled at her and screamed.

I never understood. That day a lot of her died. Nyra stopped being lyrical. She had lost her antara. The white lace came back as a memory. It was what she remembered. Ma talking about chantiliy lace and Paris. She spoke of romance and life. She dreamt. She had wings, she always said. The lace remains and so does Nyra, or some essence of her.

The server served the black coffee with a smile. I smiled back distractedly.

Suddenly, I knew it as I could feel tears gushing down my cheeks. I typed furiously…

“There was no end. No chain of events could lead to an end. It was a journey of sorts. She had to let go. She hated her yet she was her. A free spirit. It was the moment of realization. The moment she knew, she could not go back to the lace hanging on the window. She had to flow. No matter if it did not have a destination, a path , a reason or any logic. … She was and will always be Nyra…she had to find her music….”

Just then she knew the title to the painting, It had to be “bookmarked”.. it was book marked for her. It changed her. Beckoned her and in a way set her free.

Kabir would understand. Maybe or maybe not.

She called and waited till he picked up, “I am sorry Kabir. I wish I could come back. It is just that I have to go. I need to fly. I can be chained, you see. Someday, you will understand. I will always love you”

……………

The soul mirror

Peaks and troughs galore, 

engulfing the auburn sky,

shades of life it bore,

uneven lows and familiar highs.

Ocean’s blue is no compare,

to the mist borne hues,

mountains shout out a dare,

nature in its glory gives a cue.

The spell bound dreamy mortal,

stares in lost disbelief,

the sighs which mirror the soul,

an abyss of unquenched belief.

आशना

इतने दिनों की बातें,

ख़्वाबों से सजाया,

एक चेहरा,

हज़ारों एक ख़्वाहिशों,

से बंधी एक माला...

आज मुलाक़ात की घड़ी

यह सींचा चेहरा,

किसी और का ना हो,

कोई और ना हो,

कि बस एक मुख़्तसर मुलाक़ात हो

ऐसा भी ना हो,

कि मुलाक़ात में मसरुफ ऐसे कि

बेजा ओर बेसाबब

उल्फ़त का गुलशन बिछ जाए

डर लगता है मुझे ,

मुलाक़ातों से,

रंजिश है मुझे हक़ीक़त से,

क्या आशना की जुसतुज़ु काफ़ी है?

Scars

As I stare across the window pane,

looking down ahead of the flights wings,

I saw scratches, on a full proof glass.

Scratches, disorderly, unorganised,

lines, dots, zig zags, bumps,

it was chaotic and disturbing 

The glorious skies,

somehow seemed cluttered,

it made me angry and uncomfortable 

Suddenly, in a brief moment,

the sun’s rays glistened,

one of them pepped from the puffy clouds.

It shone around the scratches,

highlighting, bordering,

caressing and engulfing.

The scratches formed a pattern,

a labyrinth of unknown,

a myriad of almost mystical designs 

The glass turned into a canvas, sparkling,

a message in the briefiest of moments,

scars are pretty, it said!

Unkaha

Intezar to tera pal pal kiya 

Dil ki dhadkan,

Ghari ke shanon se tez thi,

Na dikha sakhte the tujhe,

Na bata sakhte the tujhe ,

Dosti ka wasta jo tune diya tha.

ग़म और ख़ुशी

ग़म और ख़ुशी

तो है एक ही पहलू

दिल तो दोनो ही, उछालते है

ग़ैरों से ना उम्मीद कोई

ना दर्द, ना ही बेहत ख़ुशी

कुछ आज के मुसाफ़िर

कुछ कल तक के

तो क्या अपेक्षा,

और कौन सा ग़म

जवाब की उम्मीद ना थी तुमसे

पर यूँ अनदेखा करोगे

सोचा ना था

आशा और निराशा

भी तो एक ही पहलू है,

दिल तो दोनो ही दुखते है।

इंतज़ार

आज फिर वही शाम

हवाओं में वही ख़ुशबू

शोर में भी सन्नाटा है

तुमने कहा था,  मिलोगे

वही जगा है

वही सब कुछ 

कल भी तेरा इंतज़ार था

आज भी।

Perfect Harmony...

