Walking by the Sea

I walked barefoot
on cold sand,
the sea rumbling
at my feet.
The moon, I
and the sea
were woven
in soundless symphony-
Of eclipses
Of low tides
Of memory
Becoming a stranger.
And,
the blue-veined moon
the silvery sands
the iridescent sea
in a trance
under somnolent stars.

One Winter Night

A few hours to go before her first exam, she lies on her bed, curled up, a terrible pain writhing through her body like some snake about to pour out its venom. A muggy mood is hanging upon the wintry sky, outside the window by her bed. She's restless, tossing from this side to that. Tomorrow is going to be an ordeal. For someone who had immense difficulty in drawing a breath , sitting in a room full of other people, stewing in the white heat of examination fear, jitters and the general lack of ventilation was not going to be that easy a job. Endophonic noises were running a riot in her head. A vein was faintly throbbing in her temple. Her very immobility made her feel like a captive. But well, she was sick enough to remain a prisoner of her own condition. That's when a gust of wind blew open her partially-drawn curtains. And she smelled ripe mangoes. Yes. In the middle of a foggy, stifling winter night, delirious with pain, she smelled ripe mangoes.

Fissure

I held you
close to me
your forehead
my forehead
your nose
my nose
your mouth
my mouth,
only a thin
line of light
an interval between.
Then it suddenly
occurred to me
how a fissure
becomes
a continent of
separation.

Desire Path

You're the yellow pages of my second-hand book. 
You're the shoe bite in my old pair of shoes. 
You're the red in my swollen, melting eyes. 
You're the lullaby of my sleepless nights. 
You're the aftertaste that burns my mouth. 
You're the nightmare of my dreams uncouth. 
Breathless. Gasp. Smother.
You're my desire path to doom.  

Autumn

 We were walking through the dilapidation of an old city. A city that stood like wisps of a dream forgotten upon awakening. I cannot recollect the name of the city. Perhaps its name had withered off with age.

 I was there looking for something. Old cities attracted me like forbidden love affairs. I had not even the slightest inkling of finding you there. Not in at a time like that. But we ran into each other. It was autumn and we took long walks. We walked a lot. Talked little. Sat on ruins with the sun frolicking on our faces. Climbed debris with the moon clinging to our backs. Sometimes our shadows were behind us, sometimes they were before us. Some of the architecture was still holding in that city of ruins. We discovered those crumbling walls, caved in roofs, overgrown gardens. During the afternoons, I often read myself from Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. Something about the book resembled this city.This was once a place where warm laughter wafted out of wooden windows. This was once a place where food simmered on fire while children abandoned their play to come running into the house, the smell of food arousing curiosity in them. This was once a place that bustled with the conundrum of a marketplace. Now tourist guides stampeded through the silence that had settled on the city like a shroud, parading camera-clad tourists, feeding them made-up stories. 

 We were headed for a magic show. It was nothing fancy. Just an ordinary tent and an alcoholic magician who showed card tricks and had a tired looking crystal ball standing on a three-legged stool at his side. He claimed that he could hypnotize people into a perpetual state of stupor. Not many people came there to watch him at his antics that day. Perhaps they being locals were tired of his old tricks. By the end f the 'show', he flashed us a gap-toothed smile and told us that he could hypnotize us into a dancing couple inside a glass dome. You smirked, tossed him an extra coin and grabbed my hand. We were standing outside the tent now. A weak moon hung over the cloudless sky.Crumpled into a tiny ball was the slip of paper that had sufficed as our ticket. I wanted to know how that perpetual state of stupor felt. The meagre smattering of people slowly dissolved into the night. You kissed me then. The flap of the opening of the tent was fluttering in the night breeze. 

  Kissing you was like loving autumn. It was melancholy. Heady. Intoxicating. Yet I knew the leaves of autumn were the fallen ones. 

The City

The City drifts
like an insomniac
over the flyover
over the rail bridge
in the hiatus of the bazaar
with a day's leftover rotting
in its belly.

In this City
Everything rots.

