Glitz

দুটি কবিতা

2010-06-25T07:55:00.000+05:30

খালেক বলো, বিছানা অপবিত্র

প্রার্থনার জন্যে

আমার সাথে প্রেমের পর—

সেই মনে

ভগবান কি করে বসে

যে মন ভেবেছে আমার বুক?

২

ডীপ একটি শব্দ ও গভীরতা...

তুমি নোংরা, জঘন্যতা।

আরোও একটু ভিতরে

আমার স্পন্দিত হৃদয়

দেখো তো যোনির নালা পথে তার সন্ধান পাও কি না?

The first draft of the first half. Gangtok story

2010-05-05T23:26:00.002+05:30

Gangtok

To watch we wander, wander adrift many miles of mountains, across the coast of rivers, many shades of earth. Thus travelling along, I wandered over the might of Brahmaputra thrice in 24 hours, as if to get lost, as if to find that something again, which lurking in some quarters awaits a disclosure …

It was rain, rain for so many days. Shoes were wet; socks were smelly, bed cold, mind desolate. A call comes, like a ray traversing the giant cloud up above, come to Gangtok, and come to happiness. Come see the mountains again, which for so long has bound your heart, come see from above, the world spread beneath and around you, as you like to see it. The flatness of plains in its vastness transcends the vision of human, confines him to his limited surroundings, come to hills to see what more exists surrounding the surrounding that is yours. And with that bags are packed, checklists made, and without a start suddenly the river starts flowing, and I am travelling again.

Arriving at places which are agreed to be beautiful is an easy job, they arrive ready to be pleased, and search for trivial traces of beauty and become blatant nature lovers all of a sudden. The search in the mind of such is for an orgasm, never for the foreplay, never for the course preceding the waterfall; and hence, Niagara shall always be famous. The journey is continued beyond, for more to enjoy, more to engulf. Is there any thinking at all? Does a wanderer ever stop to wonder?

“Abhi nahi aana sajana
Mohe thoda marne de
Intezar karne de
Abhi nahin aana sajana””

Such is the pleasure of waiting, she sang. Such is the pleasure of waiting, I look out through the window, my cheek pressed to the glass, cold, going blue. I see blankness sweeping across, across the great plain that is my homeland, across many bodies, covered, bare, sleeping snuggling. Nothing to see, so many things to see. My eyes search, a trace of limit, a hint of a shape, and my mind projects one in to it. I fall asleep suddenly, all content.

“Bhejiyo sandesha
Aap nahin aana
Thode door rahke
Mohe tarsana
Abhi to mein chahun, sari sari raat jagana
Abhi nahi anna sajana”

And there across times, came her dreams, why then go to places where people go, and get lost in the numbers, why not traverse to an unknown quarter of the world where nobody seeks any trace of you, where the songs can be written in the sheer lack of company, where the remembrance shall become strong enough to actually assume a face, where a life can be lived with sheer memory.

Ruk ruk aana
Dheere dheere chalna
Bhoolna dagaria, raste badalna
Nahi abhi mohe,garwa nahi hey lagna

The song is strong again, going on and on, every note is being remembered, every note is being repeated. Her pursed lips are uttering them again, the desire, the height is building. The fall is the necessary becoming of my emotions now, with a plunge, I shall splatter my whole self all across the face of the rock.

There then, I see the hills from the car. I see the road, wild flowers, and sharp turns. Hey! Where to you go road? Where to do you take me? And with a sudden turn, the car stops, a woman is waving. She wants to go some place. Let her sit. Shift in your seat. And she looks out of the window, careful not to look my way. The car starts again, crawling up the spine, and we all sway in our seats. As if the hill wants to mix every emotion within us by shaking us violently. I forget love, hate. I remember nothing, afresh as after a bout of vomiting.

The car stops again, the woman slowly gets off, swings her bag, and begins to climb her way up. I swing my neck out of the car to grab a last look, a woman passing, getting lost in the world, like so many unknown, slowly climbing, mixing with the faceless. For how many days shall I remember her face? She played songs all the while she was travelling. Loudly. I liked few of those. Never could tell her. Now the thoughts shall get lost too. The car climbs a steep curve, and suddenly, I behold Gangtok.

Where to now? Slowly, I begin to look around. People with umbrellas, people with bags. People with their families, women with their men. All are looking for a place to stay; all are scared of being fooled. All appear stern, and pretend to be experienced travel organizers. A penny to be saved, few memories to be made. Most of them have come here because the Bakshis went to Shimla last year, and the Roys always raved about the Tiger Hill. Now, we have the serene monasteries, the simple hill people, the beautiful Nepali, and the easy going Bhutanese. Been there done that.

He comes slowly towards me, smiling, and asks me if I would care for a room. Says, his place is mostly empty, the room will be cheap. No window though, but with Hot water, and local food. Whatever, I say, and start following him, singing the lines in my head. Abhi na jagaoh
Bane raho sapna
Abhi san-mukh na lawo mukh apna
Abhi to mein chahun, aass lagaye rakhna.

Rooms are meant to be people’s privet places, yet they require windows looking out. The doors leading in should have been enough, yet, close places soon start to smell stale, and people even though are devoted admirers of their own reflection flinch at every possibility of being left alone. Window we need to survive, window we need to thrive. And we close them to stamp the authority of our privacy; privacy to most people is nothing more than an authority to exercise. No window though is there in my room. The walls are painted in the strangest shade of blue, the colour of the sea, the emptiness of a vast scope, confining.

Now, I am settled in this room, my cell for the next few days, where I shall spin my new webs and dangle upside down only to look at myself, over and over again. I am such a narcissist, I thought. But then, when she was in front of my eyes, only my eyes carried her reflection. Now, in the reflection of my eyes, I only see myself gazing. Where has she gone?

She is lost again, after five years of separation; there we collided again a few days back, now she is gone again.