Every day he would go for his stroll around 6 pm. The dusk somehow always beckoned. It was always the same routine where he would wear his favorite hat and walk down the cobbled path just around the bend of the “rosewood road”. The Church was rarely visited now, the stained-glass window was broken, the creeper once laden with white roses, today, was just a mess of cobbled twigs and the bench which was once green and welcoming, was full of moss. Yet, the gray called out to him. Though uncanny, the place in its entirety made sense, forgotten, untouched, laden with memories of yester years. It was comforting. It reassured him, that, even in today’s fast changing world there was some constant. A place, he could visit everday devoid of the constant flux. No one bothered visiting it or sprucing it up. The shiny white Church with the Saturday choir and the Sunday fest was more attractive to most.

Each day the routine was the same. The walk took him thirty minutes down the cobbled path, past the post box at the corner of Cobalt, past De’ Souza’s Patisserie, up the small hillock and then around the bend. It would take him exactly 28 minutes. He had timed it on multiple occasions. The Church did not have a name, the signboard was long gone. He had named it “Church of Harmony”. Its existence and serene surroundings created a melody which somehow sang a tune of perfect harmony.

He would sit there every day till 7:10 pm when the sun would set admiring the myriad of colors splashed during sunset. As the colors splashed, the sun would leave for its heavenly abode, he would take out his mouth organ and play the same tune, “ a melody, he wrote, years ago”. He could never give words to the tune but it did seem to have a beginning, middle and an end… As the evening gave way to night, he would walk back down the same path home…

………

She had wandered off the group. The school trip was so not fun. The teacher had promised a day of fun and games but this educational tour was not what she had signed up for. She remembered fighting with her mom, insisting that this trip was compulsory and she just had to go. In fact, Sophie had warned her that the teacher would probably make them visit all the museums and all the historic places, making each of them memorize all the history. Little did she know, that there was going to be a test, where they would need to retell the history.

Evie was a bright kid, full of life. She enjoyed talking, a lot. It was tough to tell whether she was more inquisitive or more talkative. However, the teachers loved her because she remembered everything and could ace any exam. She also had a creative way to address any question- simple and unique.

Evie had wandered off from the sunset point towards the little hillock that day. While all the other girls from Convent Mary sat and ate their prim sandwiches with a fruit enjoying the sunset, Evie decided to go for a stroll.

Suddenly, she was taken aback when she saw a church. Broken down and tattered it almost looked spooky. The cobwebs, overgrown weeds, unkempt grass and bushes, the broken glass at the door, all seemed very uncanny. She did get a bit scared.

As she turned around to run back to her group, her foot got entangled in a bundle of twigs and she fell flat. Her heart was beating so fast, that she could almost feel it in her mouth. As she tried to scramble up, she saw a shiny object near her foot. It glistened in the setting sun. Quickly she picked it up and saw that it was a mouth organ… She yanked it out of the twigs and pushed away the dry leaves, cobwebs and moss away.

She got up and saw that she was staring at a tombstone…

“Patrick Gonzalves”

1850-1920

It read, “I played my melody at the Church of Harmony”

She was sure, she had heard the mouth organ playing at a distance. She glanced at the time and it was 7:10 pm. Hastily she ran down the hillock to her school group.

 In the background the church stood aloof and still…… in perfect harmony..

Unsaid

So much left unsaid,

waiting for a reply..

If only tombstones could speak 

Letters to self 2

Dear self,

I last wrote about the Sunday where I managed to carve out some me time. The week has been a blur with lots of work, late nights, juggling home and office and a tooth ache.. I have been writing a lot of letters though.. which is quite welcoming in the otherwise mundaneness of everyday..

Today, I was asking myself - what is it with defining your own crazy? Why do you need it? Who do you need that wee bit extra? There are so many just content with mundane .. what are you seeking and why? 

So, my logical self will always draw up a list of why’s and try and put a rationale to it. I tried doing that . The fact that we all need self time, we need something which defines us , what is crazy, isn’t that relative etc... 

But, this truly defies logic ... it’s just how one is made.. some will get it, some will not.  However, if at your core you are someone who always likes odds or wants that extra piece then 

To be continued... 

Anondo

Aaj shei Falgun,

Rodh ei hawah,

Hawah boye rodh.

Ektu mishti bhaab,

Shei belli Phool

Er gondo hawai .

Aaj Robibar,

Anek golpo anek boi,

Pencil dei hawa aanka,

Ki anondo aakash ei batash ei.

Today is the advent of spring

There is a sun with the breeze

The breeze carries the sun

Bit of sweetness in the air

Gorgeous jasmine flowers 

Spread the fragrance in the air

Today is Sunday

Lots of stories and books

Trying to draw the wind with a pencil

So much joy in the sky and wind..

