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I will disappear just like that
Without your acquaintance,
You will keep hearing an amorphous horn
No I cannot let the sorrow come
Neither can I remember the horn looking at a buffalo
Remembering the horn with a glance at the buffalo
I sent the dark buffaloes to the dark, darker than them.
Under the frozen dark, stilled the stream of blood is
The camouflage concert is in a state of to and fro
All the day all the night
And
You will hardly be able to know
I will disappear, just like that, inside your light
Huh, see
I turned myself into a lamp stand
Lit up yourself you will keep yourself lighting
Let the aspirations rest in darkness
Once the voice of a migrant bird is recognized
The space where the concert rests would shift
N.B.
The day the ancient sorrow spreads a smile through 'you'
I'll rest there at every nuance of fragmented colors
You'll see, yet, I'll remain unseen
Doesn't the shadow seize even at a dark night? (why do manipulate the fact?)
Once you will see
The moon, the sun, the star, the sky
Resting in your empty palm
Blink your eyes
Light? Where is light?
beloved
I am the beholder of your darkness.
A cavity dark and dense
Undergoes a vibration
Rain, it is rain in deep breath
Drop by drop
A greedy lightening
A banana leaf is shaken,
(in the way I am listening from my childhood)
A night germinates inside darkness
With a source of light in its womb
Let me remember a snake with a slippery surface
Or a one horned rhinoceros
Don't ask me how long the night is
Nobody knows, how to measure up a journey
Neither have I known
To the marks of the teeth and the nails
Is it an ancient tale of a wild wolf?
That jumps in the wilderness to tear down the night
The dark and cold night
Saw your mom that evening
she was talking to someone over cellphone
on the terrace
She was wearing a sky blue saree
playing with her hair with manicured fingers
It was not raining
but the sky was cloudy
(as if it would rain any time soon)
Beneath
Guwahati was shinning with street lights
it was illusive
saw her lifting the bottle of a cold drink
How thirsty were her eyes
It was all because of herbal cosmetics
she appeared quite (young) like you
then the sky became darker
and suddenly
thunderstorm approached
it started raining heavily
I dialed your number
nine eight six...
a sizzling voice
I heard
I fell into the darkness of the sky
Who was there with me
You or your mom?
I free fall
Down the hills
The gorge on one side of the
Highway hugging Darjeeling
Above high
And below low
Cloud encompass ken
Snowcapped Kanchenjunga on a whim
Turns the azure sky bluer
Piscine eye of traveller ally
An undulating blue, cloud-pierced
Forget-me-nots and unfamiliar flowers
Mirroring the dappled frock adorning Darjeeling
Riding a fast elevator climb higher and higher
Each a metallic vertical
The straight pines
Body without gravity
Heart stuck in a throat
In slow motion…
Beats a fast palpitation
Dream-pierced drowsy razor-sharp
Consciousness saws a raw wound
Awake I ponder the light-sawed wound
Hidden from all
The scar stays after it heals
Each monsoon
You erode
Darjeeling…
A new wound
(Heals… memory a forgetting)
Adorning your hills
Bloom forget-me-nots
Can’t you see…
Colour-hidden your iridescent wound
Ravana did not conquer the ten directions
And the three worlds for nothing.
Nor did he imprison the nine planets,
Or the solar system, without reason.
Just imagine—
When one head is hard enough to manage
In the pollen-filled madness of spring,
What else could Ravana have done
If all ten of his heads started throbbing at once?
If one nose sneezed, how could the others remain unaffected?
And then there were the seasonal coughs,
Those age-old ailments that refused to leave him.
Ravana never reached for a handkerchief
To wipe his runny nose.
Each time,
It took one of Mandodari's old saris instead.
The learned Ravana,
Gazing upon the crimson blossoms
Of silk cotton and coral trees,
Could not write even a single poem on spring.
Surely, that was sorrow enough.
He lived constantly under the weight of guilt and regret—
Haunted by his failure to compose a spring poem.
We struggle enough with the burdens of a single head.
But Ravana...
Yes, he may have been a demon,
Yet who would make light of a migraine spread across ten heads?
As if that were not enough,
It was in spring itself that Vibhishana,
Through the efforts of the monkey king Sugriva,
Revealed the secret of the divine missile that would destroy him.
Ravana's spring poem was never written.
Perhaps that is why so many spring-loving,
Rebellious poets still grieve.
When Rama performed the worship before slaying Ravana,
The priest who conducted the ritual was Ravana himself.
That, however, was before spring had seized his head—
before the sneezing, the coughing, and the exhaustion had overtaken him.
If you pause and think without prejudice,
You may find—that the driest month of the year,
The one that leaves the mind
Stripped of judgment and reason— is spring itself.
Well, let's play the age game.
At this age,
Certain things justifies to us,
Certain others don't.
Let’s be conservative about age.
Eh! What else could be the hot topic?
Surely nothing is more deserving of our
Collective wisdom than tomorrow’s weather.
Youth has gone.
We now inhabit
That comfortable country called middle age.
Tell me what subjects are left
For you and me to discuss?
We are no longer kids, teens, or even young—
(though you're entitled to dye
The last recalcitrant strands into submission).
We no longer vault fences the way we once did.
Our parents, our children, our households—
Everything now seems to revolve within our careful supervision.
We speak loudly and expect everyone else to listen in silence.
We sit in prayer halls, obviously not trousers
Our legs are neatly wrapped with dhoti.
Missing the Tuesday or Saturday prayers?
At our age, that simply doesn't look right.
We are regulars at every sacred gathering.
Drifting souls, forever playing
Custodians, lawmakers and the moral police of tradition and ritual
We are the final authority.
Kings on our thrones
Kings when we rise, Kings when we sit.
Whether we utter the name of God every evening or not,
Our homes are forever busy with endless noise,
Entirely devoid of genuine joy
We no longer learn anything new.
Surely the dust, the wind, and the sun
Didn't turn our hair and beards grey for nothing.
Naturally, we now know everything.
Politics, to us, has become a storm in a teacup.
Revolution? __huh...
That is the romantic luxury
Those are dreams that belong to the twenties.
Our concerns now are insurance premiums,
Mortgage payments, car loans, and paying every EMI on time.
It's not that we reject__
Bhagat Singh, Che, or Kalaguru Bishnu Prasad Rabha.
If another one is born next door or down the street,
We certainly won't object.
Our real mission is much simpler:
To provide our own children with everything they need,
To keep them safe, comfortable, shielded from difficult questions,
And free from unnecessary worries.
That, we tell ourselves, is what truly matters.
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