Hills are a very good space to understand the extent of human vision. You may stand at a steep fall and see valleys spread miles beyond, and then again, you can stand in a gorge, just to imagine your lonely cosy place. But, happiness is in none of them. It is yet elusive,

The sky is dark again. Like home, much rain. It flies in the air here, clouds getting lodged in your sweater. Her hair is flying in the wind. Should we rush to find a shelter? Before that, rain comes, drenched wet, shivering we are, hold each other to find warmth, necessity of an embrace can arise in so many situations. Her kajal was splattered now, she looked all fussed, but somehow she smiled. Her wet frail frame, the wind water, her wet shawl all clinging to her. Only her smile left her to reach me. I felt it, like warmth, like warm honey on skin, trickling down your back... Irresistible.

Where do you stand man, when you stand right in between what you have known to be freedom, and what you have known to be pleasure? Where do you stand man when you want to stand right in the middle of everything without ever inclining this way or that? Where do you stand man, when you think you are in love with two women at the same time? Where do you stand man, when you know your lover bears no face but ample characteristics vested on a shapeless floating body?

My cell phone is no longer working, I have come to Yumthang. They call it the valley of flowers. If they do not, they should. I stand on this rock now, about three feet high from the ground, I am staring straight at the valley of Teesta, many people are flocking the shores like seagulls, and many people are eating like hippos. Few people are posing like peacocks. As I stand, I can see many a face, all nameless, soon to be forgotten, pathetic blighted creatures that came here to enjoy. And all they do now is capture images, images as a proof that they have enjoyed. Pathetic, I think.

She is with me now, we spent the last night at the cold beds of Lachong, our bodies hot, by wines red, Sailo... It is for women, my driver had said, it for a woman, I thought. Wine rushes to her face, she blushes, her hands shake, her defence is week. If a kiss in a rain is women’s fantasy, then a night with her in a hill station cold bed under three layers of blanket is a man’s. Wine surely makes fantasy come true.

She stands in the valley now, she wears a purple something that women wear, with a green scarf. Her hair flies in the thin mountain air. Her eyes hidden in glass, she walks to the river, I see her, a small object from my vantage, moving slowly towards the river. She meets the flow with the palm of her hand. Her hand was around me when I knew such flow yesterday night. My body suddenly shakes.

Lachong, Lachong, Lachong. Lachong of small houses on the hill, Lachong of four feet snow in the winter, Lachong of thumba, the local drink, Lachong of the Bhutanese woman who will call me sir no matter how much I protest against being addressed so. Lachong, the town of residential hotels, Lachong, where I knew a new river.

Where is the snow, I ask Tarzan, a curiously named driver, stern looking yet jolly, always saying their women are much beautiful than ours. I never disagree, I never can. She is sitting in the car now, the window is hers by the right of first to be there. Tarzan looks at her...Katau, I think, he says.

Off, off, off to katau. Morning rum mixed in tea, morning sun rays reflected on snow. Morning beauty serving tea, morning kisses lying on the snow.

Katau is seen, we kissed in katau, we kissed in Yumthang. We have kissed in Gangtok, I tell her, and we have kissed in my dream. Her body shakes as she bends down laughing; my hands seek interest in her bosom.

Lest it may never be told

2010-03-28T14:25:00.000+05:30

My lass is a dame now, not in mere words is her maturity spent

The twinning vines to her window would merit much an allegory,

But such stories may be the works of bees and birds, for my human pen writes

What humane it has seen, and what lack of it and such glory.

The last of last sacred dale was she, striving furlongs in impromptu virtuosity,

She would lay down her charms, a tree on a road, ford in a river,

You an admiring traveler shall instantly become,

Even if travel far exceeds what actions you have dreamt in your life

You will eagerly walk by her, such prowess she holds in her stride.

Leaping heart full of joy, plotting dreams in darkness, ready to conquer

I lurked like a spider up on my web, much like it an ardent loner.

Watching, grazing the piles of pleasure that in heaps she needlessly arranged

Slowly tangling her dangling fingers, inviting her to an unsolicited dance.

I spun and built around and about her a frivolous chimera, strained with lust

With aide being an expertise, my reading mind, me playing along

She was trapped all along, her heart a mere subject of my whims.

Her voice soothed the barren desolation; conversations were sparks of life…

And there waiting for the contraption to shut, I awaited a brief revelation.

Playful minds in their own gaiety complexities create, seldom abstaining

From what not should have been done, what more to come of it.

Her lingering motion in absence, reminding, creating more webs spinning,

Frolicking about her, dreams of pleasure, my mind was now at its zenith of power.

With such prowess, and more eloquence, opening fast doors, breaking barriers,

Decoding ciphers of her torment, her joy and other trivial matters.

I take interest in several of them; some are shrugged at, barely meaningful.

Deceitful as ever, more so to ponder, I ask her some enticing questions.

Reading devices, painting picture, of a man past now, there embracing

An unfold of mystery, how could she have sought, what now lies in somebody else’s embrace.

Of what meaning to her now, are his conquests, and that woman’s deception?

Commotion, why in her mind now is so loud, when he has surpassed all her actions.

With locked lips, passion is contained, fermented and passed from body to bodies,

The giver, receiver, opener, cipher all lay tangled, forgotten meaningless.

Swift motions were guiding emotion, siphoned to an eternal promise

Such you must seek seeing her, such you must get at her court

Of what gift you can ask a monarch, if he asks you to match his status in bargain.

Lattices, the determinant of formation lay open now, the maze is solved,

Eyes dazed in mystery now, haze of such occurrence surmounting,

Waiting the years that pass through me, unnoticed, unhindered, begging a cater

We meet now, dark skies, cloud observant hither and thither.

Look a look again in her eyes, see what was seen before, still amazes to find

Through this grind of eternally persisting, no words can speak any more

Lay between us, tension of spent years, when she did not wonder, I did not convey…

Lay between us, yesteryears, beautiful feelings gone astray.

Between her eyes, I decide to look at, I see a red sun rising

Spent desires, now ushers, somebody else’s property warning.

My lass is a dame now, no longer gleeful, yet fleeting.