In search of Darcy………

Its inexplainable

Unfathomable

As enticing as obnoxious

The dark, dreary and deep

To delve in pride

Sometimes vain

Sometimes prejudicial

Most often lonely

Anyone in possession

Of good fortune

Must want a life

Bennet or not

A certain struggle

With vanity

Be it arrogance or conceit

Or a mere self-disdain

Untamed freedom

A mind of your own

Searching for love

And hating it too

.. In search of Darcy

जागो

वो सूखी परत

चाई की भुली प्याली पे

वो नए चाँदी और सफ़ेद

काले केसूँ के बीचों बीच

वो नयीं किताब

पे धूल के ढेर उधेर

वो स्कूल की सहेली

के जन्मदिन पे भुला एक कोल

वो बक्से में बंध घुंगरू

को हर साल संभाल कर रखना

वो अपनी सम्भाली खाते 

में अंगिनिथ अधूरे कहानियाँ

वो अंकहे अनसूने अल्फ़स 

हम  दोनो की बीच

वो जल्द गुज़रती यह जिंदिगनी

अधूरा , अनदेखा बहुत कुछ

कुछ याद दिलाती, कुछ उकसती

ख़ुद को जगा के रख, ऐ मुसाफ़िर

Smoke and fire

Brishti

Tapur tupur 

Sounds of relief

Of greener greens

Muddy boots

Puddles and pours

Cloud bursts 

The whiff

Fresher 

Purer 

A newness 

That first rain

Heart full and 

Rain felt today

You...

Just like that first bite of Parle g biscuit dipped in kadak chai,

That warm fuzzy blanket after a tiring day,

That smile when you pick your bags to start a holiday,

Garam Gulab Jaamun  with ice cream at that unknown wedding party,

The wet slurpy kiss from a baby,

That perfect sunset shot ,

You were as soul satisfying as all of them at once... 

Serendipity

A chance meeting

A forgotten text 

The silent flirting 

The lost album

A moment to be beyond yourself

A point which is a discovery

Discovering yourself

An adventure, a chance, 

Losing and finding yourself again

Find your serendipity moment...

Feel alive...  

Wednesdays

 Midweek

 Like that squishy cheese 

Sticking  in between the white bread 

Insipid

Like the Puchka 

Without that extra beet noon*

* rock salt in Bengali

Unending

Like that long road

The ones which make a journey tiresome 

Random

Like some conversations 

Headless and pointless

Uninspiring

Like that over hyped book

Which does not have a plot 

Choiceless

Like when you have to pick 

A call from a meeting 

Emotionless

Like not fighting for your views

Because one will just not get it 

Something about 

Wednesday’s

The in between

The misfit

Irksome

And pointless 

Musings....

You know.. when one day you get back the groove of writing... there are tumultuous emotions, random thoughts, experiences, the silent ones, the heartfelt ones, the ones which matter and the ones which don’t all jumble up into this conglomeration which you want to share, express, understand and maybe ambitiously explain as well..

Such is  the surge in me the past few days. Something rekindled it.. something which made me get back to typing random words after a very long and hard day . It does not somehow matter if no one reads this.. I doubt anyone has or will but just the expression of your self - articulately intense, overtly verbose, painfully inexplainable, comfortingly indifferent  yet oddly familiar...

Very soul satisfying.. it’s like me explaining to myself about me yet not understanding me in a way which even i don’t understand... understood!!!

So on that very random note... here is to more such musings.. some randomness.. some heartfulness but mostly I hope to bear my soul... musings and more :)

Aphroena

“Aamake amar moton thakte dao

Aami nijeke nijer moton

Guchiye niyechi…”

-          Song by Anupam Roy

She liked to call herself by a greek name but could never decide between Aphrodite or Athena.. At moments she was the epitome of reason and wisdom.. others she was an embodiment of love and care and all things in between.

Somehow Aphroena (“the mix of the two”) was never satiated.. One time someone she had randomly bumped into asker her after luncheon on whether she was satiated. Aphroena answered… “satiated means the end of desire.. and I hope I am never satiated..”

Despite a very full life of love and loving, of family and kids, of home and work, of homework and endless work, of lists and to do’s, she was her very own person…

Aphroena as the name suggests was a complexity of contradictions.. and torn in between..   Her sould needed quenching.. rigged.. turned inside out.. felt and understood..

If it was just lust she always had a long list of admirers.. Lust is always easy.. Momentary and empty.. Don’t get me wrong.. She like all others needed it… that humanly touch..

