drowning instinct

Some thousand miles of walk
With tortoise like politeness
Upon the sea-shore
Upon the un-ravished softness

The ancient water touches the skin
Moistening the dampened soul,
The spirituality
While kites hover gloomily

This is to feel
The feeling of phoenix-likeness
With a bit cruelty and
Unquestioning faith in the sea…

I stand, allow the sea
To enter me and take me away
For a lifelong voyage…

I drown in the water and
I drown and drown again…

Until I learn adaptation
To play and feel and
To communicate with water
Until I become
A fish to be a part of it…

celluloid

Cut
Cut it
Cut them all
And there is blood,
Red poor blood…

This city-night not for
Street licking dogs
We the cold blooded
Don’t sleep any more
They need us tonight…
Now
Come, cut me
Cut us all
Make us boneless tiger
With some mighty teeth
to laugh

And we all actors
Street natural actors
Come and stand like
Nude goal post, perplexed:
Thighs apart for gang-ecstasy…
In the feast of extreme pregnancy,
Dance in fearful melody of mutilation
With skulls of medieval ancestors
And of modern descents

Skulls don’t have religion
Religion does have skull
Skulls, a few skulls it is
What they think and so laugh.
But with timely refreshment
With religious healings we will
Surely we will or may be
We minus I equal to We without I
Will come down to juvenile dilemma
To pee upon their burning eyes!
Then even you in a more motherly
Posture shall sit to feed us milk
Of your secular tiny breast soft

The skulls will laugh modestly,
You shall never know they too need
blood!
Red rich blood
Blood full of bloody communal arcadia
And
One orthodox director
With experienced eyes
On religious lens to say:

Light

Camera

Action…

to be precise

To be precise
I remained silent
And you sent me to school

Now
After thirteen years of exile
I scroll, come to you
With hysteric antagonism
Where you sleep alone vivid
Punctuation I feel the need of
You…

Pause…
‘Comma’
Pause…

I am stranger to your body curves
Fluctuation of your frustration knows me
I sit in European fashion and
My reluctant saliva melts down
To your unexplored body
Dryness where no one kissed you ever
My barbaric tongue keeps searching
With mild gesture…

Wind lashes cold upon your sexual inferiority
You go riding…
Up to psychic Philadelphia!
With all dogmas shattered
Only silence prevails ejaculated
Tilted oldness’ mockery
Sounds like snake’s hissing and
The tiny crocodile, gecko like solidarity
Beckons, Speaks with me
In the language I’m most comfortable with

With beheaded growing
I a grown up celebrate
A juvenile delinquency and
So on…

And, to be precise
The school bell rings.

in a smoky world

With smokes
Of injuriousness I sit apart, astride,
Astute callous smoke goes
Circling around, being immerged
In the celebration of a manhood
Funeral
And I join them…

Smoke smoky smoky smoke
Climbs the hill of experiencesiveness
Of fantasy, frustration of flowers and
Her mother-tree, of emancipation
Of childhood dependence tell me
The story of hardship, of mature dying,
Of wintry fertility…

Fountain and untouched statues
And a secret intoxicating memorial,
Some hidden treasury, monastery, dead
Ivory, wheel of education and lots more
Wither away with the wilderness of smoke
While I sit apart, astride.

Ferocious benevolence of smokes
Ask for acceptance and I laugh!
Laugh and laugh
With each laugh smoke laughs back
Smokes laugh laugh and laugh
Like witty shadow
Humourously alike…
And they all fly away
With the sound of smoky laughter…
Into the stretched mid-day sky
Of typical relaxation!

You sitting apart ask yourself
Will it rain shortly?