Fish scales
pools of blood
outside the butcher's
vegetable peels
thongas of jhalmuri
rusting windows
of North Calcutta mansions
case files in High Court
torn tickets outside Academy gates
newspapers.
Hunger.
Dreams.
Even delusions rot.

The City sleepwalks
toward the washed out sun
emerging out of Ganga.

(If things don't rot
How will the city
Be fertile enough
To carry so many
In its womb
Each day?)

Your Pastiche Heart

The day I kissed you 
I tasted
your pastiche heart. 

The frothy tang of 
pineapple juice gone stale,
from the day you were too lazy 
to get out of bed. 

Freshly pressed newspaper smell
rolled up, lying at your doorstep.

Crinkles in your bed sheet.
The shape of you sleeping. 

Curled toes on a cold floor
after that long sleep you had. 

Smattering of instant coffee
on your kitchen counter.

That pesto stain from 
the dinner date down town. 

Everything made up
Your pastiche heart. 

There were also
certain things that
your pastiche heart
was not made of. 

It was overcrowded.
So all I left behind
was some glue
to hold together
Your Pastiche Heart. 

Street Lamps

I was walking down the boulevard
that was taking me away
from you
because my back was turned.
If it wasn't I'd bump
into you.
Rows of street lamps were my
knights in shining armour-
Delivering me from memories,
one at a time.
Then you called out to me
Saying I've left my keys
The boulevard melted into sea
The lights went out
Plunging me in
leftovers
of where the glow of lamps had been.
After all, the road that leads somewhere
also leads away from it. 

Hiraeth

Once I left a letter

in the folds of a book

and forgot all about it.

Days after dust had gathered

when I pulled it out 

to survive one draughty afternoon,

out fell a square piece of

neatly folded paper. 

A letter I had stowed away

which you had written to me.

I do not remember you lover!

A blurry face peeks at me

from a crowd of faces

I've taken to various places

inside me.

Doorstep, foyer

nooks and crannies

Bed chamber or the attic.

I picked it up unknowing that

the smell of old memory 

lurked in the folds of your letter. 

Filling me with a longing

for a place I've never been

Or may be once in a dream

seen a tiny cottage on a lonely hill

with yellow lights in the window

and a silhouette of a woman

who hovers unsure, from room

to room, looking for a prayer book

in a cottage under somnolent stars.

Trial and Error

Trial and error
The same rundown memory lane.
Here I go again!
Looking for the broken mirror
Housing my face from when
I committed my first mistake.
Trials and errors pile
Make me feel like
I've committed myself
To the folly of insane
In various grabs.
Each shard of the broken mirror
Adds to itself a new image
Of innocence lost
Bewilderment and shock
Old exasperation
New born resignation.
One more trial after
May be I will even catch
A glimpse of death
On the cracked surface. 

Kintsukuroi

The fact that nobody is perfect is as old an a stale bread on which molds of indifference have grown. If we were to meet each other, and if we were to become friends, may be even lovers at some point of time, I wouldn't console you by saying how your perfections are perfect to me. I wouldn't lecture you on our imperfections complementing each other. For me, your imperfections will be interesting. Discovering them will be like reveling in the glory of discovering long lost treasure. Knowing that you too have suffered, may be not in the  same way as I have and that you too have scars will not make me afraid of showing you mine. All the wounds, rotting flesh, healed scabs and raw pink skin, everything will be the places we go on dates. We will talk and talk till our mouths go dry and we are short of breath. You wouldn't think I'm ugly because I have scars. I wouldn't think you're an outcast because of your injuries. My fingers will tread upon your sutures, your eyes will travel over my hellholes. In knowing that we both have suffered, we will both be erroneous, slightly out of place and unique. And that is how two very imperfect people will leak into each other, melt into each other. That is how we will live again, become human beings again, in all our mistakes and failings. 

STOP BULLYING

I come from a humble, middle-class family. Mine is not a family of intellectuals or scholars. My granny used to be great story-teller, and that is how my love for stories grew since I was just a toddler. Later on, that love cultivated itself in the habit of reading books and I discovered that literature was something I loved. Therefore, that post high school, my choice of subject for further study would be literature was no surprise. I dreamed of being in one of most renowned academic institutions of the city. As life would have it, after the scheduled admission test, I made it to the department of my dreams.