Why not to uncurl you curl

2010-03-22T01:36:00.003+05:30

Dear in your curls, my finger sink, get stuck,

As if walking in the glut of this world, I have suddenly found my roots,

That suddenly my fingers know where they belong,

And begin to play with each strand which twines around them, a twirl of mystery,

That I see your face all blossoming between the unruliness all about.

Who cares whether you cannot have them plaited, or they do not swing gracefully behind,

But while uncurling and recurling, playing along; my fingers in them an abode find.

Waking up

2010-03-22T00:52:00.000+05:30

Sordid melancholy of waking up in the morning,

Be it pouring down, be it spring,

Be it shivers under covers, or bathing in sweat,

Lessened only by your face, I ardently look at.

Once covered in sheets it had been, and then hairs and then my kiss

Slowly beholding, lazily rising, my mysterious unkempt bliss.

In stretches lays charms languid, slowly again drifting to doze,

The nape uncovered, kisses unhindered tilting spine in passion froze.

Hands define the extent of pleasure, Eyes closed to context decipher

Melting to spoil, curled in a coil, my love rises in early pleasure.

The morning yawn, the moan of pleasure, under the covers, you begin to peep

Awake, arise, behold before you, the man you last tendered to sleep

An excuse for love

2010-03-18T22:19:00.001+05:30

Quiescent desires trod along, inactive mind drools a lot

The riches of Indies, Liz's diamond, I would give all, just for a thought

Eyes quiet do not glitter; gold is no more perennially sought

Let me hear, and decipher what your mind has quietly wrought.

Hair swells, face covered, arms flexed and lips are bent

Such efforts, such beauty, all for a smile it is spent

Lights shimmer, suddenly when picking up your aanchal you decide to move

Bent curves, exemplified now, shadows deepening in the sacred grove

Twining twirls your black curls come in-between your bosom heaving

Eyes alive now and they speak how! Silently saying, “Not forthcoming”

My mind is losing restraint, Leaping desires hopingly arrive

Take a kiss or whatever pricing, on your bosom let them dive

Talk’s talk and action’s action are ornaments of sparse affection.

Impedimenting and dementing the lust of love to utter dejection

Quiet quiescent, order of words, quiet quiescent feelings can't be,

Oddly inept, away are swept, rough and rumbling raging sea.

Words now and words more are inept inert lack of feeling

Excuse of a recluse, for his blindness, for the ineptitude of his seeing

Abritti

2010-03-13T21:52:00.000+05:30

A few poetry, which were just spoken never written

Create a MySpace Playlist at MixPod.com

The first short story

2010-02-09T14:52:00.004+05:30

(This is my first attempt to a short story, I know its sugar-coated and all, but I preferred to take an easier endeavour to be my first. Most probably, you would not like it, but, if anything you like, do tell me.)

It is an easy story to write. A story about a sailor man and his woman. We have heard such stories so many times. We know their problems, when the man goes out in high winds to distant seas, when his woman is all alone in their hut, patiently waiting, sometimes praying. He returns and the love breaks the inhibitions, they make love in their all soiled bodies. Such is my story too, shall you listen?

Women exist in this world at many corners of life, some come out to claim the limelight, and some recede to the unknowing kitchens and interims of households you shall never visit. But, you have seen some of them, and you may think, all of them, for their lives are apparently not different to you. Amidst the drudgery that is cooking and rearing up children, some of love, some just born by the act of eternal repetition, yet, it is them who have to love each of the younger, to lead them to become what you are today. As you think you know their life throughout, they have known yours since conception. You call such a woman your mother.

But then, you grew up to feel this need for a woman, quite ill-defined in your mind, and mostly driven by the sense deriving its prowess from your loins, you have been driven to them, drawn to exasperation by your affections. You have made love, and you have lain spent, and you have wanted her to come, brush your hair with the sweet sound that is her Nupur. Men know how to love woman, and it is by their love women rise beyond the mediocrity that is life, and yet, it is man’s love that binds, forbids and at extremes strangulates their very existence. For a woman to love, she may have to submit her existence in order to be satisfied of her wants.

It is the story of such a woman, drawn to a man who professed love, love that meant freedom from the trauma that her life was at that moment of time, she felt her wings could be tested finally, her feathers cleaned, she shall soar with him at every juncture, free and happy. She married the sailor for during those days, love lead to instant consummation.

Men love for a very different reason than women. The sailor was working hard, his limbs ached when he returned from the day’s work, his surrounding was harsh, much like the ragged he was, and he looked everywhere, nothing seemed to emit any tune, he wanted a fairy to come and restore everything in his life, he wanted magic to happen. He would see her walking moving gracefully, she looking at him, never though, he could hear her speak.

Did she not want magic too? She did, but this very word meant so differently to both of them, she wanted to express her feelings, tender which were, conceived in the fertile uterus that her mind is, long before her man ever came to her life. She walked with her hand full of flowers she had plucked; she walked to find somebody to give to. Her mind knew songs she would sing, she knew how he would sleep on her lap, she knew how she would brush his hairs, and she knew what she would whisper in his ears. Every man in his life can accommodate only one woman, and the woman who wants to conquer him, shall take care of his child self, along with the lover.

But she came in his life, with the light that she has, his life was not dark to be illuminated, but her hands could impart on everything around her the tune, the music the sailor sought. His life he could call complete now, he would lay long hours on her lap, tell her stories of his journeys, his conquests in far off land. All throughout, she would brush his hair; calm as she was she listened to everything. The sailor went in to a trance, difficult to arise from.

One day came a storm, and destroyed the sailor's boat, and he could no longer go out. He had to work hard now, to accumulate money to build a new boat, suddenly his reality was shaken, he woke up from his trance, and the man in him saw that he had ignored his gatherings, and all lay spread around him now, he needed to act fast and act honest hard, to be back at the level he was before. He rushed out of his house, and started working on a boat borrowed, his hours were spent long out of house, he missed his wife, her touches and music, he looked at the sky and would mutter, “Hold on.”