a tale untold

Once upon a time there was a man, a middle-aged man and he had a shop, a very busy shop. The man, who had a shop, was a decent fellow with a soft enthusiastic smile and he loved children not because he was not a father of his own child but it was the children of his locality who helped him to buy the shop he had worked for, to make a shelter of his own after being kicked out by his father and being deprived of his ancestor’s property, to marry the girl who had been his devoted fan when he used to be a good goalkeeper (popularly known as giant always protecting his side from any intrude) of a good football club…
He had no other option (as he knew nothing better than football) but to work as a salesman on daily wage basis for a shop which sold sports items when the club was rooted out and to hoard coins to do something to stand on his legs. And finally God proved Himself to be merciful and he some how got the chance to own that shop.
He had a beautiful garden and the boys used to come and with boys came spring to his garden. The boys loved him though he was a ‘giant’ but not a selfish one (which he thought) and they often visited his shop namely the garden and they brought happiness for him, his family…
He always encouraged boys to play not only because he had been a good player but mainly because if they played football only then he would play with coins… like a genuine goal keeper who could exhibit his skill if the opponent played extraordinarily.
* * * * *
Time passes and he does not notice that time has played more well than the man. He though being even a giant can not protect the autumn to trespass his garden… now he realizes that he has grown old.
Now boys do not like to play football, they rather love to sit inside a tea stall (making the owner more fatty), spending times by taking a few sips with some smoke and voting for their favorite candidates of Roadies, interpreting the inner meaning of the smile, offered last evening by the neighbouring aunt (whose husband has to do night shift at least for two weeks in every month) and talking about how one can download free blue mms and from which site…
The man is getting old and feeble and weak. He can not afford much on food and medicine because he has to manage to buy a computer and a Fifa video game for his boy as his birthday gift. His boy loves to play football but unable to play partly because of the lack of a team, mainly because of the tutorial class he has to attain just after his school and to some extent because of the specs, one out of the five things he can’t live without (other fours are his mobile, Sheldon novel, his water bottle filled with boiled water and his inhaler).
Time passes, and this time the man notices that he is loosing the match. But the man with changed colour of hair is mature enough to understand that none but the children can fetch spring to his garden; he realizes that he had become so selfish that the boys left him; perhaps he just wanted to feed his family and thought nothing about the boys, their gradual changing needs…
Now he starts a new business, - opens up a new on-shop restro-bar and keeps the name of the shop unchanged- the garden…

on masturbation

Masturbation is an art. It encompasses the total process of foreplay, physical intimacy and finally lovemaking. It is a process of self reliance, independence as well as self-satisfaction. It ejaculates suppressed desire, makes you feel manly and sometimes reveals your unknown, unrealized cravings thus breaking up your hypocritical relationship with yourself. It requires creativity to eternalize the satisfaction. If you ‘expose’ and ‘express’ yourself or your feelings in a ‘creative manner’ it becomes ‘art’; so with masturbation (more or less same like lovemaking as established by Vatsayana).
Making love with a person or with yourself does not make any difference unless you draw a line of distinction. It may sound a little bit awkward. You may think that the second one is an alternative or substitution. I argue on the basis of homosexuality. What if I say that homosexuality is but a psychic disorder or rather an alternative way to satisfy one’s carnal desire? Perhaps not. Those who would have got a partner from opposite sex but have opted for the same sex, perhaps get equal happiness like that of a heterosexual. Some of them perhaps opted for homosexuality after having tried heterosexuality. They may, on the other hand, also consider us to be abnormal. So it does not matter whether anything is alternative. What does matter is our attitude. I say whatever it is if you are satisfied with it then why not? It’s another point whether you like the same sex or the opposite. Just ask yourself: am I happy while doing this? If yes then I say do it properly in order to gain utmost satisfaction.
It will not be a hyperbole if I say that you are in love with yourself. So go ahead… make love… who forbids? Remember, drawing imaginary figure of a particular person in your mind while doing this means deceiving yourself (just like you are on the bed with your partner and imagining her as your favorite star of bollywood). Don’t you think it’s unethical, uh? So guys don’t be hypocrite! If you like intimacy with your imaginary partner then I say it’s better to expect a night-fall.
As I look at the exact figure of sex ratio (933) in India (census of India, 2001), I think that there should be an open debate on the importance of masturbation in contemporary India...

she is no more

I came to Arambagh and I was told that my dadi is no more!
I did not know how to react on such shocking news... I tried to remember how I reacted when my dadu passed away: I cried a lot. But that time I was a small boy so it suited me. Now I have grown up so it would be a little bit awkward to react in the same manner I thought. So I reacted like a matured man remaining silent.
I tried to remember her face, the last time I saw her (in November, 2008), and how she cried when I left for Delhi. The word Delhi started to make me go mad with anguish: I did not come back from Delhi in January though I had a scope. She asked me to bring something for her; but I couldn't... may be didn't as I thought she would live for some more years: how fucking immature I was.
I felt like killing me brutally. She always had been on my side, - whatever I did, whatever didn't, always. She always made me feel that there was someone who loved me from the core of her heart. She even offered her own blood (cutting her chest with knife) to Goddess Kali when I was ill. She prayed for me leaving food and water when I was injured. She cried out taking my name for hours on hospital bed when she was shivering with pain. She sometimes hallucinated me when I was not with her...
She used to say: "don't worry 'dadubhai', I will not be able to live without you. So when I will die I will not leave this world because you live here. I will roam around you always protecting my 'babam' from all evils. And whenever you want to see me, just call me. I will be there. That’s a promise".
It’s the first time ever she has not kept her promise. I have been waiting for her for the last four months...