When you get into a premier institution for pursuing your grads, your hopes are high. So were mine. New people. New environment. New life. Everything was exciting and a little nerve-wracking at the same time. Now that I look back, I do realize how naive I'd been! I thought of all my classmates as nice people who had read a lot more books than I have and had lives which was very different from mine.

I made a few 'friends' in the first 2/3 days. Or, I thought I did. A week into classes, I found out a group of my classmates standing huddled in corner, giggling, pointing fingers and laughing at me. I did not understand what all that was about! After that, I started noticing how this particular group would behave in strange ways around me, mimicking, pointing, making snide remarks about every thing: from the way I dressed to the way I talked. Having faced nothing of this sort before, I felt hurt more than feeling humiliated. Then there were times when they'd stamp the bench where I sat, or refuse to pass on the information regarding tests etc.  It was all very hurtful. I became very conscious of the way I dressed and carried myself. No matter how many times I tried, I still couldn't figure out what was it about me that made them jibe and joke at me. After all, I too had cracked the same admission test they sat for.

Surprisingly, some from this illustrious group of people were in the 'Anti-Ragging' cell of the varsity. I was not the only one victimized by them. There were several others in my class who bore their wrath. This continued for a while and they jeers were the strongest when it came to me. They even went ahead a created a closed group on Facebook to ridicule and crack jokes on me.


Never even in my wildest dreams could I've imagined that this would happen. That too, in an institution which was famed for accepting people just as they were and being versatile enough to accept even those who were different.


I did not know what my fault was! I don't even think I was at fault unless you count being from a different socio-economic background as a deterrent.

I was tagged as 'the blonde dumb' because I'm fair-skinned and conventionally good-looking. Mind you, I did not choose my appearance and never made a bid deal out of it.

Interestingly, these were also the people who shouted slogans against misogyny and gender inequality and everything that most 'intellectuals' shout about.

Bullies aren't born. Being a bully is a choice. In this case, it was an informed choice. No matter how many anti-ragging cells, rules and laws we set up, bullying won't cease to exist unless we uproot it from our elitist mindsets. 

The Untold

Disclaimer: All the characters and incidents in this article are purely fictional (really?).There is no resemblance to anyone, living or dead. (Or, may be not.)


Our story begins on a day when the girl, the heroine of our story was feeling particularly under the weather. It was one of those days when nothing felt right. That day of the winter of that year was particularly chilly and she could feel a strange numbness spreading inside her very bones, shriveling up her insides and chilling her to the core. She thought that some good ol' rum might cheer her up a bit and after the fiery liquid had trickled down her cold insides, she began to feel light-headed. And the first person on her mind was this guy who had befriended her. He was shy and took a lot of time to open up but with her, by his own admission, things had been different. She remembered how he had talked of painful experiences of his past to her, shuddering even at the recollection. He seemed vulnerable and comforting at the same time. She picked up her phone and dialed his number.


Months passed. They now met each other at regular intervals. Even though she could not deny the sparks that flew every time they met, she was more fond of the warm friendship that they shared. But one fine day the boy told her that he has been in love with her for a long time now and whether she felt the same way about him. She confessed that she did. They were happy together. Movies, dinners and long walks followed. 

Every time he made love to her, he  reminded her of how much he loved her, how gentle he was with her and lucky she was to have him. Until one day she felt a sharp twang of pain and saw him slip something inside her. She realized that the boy only pretended to be gentle. He was abusive, stubborn and possessive to the point of not letting her breathe without him. She realized how the bruises on her soul were piling up with each passing day. And so, she told him that this could not be and that they should part ways. She had no idea of what was about to come. 