She held on, to whatever little was available, she held on to the days that they have spent, she remembered everything that he had said, she walked the alleys they had walked together. Her life was now that of remembrance, and there were so many things she was yet to tell him.

Leaves when they fall never make a noise, but in that silence, its death is signified, floating in wind it dances around freer than it has been ever before yet not feeling the freedom, its heart yet was drawn to the tree, immobile and vast. It wanted to cling on yet, its lifelong desire to see the world was being fulfilled now, yet somebody said, “This is not how it should have been”. Wilted in its death, heavy hearted, the leaf gave up the company of wind, settled down on the ground to be trampled and decay.

Women when they grow up see men around them, whom they admire, around whom their heart palpitates a bit faster, that’s not love as they would tell you but when you ask them about what their lovers would be like, they would mention somebody very much alike that person. And our woman, had such a one in her heart, who went far away, lost in tides, in many years nobody had heard of him. On a melancholic autumn evening, he decided to give the worshipper of yesteryears a visit. Man going old would often dig in their past to bring out oysters they have left to brood, to provide a moment of old glitz lost and in those young eyes he will relive, he came hence to collect taxes.

She knew why he came, she knew what he would want and she could not give, but there is this time, when you have to give homage to the God that has been to buy peace with yourself, to clear your heart. She had to acknowledge it; she swore she would go no further. The man was welcomed and treated as best as she could, he decided to stay a bit longer assuming a conquest not far waiting.

The sailor has been away for long, tired of the tyranny his employer dished out, his mind exhausted he returned to his home, waiting for the song to soothe him. Calmly he saw the man holding his wife's hand and reciting something, calmly he walked destroyed everything, vowed never to return again. Such was the suddenness of this entire event, she did not move, never said a word. When he left, she came running after pleading, pledging her own innocence.

“Vile you are, your ways retched, your desire insatiable, never to be satisfied”. With that he walked away, in his mind ran what he saw over and over again. He remembered her making love, she substituted himself with the face he saw, he remembered how she loved playing with him, and he substituted himself with the man he did not know. He walked in rage, to his friends, celebrated with them, drinks galore. Night darkened, the sailor drooled, his mind slept, not in pain any more.

What of the woman, her purity questioned, she ran to those friends, the very whom had celebrated with her husband the day before. They pledged allegiance to her, soothed her, and told her they would do everything they could.

“That whore of yours came to me today, I have sent her back from my very threshold and told her never to come back again.” They would say to their friend who provided the drinks.

Drags on days, longer, harsher, waking up every day, thirsty and tired, the woman decided to evaluate her position, what she said, what was left to said, how she pleaded, how much more she could. Cold in response, her apologies were rejected, empty-handed she always returned.

“Alive yet?” Her man would ask, cold in manner, face red in anger, “go away to those with whom you frolic, what you need from me? Bread and shelter?”

Alive she was, she had to be, for life is something once given, she thought to herself, if no road exist through the mountain, then the road avoiding it, going around must be taken, the journey shall be hard, but it has to be taken. Set out she did, not to apologise again.

The infuriated sailor never knew what he wanted, his fury made him not to look at her, he told all his friends fabricated things about her, and now, his pride swelled and spoilt by the apologies offered could never go back to her, yet deep inside, he longed, for once to talk, for once to love. Yet when she came, he tortured her again, ridiculed her in front of her friend, and told her of the offers he was getting as if to signify what she was going to miss. That was the last he had seen her, she did not come again, why he could not realize. The last time she sent a man, who just said to him, your prejudices are yours to forget.

Days passed and finally he realized, he lost what he could not loose, he ran out again, where to go he did not know ran hither and thither and stopped when dead tired. He went to the man, her last messenger, begged, cringed, knelled and pleaded, “For her happiness you bring her to me, for she never knew how to be happy without me.” The man winced, and asked him to return promising he would talk, but guaranteed no success.

Far away in the foothills of mountain our new man found her, drifting along with unknown strangers. She looked at him and started to run away.

He shouted, “I come here to do for him, what I have already done for you. Give me your time and I ask no more, no answer or promises, nothing at all.”

She stopped to shriek abuses at him, through him to the man she loved, she strayed often digressed much, the man just stood and listened to everything.

(I will live you with his last words to her, for such length is inappropriate for my liking)

I know woman, your pride stops you from accepting what is yours, which you for such a long time wanted when unavailable, yet today when it offers itself to you, and you leave it unattended to go. Your pride, I know should have never been hurt, but then it was, it must lay down its arms. You, my woman may venture beyond and meet many a new man, but all alike, all to be enraged by your freedom, none shall look beyond what is visible, and none shall enquire what it is to be you. I know not a way where you can restore your pride and yet love a man, and yet love has never been sacrificing your pride. It is confusing often, confounding to most. And yet would you like to give it up, give up this, which I do not know whether to be love, whether it is submission it seeks, I do not know again. For a woman to love, perhaps is to wait, to weave clothes which remain unnoticed, to collect gems and decorate the house, and only noticed when you go all missing.

Lay Lady Lay

2010-02-08T17:45:00.004+05:30

So, I decided to publish an e-book

and it is titled Lay Lady Lay

download at:

downloads are free :P

Togetherness

2010-02-08T01:56:00.004+05:30

So, I wanted to be with you once again. It has been so many days; my lust has grown profound, venting itself upon unknown premises, my mind cart wheeling along, and my body feverish. I could just die of it you know, my ailment was of such intensity, I have barely ever felt such, and I doubted everyday whether there was anything more to endure. Yet, endurance it never sought, rather, a way to vent it out, to digress all over, and to spread knowing to end. My mind hid in itself the emptiness of the universe; my body bore the weight of concealed accumulating desire. A way had to be found, or I was dying, I woke up in nights, sweat-smeared, myself hard and throbbing, my throat thirsty as it moaned in sleep, I dreamt of a woman, all perfect, I made love to her, but at the verge of expression, I felt strangulated, I could not free myself, it was meaningless.