Love according to her was overrated.. What is truly love is only a mother’s bond with a child and vice versa.. Rest everything is fluid from love to comfort to routine to passe and the in-betweens.

So, what was she seeking.. someone who understands this contradiction without her explaining it.. someone who desires her beyond any measure of lust or love.. with someone who she could be herself, who could set her free yet hold her firmly, who could rake her away from the mundane sometimes even with words…

Someone who would touch her soul infinitely..

Maybe such a person never existed, she thought. Maybe it was a just her notion of life and living or just a figment of her imagination.

Aphroena smiled as she saw herself in the mirror- pale, grey haired and that wrinkly smile . She had no complains from life. She had met many interesting peoples, some for a season but mostly all for a reason. Some had helped her discover herself, some she helped discover themselves, few were heart wrenching but none were soul fulfilling, the ones with whom infinity could be defined.

At 90, she let out a giggle… she flipped through pages of her diary reminiscing and wondering how George Clooney still did something to her.

The pictures on the mantelpiece told many a tale- of marriage, of kids, jobs, houses to homes and homes to houses, of kids that flew the best and her companion of gave up on life.. the wonder years..

Maybe today at the Christmas carnival at the auditorium she will meet someone and will want to live another 90 years at a heartbeat..

As she called the nurse to push the wheelchair, she gave a last look at the mirror and adjusted the red scarf round her neck. She smirked to herself as the wheelchair glided on…

Aphroena lived on…………...

Infinite

“Hoyto tomari jonno

Hoyechi preme ji bonno

Jani tumi onno

Ashar haat baraye…”*

 If I could be infinite,

I would be infinite with you.

The pastels on my paintbrush,

can never reflect the colours,

I saw with you.

I can smell only your fragrance,

in the woody misty air,

amidst a fresh forest.

I extend my hand to caress the air,

which you walked in,

So, I find a part of you.

 I look to recreate my soul,

with your memories.

Your long dark tresses,

Caressing your face,

The slight swing of the hip,

Caught only by my lusty eyes.

You made me love and lust,

With equal measure.

The kind beyond definitions,

Cause love without lust,

is meaningless,

And lust without love,hollow.

My soul yearns for yours,

If I could be infinite, I would be infinite with you.

“ Tumi to boloni mondo

Tobu keno protibondo

Rekhona moner dondo

Shobchere chole jaai………” *

* Bengali song originally from Teen Bhuboner Pare adapted by Rupankar "

Khuje Pawa

There is something about journeys- the fact of travel to a new place, adventure, discovery, newness.. the fact of breaking the mundane..

“tumi oh bhobe dekhi

Ghora aar dekha

Tumi oh kore delhi

Konodin…

Neje ke hariye…  khuje paoo“

·         Adapted from the song “Kolkata” from Prakton

As you take

The first step

On his journey

Feel

Smell

Experience

The newness

And the forgotten

The moments

Spent with self

Internalising

Your surroundings

Discover thyself

Get lost

Get found

Dig deep

That spirit… the fire

As and when you

Find your lost soul

Rekindle it

Reignite it

Keep some of the you

Which you forgot

Let the journey

Find you a part of the lost you..

“aamar ei diniyar jhapshaloy kono kancher hawa

Kono moner jhor

Kokokhono to khojo nijeke.. shei haranoo jon…”

As I start this short journey to a place which I have been wanting to visit for ages ..I hope I find some parts of my soul.. rekindle it.. Hoping that the flames and the warmth are with me for a while.

24 January 2018

वो किताब

पुरानी किताब में लिखे

कुछ भूले अल्फ़स

कुछ आप के खोज में

कुछ ख़ुद के

शब्दों का सिलसिला

गाँठ में बंधी कहानियाँ

मिलके आज कुश हुई में

ख़ुद से...

तुम

आज तुम मिले

तो कुछ ऐसा लगा

की कुछ लिखें

कुछ सोचें

.... फिर दिल की

खुदी

कुछ खोज रही थी

में रान

कभी किसी से मिलती

बातें करती

पूछती बोलती

कुछ सोच रही थी

में तो

गए दिन

कुछ ऐसे होते

कुछ ऐसे ना होते तो

कुछ कर रही थी

में रोज़

आज कुछ नया

कुछ बेहतर

कुछ अलग

यह सब कुछ

और बहुत कुछ करके

ना जाने किसे

ढूँढ रही थी में रोज़

कुढ़ की तलाश

इतनी लम्बी होगी

मैंने सोचा ना था