After verbally abusing her for breaking up, the guy retorted to dirtier means. He threatened to spill all the pictures they had taken of their intimate moments. He said he'll put them up on porn sites, email them to all his acquaintances unless, unless she slept with him every week. Unless he felt that he had 'punished' her adequately for springing the sudden break up on him. Unless he had 'more of that bombshell body' she 'hid' under baggy clothes. She was devastated. She could not believe her eyes. She could not believe her ears. She was scared. She was at a loss. She did not know what to do, where to go and what was really happening to her. 

Finally, after weeks of psychological abuse, she realized the he was feeding off her fears. She stood up to him. And that was the end of him. And through all her struggles, one of her male friends stood by her, supported her and encouraged her. She realized that abusers didn't have genders. Abusers just were. 


Note:  Till this day, as I am typing away, no one knew her story. I understand it took a lot of courage for her to come out with what she had gone through. As for the disclaimer, think of the words carefully and you will know. 

My body, my rules?

 I want to explore my body. I've always wanted to explore my body. From a very early age, I've often wondered about people who posed for paintings and modeled for pictures.And I have no fear or embarrassment in admitting that I've wanted to be one of them. Period. But the circumstances that I've grown up in has made me feel that exploring your body, 'exposing' your body is a filthy crime only suited to people in the flesh trade. I've seen women getting labelled as 'osobhyo', 'bellela' etc only because they chose to wear sleeveless blouses or show their cleavage. Naive that I was back then, I still couldn't figure out why women who were comfortable in their skins were judged the way they were! The concept of 'noshto meye' was beyond my years. But even then, I found myself attracted to these women who freely expressed themselves through the clothes they wore, the choices  (read smoking cigarettes or not smoking cigarettes for that matter etc) they made and the life ( read going on solo trips, having a 'man's job', not getting or getting married right after graduating college etc) they lead. The exhilaration of being one's true self  while the society aimed constant jibes at you was what intrigued me no end.

During my growing up years, I've read a few odd books here and there and have gained enough confidence, rather, I daresay, bravery to express myself, my wishes, my desires just as they were. I don't want to fear judgment. I don't want to fear getting tagged for what I wish to be. For all that matters, I think we should be the least scared of expressing ourselves. I do want to work as a body artist. I want my body to be someone's canvas, both in the figurative and metaphorical sense of the term. When my friend expresses his wish to capture me in all my moods, to leaf through my expressions, to explore and capture my essence through his lenses, I want to be able to do that without having to feel that I've done something wrong or overstepped my boundaries as a 'bhodro-barir meye'.Why do I have to fear for my parents' reputation and their reaction for something that I want to do? For something I should be quite free to do without having to care for consequences?

I want to tear away the invisible ropes of dilemma that are pulling me back, weighing me down and making me question myself. Why is it that in spite of wanting to be completely, fiercely independent I still have to think twice before doing what I want to? The answer has so far eluded me. But I'm trying break free, I'm trying to break free from this psychological tug of war that is holding me back. It might take some time, but I'll surely get there.Let's just hope that I get there soon, very soon, into a space where I'm free to be myself, free to express myself, free to be who I am!  

                            

Feminism, patriarchy, etc

So, everyday I come across posts that say a lot of things about women: some 'for' women, some 'against' women, some saying 'I support women' and all those things. But most of them are lost on me. They are lost on me for a reason. No, wait. For several reasons.

First things first, the way our society (read a LOT of my acquaintances included) reacts to Feminism is horrifying. When I say this, I mean there is a gross misinterpretation of Feminism by men and women both. For one, Feminism does not and I repeat does not serve the purpose of a synonym for 'I despise everything men do and hate the male fraternity' sentiments. So, it'd be really nice if you understood what Feminism is about before either gloating or blaspheming it.

A lot of crime takes place behind the closed doors in our society. By crime, I do mean all these cases of molestation, rape, abuse, domestic violence and stuff that nightmares are made up of. We, most importantly, a lot of women out there need to realize that we the women are not the only victims here. I know several male friends of mine who have been groped in public transport and molested. We cannot be selectively blind and label the entire male fraternity as the potential rapists. Men get raped too. A criminal does not have a gender.