So, I came back to you, you who have never been my dream. I imagined I was engraving your body piece by piece, I was pouring colour in to it, my lust made every height of pleasure darker than the rest, I gave your body flow, I made the your mountains high and proud, and on top of it, I put some soil, the colour darker than the dark you are, the soil warm and moist, the soil signifying growth, signifying beginning, heightened lust, where my last remains shall lay. They looked at each other right then, and as if suddenly arriving at animosity trying to decide which of them looked better decided to look away from the other. I liked how they appeared, I let them be. I rub my forehead upon them, as if to get smeared by the soil that I put, as if to smell, I see it grow, spread, throb even more. Intricate, desire is, embraces coincide, and bodies collide.

Up on the places where my body shall lay when my work shall be ravaged by me, I made it a plane, as if it is the place where grows hays of earnest endeavour, which lets a seeking man build a home. One by one, I planted upon it seeds of hair, slowly quivering in gentle touch or wind, they swirl down to the height of existence, where many a banal stroke shall end in emitting the highest of praise, the liquid of birth. I thought of you at each moment while creating and more than that I thought about myself, for you my love, more than what you are yourself, are just a blatant expression of my desire. For the man, a woman must be, and for such beings you are here, whether it’s my discovery or conquest, creation or conception, whatever you are, you are mine to cherish or to ravish. Thus, your freedom I shall not curtail, I shall not limit your purpose, but do acknowledge my need, for in such need you are appreciated the most.

Usher upon you my crude unknowing hand, lead me where the strings are attached, for it may be I who creates, still it far outwits my intelligence to understand the music of every string. My hand desires to touch you, as if to rub and make your skin mine, to define the definite expression of debauchery. My senses want to internalize the existence of yours, to suck the essence out of you, yet to preserve the vitality that is your touch, that is your independent freedom, that thinks and feels, to ravish, ravage be tender, gentle.

I see your eyes move now, you rest them up on and over me, the gentle glide, what do you see lady? What I see lies underneath, I seldom venture beyond your skin, its colour, texture, why be vexed by it when it engulfs all my wakefulness. That which throbs below your chest makes me think, yes, sometimes, but her intricacy, her fragility shall only answer to the crude that is me. What not I desire you to yield and what more, I bring flowers, for the genitalia of such immobile expressionless, propels the expression of passion and soon before I know, I feel your craving express itself up on my raggedness. The musk of yours is all around; I am confounded, helpless, a blind beggar in an empty dark street, being led, being led to the utmost source of everything that is alive. Such joy it is, to arrive, to feel and live and prosper with such a want, undying throughout the aging and decaying of life, the sheer joy of existing, exciting to be excited.

Here, below me, you take deep breathes, your eyes gaze past my shoulder, beyond me, forever seeking, searching the lights, the twinkling sounds of essence collecting up on the saucer you put out, let them assimilate, the cold whisper, a gentle blow from your mouth creates ripple upon them, you touch the surface, wipe it upon your wrist, look at the smear, your skin has goose bumps. I hear your voice, my vision tunneling, the light going out, smaller and smaller, the tunnel dark and deep, I am afraid, and taken by the fear, I hold you up, up on my chest, let the strokes meet the throbbing that is our heart, your body gives me sweat to cool itself, they have your aroma you know, all around, and say, I know by smell, by smell I know you, and I sink in it, the surface of the water is spinning above me, with ripples, and your face just a blur above, oh where to do I go, holding you in hand, and as if by this sheer force of extreme depravity I go away. Then it all stops as ecstasy floods in, I have had you. Lay by me side, lay around, the lust wanes, but does love awake? What was here, if not it by the purest and the most potent of expression, to doubt, nay, I shall not even tread there.

Woman, where to? Hither or far? Eyes sweep again, say, your smile is such a revelation.

অবাক বাক্যহীন

2010-01-30T10:30:00.000+05:30

মূক, তুমি নিরাবরণ, দীন।

প্রাত্যহিক প্রাচূর্য্যের অপরিমেয় সম্ভার—

তবুও অদৃশ্য তোমার আবরণ।

মানুষের জীবন হাঁটাহাটি করে, মৃত্যুর চারি পাশে

তোমার অদৃশ্যতা মৃত্যুরই সামিল।

মূক তোমার নিরাবরণতা দীন।

কাল আবহমান, আর চারিপাশে

জাতি সূর্য্যের গর্বিত হাসি—

মৃত্যুর পূর্বে চোখের তলায় কাল দাগ পড়ে;

মৃত্যুতে মুখে ফোটে হাসি—

বংশী দাদার মেয়ে বসে গেছে ছাদনা তলায়,

কবের গোপন চিঠিতে ছিল ভালোবাসা

আর নারীর দেহ তো মিলিত নারীরই সাথে,

পৃথিবী-প্রকৃতি স্বরূপ।

নিরাবরণ, তুমি দীন, তুমি মূক।

মানুষের অস্তিত্বের ইতিহাস চাকার গতিতে নাকি লেখা,

রাস্তাইয় চলাচল, কোলাহল শহরে, কাম, ধর্ষণ সব চাকা।

চাকার অস্তিত্ব বদলায় ধীরে ধীরে, কাগজে ছবি ফুটে উঠে।

মুদ্রার স্থানে নতুন দানব রূপে চাকার প্রিয় নাম টাকা

নারীর পশ্চাৎদেশে শায়িত পুরুষ, ধীরে ধীরে হয় বেগমান,

স্তন মুষ্টিতে ধরে, ঘাড় কামড়ে নিজের জন্মের অপরাধমোচন।

তবুও অন্তহীন অসীম অসীম শূণ্যতা, তার চারিপাশে,

তার অস্তিত্ববোধে, রমণীর স্তন্যবৃন্তের চারিপাশ,

পৃথিবীর মাটির রঙের মতোই খয়েরি,

তারেই ভালোবেসেছিলো, সে মাটি ঘষেছে কপালে, বুকে,

উত্তেজনায় ভরেছে মুঠোতে, কখনোবা মুখে,

আর যন্ত্রণায় আবেগে ভেসেছে, মুখে অস্ফূট অর্থহীন আর্তনাদ,

মূক সে, প্রতিবার জীবনের শুরুতে মৃত্যুর জয়ের সংবাদ।

মূক, তুমি অপরাধী, ভাষা তোমার অপরাধ।

There She Would Stand

2010-01-04T23:31:00.004+05:30

There she would stand, ready for a kiss. Her lips wet, those lips which cling to the skin when the touch dies, her nostrils go wide when desire strikes, her body is made for love, as all bodies are. She knows that, she is happy with that.