coming home

(I)
I start walking down the ridge
Where the glory of pompous Mughals is scattered
I walk thousand miles and perhaps for the first time
I don't need rest in any sarai...
(II)
You often used to cry
Like a tiny unsatisfied babe
Who expresses hunger with tearful nagging,
But what about its father
Who is unable to feed as he's a farmer of an impotent land?
(III)
I know you will be happy now
As your boy's coming back being a more manly man!
I don't cry anymore and gained muscles on my shoulders
For you to rest your head more comfortably...
What else you needed, uh?
(IV)
Now the countdown begins:
And I know I am going back,
Not going to come back here, ever!
Nothing attracts me any more, nothing:
Neither the lonely sky of dawn
Who was confident enough that
I would propose her soon,
Nor the guitar of Lavazza which stinks cappuccino,
Nor the unserious game of politics
Which appealed audiences seriously,
And neither my friendly foes who loved to visit
The room which offered me a beautiful window...
(V)
I am getting closer and closer to
The dusty roads I wanted to play cricket on...
I am trying to remember your tearful eyes
Which looked same-
When u longed for me...
When i penetrated you first time...
When i suddenly found me unable to make love
After half an hour's deliberate effort...
And when you fare welled me in an abandoned station...
(VI)
I am confused, what to do!
Do I knock the door or cry out your name?
Sometimes when you be happy
I know you love to cry
But now I am really afraid of that...
Because you perhaps don't know that
Now tears can't soften my heart
Rather it makes me go strong...
(VII)
You’re perhaps looking at me from the room on the roof
And watching me minutely in the same manner
As a mother watches growing her child
And feels happy about the breast-milk she used to feed her son!
You must be thinking: oh how long you had to wait
For this moment when i would stare up to you with awe
As I know that you will look somewhat like that Hindu Goddess
Who always keeps a sweet smile
Even after killing Her own spoiled child!
Do you think the way She thinks?
Have u really realized that it's all in destiny?
Uh?
Don’t you know I don't believe in fate?
Then why are you still smiling?
Is it because that you know it's all written?
Rubbish!

Whatever you think, whatever it is:
I still love you, (not because i am bound to,
But because you deserve more than that!)
(VIII)
I know nobody is going to welcome me
As I approach the gully of my locality
My friends, companions all are most probably happy
That I am coming back; but no one is free as much as me...
Still I am happy
As I am coming home, - the one
Which I missed a lot
And I am happy
As I will miss nothing any more
Nothing I left behind.

And those who are there perhaps will miss me
Though changing cell phone number is not a remedy,
I will try to blow up the bridge of attachment
As a man must take up some responsibilities...
And
Perhaps I don't need Orkut that much!
........................now it's time to say goodbye
goodbye to me who alone came to see this man off.........bye

on cappuccino

It has really been a long time that I haven’t had a cup of cappuccino, which I love very much, especially when accompanied with cigarettes.
The history of my liking is deep-rooted in my mind. In the last half or probably in the first month (historical dilemma) of 2004 or ’05 respectively, I remember I first stepped into a CCD. The CCD of City-center was (still is I hope) a wonderful place for hanging out with pals and girl-friend and I liked it very much. Which appealed me the most was its terrace: open, airy and perhaps a bit rustic compared to Barista’s suffocated sophistication. I used to sit on the terrace for hours taking slow sips and deep smoke, sometimes with my girl-friend, chums and sometimes alone. The feeling was unique in itself. I felt great; - a bit intellectual, sophisticated, sometimes talented, rarely worthless, urbanized youngster. Sometimes I did not like to speak at all. I just wanted to enjoy the coffee and the puffs, - that was amazing.
The cappuccino of CCD (SDF) had another taste altogether. I worked over there in two BPOs, but I seldom visited that shop. The taste was more of a maturity, fashionable, imposed sophistication typed. I did not like. Still I visited the shop (with some so-called colleagues) because that was cappuccino dear!
I do remember the cappuccino I had in Delhi with friends and sometimes alone with the memory of the past days in Kolkata. I remember for the first time I played guitar inside Barista contaminating the strings with the smell of cappuccino.
Last month, at Arambagh, I went to a small coffee shop and asked for a cup of coffee. After a long sleep I desperately needed a cup of strong coffee with two-three cigarettes in the evening. But I felt really helpless when the shop-owner in a harsh voice (contrasted to the decency and gentleness of CCD boys) replied negatively.
My wife also loves cappuccino. She mainly loves it because I love it. She wanted me to buy a cappuccino-maker. One day she tried to make some coffee and offered me being confident enough on her recipe. I had that coffee and to my surprise… she did a wonderful job! I looked at her eyes: they were glittering with joy and love seeing cheer on my face. I discovered her as a new entity, - not a girl this time but an efficient woman who takes care of the entire household successfully. I thanked her in my mind as she saved my money from buying a cappuccino-maker. I said… I love you!