Moving over, my body is my own. I can be born skinny.Or, curvy. I can choose to be skinny. Or, curvy. Or lean, athletic, muscular, round, square, triangle, rhombus etc. Basically, whatever I want to be. The trend of 'Real Women Are Curvy' is misleading and very biased. Just so you know, there is nothing called 'real' women. We are very much real from the time of our births till the time of our deaths.

We eat, live and survive in the virtual world. There's no denying the fact that social media is as integral a part of our lives as is taking a dump. And it is here that I find women, girls, young and old talking about, sharing stuff that spell misogyny, that stink of sexism. In adhering to the patriarchal standards of the society, are we not feeding the same with our very own hands?

Stop tagging strong woman as 'mardaani'. 

Stop ridiculing men who wear pink. 

Stop using 'bitch', 'cunt', 'sissy' etc as cuss words. 

Stop victimizing all men as 'kutte-kamine'. 

Stop doing nonsensical, illogical, elitist things. 

Stop. Think. Realize. 

May be its time for us all, men and women alike, to think before we speak. May be its time for all of us to act! 

Random Musings I

Let's just say that she was standing in her 3rd flood balcony, her elbows lightly resting upon the rails and that she was talking to her lover who was one state and 2020 km away. This is how she would talk:


"We don't know. We think someone to be the love of our lives. Our whole world  accumultes itself around them. But then something happens and we part ways. And, somebody else becomes the love of our lives."


"..."

" I don't think we will ever part ways. But if, by some chance, we do, I'm sure we will find others who would mean the world to us just like we mean the world to us right at this very moment. "

"..."

"Life is strange, you see. Life is unpredictable. And, for the most part love is out of our conscious control. Falling in love is perhaps the biggest folly in us."

"..."

"You're right. Nobody know what the future holds. But we can only hope for the best and live in the moment, making the most of it so that we don't  have regrets!"

"..."

"I believe in making moments beautiful. After all, what are memories but a string of moments suspended precariously from the intangible thread of time? The love I have for you at this very moment is absolute. And I think we all should be happy that all of us have our moments of absolute love where only the lovers exist."


                  Now that we are nearing the end, let's just say that the static of an unstable network gets in the way and she in no more audible to her lover 2020 km away.

Dream Journal: Entry I

I'm not much of a writer. But I get dreams. Like the other day , I had this dream and I shall pen it down before it disperses into thin wisps of memory. Memory , after all, is so fragile. So, this is what I saw. I write it in first person and relive the dream again. If you ask me what kind of a dream it was, I wouldn't be able to say.



A fine stream of plunges through the edges of the rough, worn-out curtain into the darkened room. Dust particles swirl in the light, mad, hypnotic movements. The beam gets sucked into the fathomless black of the room. The room is uneven: scattered canvases, rusty old pails and paintbrushes, dried up colour on the palette that look like festering wounds of a long lost war. But, no one can see them, the unevenness, the dilapidation that stays in the room. In the uncertain darkness that has congealed inside the room, you step on oddly-shaped objects on the floor. But the window is on the other wall, across the room. So, stepping on unknown debris, you make your way towards it. You drag your palm over and along the wall, Your fingertips come to a halt at a frame. A photo frame may be? Is it old and gilted? You don't get to know yet. Not without the light. The light towards which you're walking. The light that is hidden behind the curtain and the window pane. Dust enters your eyes. Settles in your lungs. Is grainy in your mouth. You're choking. Choking. Choking. Sucking in air. Sucking in the musty air of the old room. Breathing out, breathing out the warm dust that has entered your lungs. Sending ripples through the stagnant air of the old room.You draw a long breath. Draw two. Three. Five. Six. Nine. The suffocating clot inside your head untangles itself from a tangle of murmuring thoughts. you continue walking. Walk. Walk some more. You step on something. Crunch! Crack! Noises come alive under your foot. You reach. The other wall. You take the worn-out fabric in your hands. Threads get stuck to the edges of your long, sharp nails. You push them away. And there is your you. 


You handkerchief smelling estranged lover, there's a paint brush sticking out of your heart.