Her man will come from the corner, no longer the professional the world knows him to be. Sweating he shall be, and without wiping, he would come straight to her, to strike iron on the hearth, that is ready in anticipation, that is ready for another prevented purchasable act of reproduction.

Stunted, she would say of other women, whose bodies were their objects of pleasure, and yet they coveted their flesh to be pristine, for her, desires knew to beholder, it was open to admiration or admirer, and she would open to either with equal delight, be pleased by either. Undisclosed were her intentions, though never beyond the ability of mind to decipher, to unravel, but she would often go so much as to proclaim, that the boundaries were the limits of mystery and once they were objectified, the rest were designed to follow. Her glance was not an act of magic, an act of invitation would be more appropriate, for with that she wanted the man to commence and not venture for the undefined. She was unusual, she was real.

She would stand in the corner, and most men have admired what they could see, but none carried her home, all wanted their home to give the experience she gave. The wielder of desire knew all that, and she also knew, the horizons of that man’s life has forever been pushed beyond the scope of his mind, and his search for a scope accommodating enough will lead him back to her, where it all began. She had power over men; she cherished to acknowledge it, but said its use shall make the entire pursuit unworthy, for that is what happens in the world.

There she would stand, calm, her mouth parted as if she is still cherishing the last kiss, no men could bring to his mind the identity of the last man who kissed her, and they all were him, at least in their mind, more importantly, in hers too.

And they made love that night, and the night after, and so many more nights, she and her lover, though they were not two people, but, somehow, they always were. There, in love, making love.

(Image : Prostitute By Brassaï)

Three Idiots: a review

2009-12-27T11:08:00.001+05:30

It was a Christmas evening, and Three Idiots was running in the local cinema hall, a place where I have not been since that torture named Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi came out. Time was for a change, time was ripe for a movie concentrating on the Indian mediocre student class to which I proudly belong, time was ripe for a movie to come out where there was not a single hero, but characters with shades of black and white. Time was ripe for another Dil Chahta Hain, another Dil, Dosti etc. Time was ripe to be disappointed again.

Why the disappointment? Not because the film was a drag, not because there were shades of over-acting, all the actors acted as good as they have ever done, not because I do not like Bolly flicks but, throughout the riot of laughter, there was something missing.

The first thing about the movie that attracted me was that it was based on a novel, very much liked by all of us, an author’s best work, a novel which appealed to everyone, because all of us has experienced such moments. But, they said, the movie was loosely based, and by that, we generally understand that, they change the realities of the characters, but then do not change the characters themselves. It was a strange case here, the situations were the same, the men facing were different. But then, it was not potent enough to make a bad impression, for there was a chance to find an entirely new story, in the familiar premise.

How many times have you seen Aamir Khan the college boy, who speaks fast, is apparently brash, but does sweet things win over the girls heart, how many times have you listened to the line “Jab Pyar hota hain, tab Hawa chal jata hain” and then seen the lady’s hair fly in the moment when Pyar apparently begins. How many times have you watched a movie where an underdog wins everything, and how many times have you seen a type casted teacher, and that Golmal moustache gag, the nose interfering with kiss. This is what is wrong. Most of what you shall see has been seen over and over by you somewhere else. They are all brought together here, and all shall make you laugh again because of the wonderful reproduction, but then, that is nothing new. That is not something that made you wait for the movie.

Furthermore, the movie never evolves from the bolly formula hero wonderfully good, able to take any challenge, able to commit sacrifices like ram, and yet beat Ravana when he is exiled for 14 years. All find a part in the story. And writing about it makes me feel unwell.

You shall enjoy the movie, perhaps, if you have a forgetful mind, if you can laugh at the same joke over and over again with the same enthuse, if a world beater of a hero is OK with you, if you like characters black and white and if you are child. Otherwise, write a review and take down those idiots who feel they are good enough to act as a college student when they are past 40 and manage to hog the limelight while doing so.

Thank you.

সমুদ্র ও কবি

2009-12-02T09:44:00.000+05:30

সমুদ্রে মন্দিরা বাজে কই?

পুনর্বার গর্জ্জন তুলে ঢেউ।

বালুচরের নীলবসনা নারী—

নাভির নীচে পরেছে তার শাড়ী

প্রজাপতি মনে দুঃস্বপ্নের ছায়া—

শরীরের ভাঁজে শরীর ডুবোতে চাওয়া।

অবাক নারীর অষ্পষ্ট সে কায়া—

তোর শরীরে পরপুরুষের ছোঁওয়া।

কবি যদি হোস, শরীর লুকিয়ে থাকে

কথার পিছনে গোপনে তোকেই ডাকে।

আবার আলস হলদে রঙের বালি

কবি তুই তোর বাস্তব ভুলে গেলি—

একলা হলেই ছন্দে ভালোবাসা

এই শুধু তোর অক্লান্ত হতাশা?

অন্ধকারে কালো বিন্দুর মতো

শুকনো ব্রণের ছাল-ওঠানো ক্ষত।

আবার দীঘার কালো সমুদ্রে স্নান—

ডুবতে ডুবতে এক বুক জল পান।

ডোবার সময় কেনো যে হেঁচকি ওঠে?

কামনা মানুষ কেনো মাখে মুখে ঠোঁটে?

ডুবতে ডুবতে শেষ বার পার দেখা—

বুকেতে প্রিয়াকে আঁকড়ে ধরতে শেখা।

কারখানাতেও হচ্ছে কবিতা লেখা—

বাচ্চাটাকে হাঁটতে তুইই শেখা—

কবি যদি হোস ধরবি আবার বুকে—

ছন্দে আলসে চোখটি রাখবি চোখে।

মুখটি তাহার দেখতে ভুলে গেলি?

সিঁথির পরে সাগর পারের বালি।

চোখের ভেতর পরিচয় থাকে নিকি?

আবার তাকে খুঁজে পা তুই দেখি।

সমুদ্র পারে একলা বসবাস।

একা একাই গুনবি নিজের শ্বাস—

মুক্তাগুলো ছড়িয়ে ছিটিয়ে রাখা—

এবার কি তোর একলা বাঁচতে শেখা?

সমুদ্রপারে গর্জ্জন করে ঢেউ—

মন্দিরা কি শুনতে পাচ্ছে কেউ?

নব-অর্জ্জুন

2009-11-09T10:14:00.000+05:30

বলে ছিলে বহু দিন আগে,

ব্যক্তিত্ব সুঠাম হোক, চরিত্র সুদৃঢ়,

কল্পনায় অর্জ্জুন জাতক।

হয় তো বহুদিন পার,

আমার শহরের নদীর ওপারে বিদেশ—

তার পর, অনেক নারীর পেলব দেহের প্রান্তরে

শেষ নিঃশ্বাসের শ্রান্তি পেরোনোর পর,

হৃদয় বলিষ্ঠ পাশে আবদ্ধ মনে হয়;

হয়তো প্রেম যৌনতার অধঃগতি।

সেদিনের মেয়েটি, যাকে এশিয়ান জাতি বলে, তার—

খুঁজেনিকো মনের অভ্যন্তরে ভালোবাসার অঙ্গীকার,

তার অবোধ্য শীৎকারে বার বার দেহ লজ্জাহীন ভাবে

জেগেছে, ডেকেছে আরো কাছে,

আর বিষ্ফোরণের পর, পরাক্রান্ত মহীরূহ লজ্জা পায় নি আবার।

নারীর দেহের ভিতরে থাকে মন,

যোনির রসের মতো সতত মমতাই ক্ষরণ,

কোনো মা কি সন্তানের সাথে, মেতেছে

যৌনতার খেলাতে, আকাঙ্খা নিয়ে রাতে?

তাই পুরুষের ভবিষ্যত, হয়তো নারীর দেহের উপরে

নির্বোধ আত্মমেহন।

ছবি আঁকো বলেছিলে, আমার, তোমার, সবাকার

বুকে নখাঘাত, স্তন্যদায়িনী মাতার স্তনবৃন্ত ফুলে লাল,

তবু শিশু তার আবদার মাখে, মুখের লালাতে—

প্রতি রাতে নির্যাতিতা, প্রেমিক, পশু ও শিশুটির হাতে।

জন্মের সময়, গর্ভের প্রথম ভাঙে জল,

কিছু সময়, শিশুর মস্তিষ্ক মায়ের যোনিতে অচঞ্চল—

তার পর গর্ভের প্রবল আঘাতে

জন্ম হয় ভবিষ্যৎ, এক রাশ নৈরাশ্য হাতে।

ফুল ছিঁড়বে না, ওতে গাছের লিঙ্গ ও বোধ থাকে,

আমাকে ভালোবেসো লিঙ্গের কঠিন আঘাতে—

প্রত্যুত্তরে আমার মাধুর্য্য ক্ষরণ, শ্বাসাঘাত,

রক্তে, মাথায় আবেশ, নারীর সতীত্ব হরণ—

এটুকুই বুঝলে শুধু মন? শুধুই দেহের আন্দোলন—

আর তারপর, নিষ্পেশিত কঠিন হৃদয়।

অর্জ্জুন মৃত, আর জন্মাবার নয়।

তোমায় ভালবাসা

2009-11-07T23:52:00.000+05:30

বেবো, তোমায় ভালবাসা কি এতই কঠিন?

যেন যুদ্ধে জয় করা রাশিয়া বা চীন

বেবো, তোমার প্রেমের আমার এতই কি দরকার?

পরোয়া করিনা পরমাণু বোমা, বদলানো সরকার।

তুমি কি ভাবো তোমার সামনে রেখে যাওয়া ওই ফুল—

আমার হৃদয় রক্তে রাঙানো— উস্ক-খুস্ক চুল?

এই যে তোমায় কবিতায় লিখি, তাও কি তোমায় দেখা?

তোমার আঁকা ছবিতে যেনো তোমাকে বুঝতে শেখা?

তোমার নামেই ভালোবাসা নয়, কাঁপে না এই হৃদয়;

তোমার মূর্ত্তি গড়িনাকো আমি, গড়নযোগ্য নয়

যে কটা দিন তোমার নেশায় রাত দিন মাতোয়ারা

সে কটা দিন কালো আকাশের ফিনাইল খাওয়া তারা—

ফেরীওয়ালার দর হাঁকাতেই তোমার বড্ড দাম,

রুমালের রঙ চোখে-মুখে লাগে একটু মুছলে ঘাম

নিজেকে যতই অনন্যা ভাবো, শোনো যেনে রাখো নারী

দিনের লুঙ্গী দুবার কাচলে রাত্রে হয় মশারী,

ফেনিল করো না কথার মালাতে স্বপ্নিল প্রভাতে

বর্ণিল নাকি তো্মার চোখটি চন্দ্রিল যত রাতে

কথার মালাতে কথা গেঁথে যাও, আমিও গাঁথতে পারি,

কবিতায় তুমি প্রিয়তমা হও, আসলে তো বারোয়ারী।

Bebo, tomay bhalobasa ki etoi kothin?

Jeno juddhe joy kora Russia ba Chin.

Bebo, tomar premer amar etoi ki dorkar—

Poroya korina poromanu boma, bodlano sorkar?

Tumi ki bhabo tomar samne rekhe jaoa oi phul,

Amar hridoy rokte rangano— usko-khusko chul?

Ei je tomay kobitay likhi, tao ki tomay dekha?

Tomar aka chobite jeno tomake bujhte shekha.

Tomar namete bhalobasa noy, kape na ei hridoy,

Tomar murti gori na ko ami, goron jogyo noy.

Je kota din tomar neshay rat din matoara,

Se kota din kalo akasher finile khaoa tara.

Ferioalar dor hankatei tomar boddo dam,

Rumaler rong chokhe-mukhe lage ektu muchle gham.

Nijeke jotoi ononya bhabo, shuno, jene rakho naari,

Diner lungi dubar kachle ratre hoy moshari.

Phenil koro na kothar malate swopnil probhate,

Bornil naki tomar chokhti chondril joto rate—

Kothar malate kotha gethe jao, amio gathte pari,

Kobitay tumi priyotoma hoy, asole to baroyari

মন্দ তো নয় মোবাইল আমার (Mondo To Noy Mobile Amar)

2009-11-04T20:23:00.002+05:30

অনেক আগের পুরোনো প্রেম লুকিয়ে থাকে মানি ব্যাগে—

সেই প্রেমকে ফোন করলাম কাল রাতটি জেগে জেগে;

অভিযোগ আর প্রশ্ন শেষে যখন মুখে ফ্যাকাশে হাসি,

হঠাৎ করে বলে ফেললাম, “তোমায় আজো ভালোবাসি।“

গলাটা হঠাৎ ভারি ভারি, “ও মা, তুমি কাঁদছো কেন?”

তুমিই আমার প্রাণেশ্বরী, বলেইছিলেম সে কথা জেনো।

আমার আবার উড়ন্ত প্রাণ, ডুব সাগরে এদিক ওদিক,

ভালোবাসাটা কাকে বলে বুঝতে পারি না সেটাই সঠিক।

এই তো তোমায় কোলে নিয়ে ভাবছিলেম দিল্লী যাবো—

চাঁদনী চক্-এর পুরোনো ভীড়ে ঘিয়ে ভাজা জিলিপি খাবো।

কান্না শুনে লাগছে প্রাণে তোমায় ঘুম পাড়িয়ে পালাই

সোহাগ বড় বালাই বাবা, লাল কেল্লায় বিয়ের সানাই—

শুনতে পেলেই ভালোবাসা ছিন্ন-ভিন্ন খাতার পাতা;

রাতের ঘুমে, কানে-ফোনে প্রেম একটি মাদকতা।

Onek ager purono prem lukiye thake money bag e,

Sei prem ke phone karlam, kal rat ti jege jege.

Obhijog ar proshno seshe jokhon mukhe fyakashe haasi

Hotat kore bole fellam, tomay ajo bhalobasi.

Golata hothat bhari bharim Oma tumi kandcho keno?

Tumi-i amar praneshwari, boleichilem se kotha jeno.

Amar abar uronto pran, dub sagore edik odik,

Bhalobasta kake bole bujhte pari na setai sothik.

Ei to tomay kole niye bhabchilem dilli jabo,

Chandni chowker purono bhide ghiye bhaja jilipi khabo.

Kanna shune lagche prane, tomay ghum padiye palai,

Sohag boro balai baba, lal kellay biyer shanai—

Shunte pelei bhalobasa chino bhinno khatar pata,

Rater ghume kane- phone prem ekti madokota.

একটু ভালো পাওয়া

2009-10-31T10:58:00.001+05:30

তোর চোখে বিশ্ব বড়ই চঞ্চল আর একটুখানি স্বপ্ন হাসি,

তোর চোখের কোলে স্বপ্ন লেগে নিদ্রা বাসি।

তুই যাবি যদি যা গাঁয়ের কোনের বটগাছটায়,

তোকে দেখতে আমি চলে আসব ঠিক পাঁচটায়।

তোর ঘুমন্ত চোখ জেগে থাকে নিত্য আশায়,

আর বিকেল বেলায় ফুল তুলবি আপন খেলায়।

কখনো বা তুই নিজ খেয়ালের অধিশ্বরী—

একা একা চাঁদের আলোয় পায়চারী;

তোর মতো আছে অনেক অনেক আরো

হয়তো তাদের ভালোলাগে অন্য কারো

আমার দিনের শ্রান্তিবেলার আকাশকুসুম—

বিকেলে তোর কোলের মাঝে একটুকু ঘুম;

ফেরতা দুজন পালিয়ে বেড়াই এদিক সেদিক

করে ফেলবো যখন লাগে যা খুশি ঠিক

তবুও তো তুই থাকিস ঠিক জাগা চোখে,

ভাবিস কখন জড়িয়ে ধরবো এসে তোকে।

হয়তো এসব প্রেম অথবা মোহ-মায়া,

চাঁদের আলোয় দুষ্টু হয়ে ছুঁতে চাওয়া—

তার পর এক অন্ধ খুশি বখে যাওয়া,

তোর ভেতরে আমার কাঁপা, বয়ে যাওয়া—

চুলের ভেতর আঙুল দিয়ে চুমু খাওয়া

আমার ভাষায়, “তোরে একটু ভালো পাওয়া”।

রক্ত

2009-10-30T17:14:00.001+05:30

মাঝে মাঝে মনে হয়—

তোর শরীরের সব সাদা গোল মাংস ছিঁড়ে-খুঁড়ে যাই

আমার হাতের নখে তোর গায়ের রক্ত মাখাই।

তার পর স্নান সেরে এসে,

তোর ছিন্ন-ভিন্ন শরীরের পাশে বসে

আবার নিজেরে হারাই।

শুধু তোর বুকে রক্তের স্বাদ পাই।

A trifle and unfinished attempt at humor

2009-10-27T10:56:00.001+05:30

That God has died was discovered by humans inhibiting the earth millions of year ago, when a man named Harrison Ford suddenly discovered that the computer was in fact a gift from God sent to a stoneman who was trying to divide nine rabbits amongst seventeen family members and prayed for a tool which could solve such difficult problems. Now, the God's office being the sole caretaker of the entire galaxy and millions such more is always overworking and more than that over piling the work. When God received the stoneman’s plea, he decided to send a computer, which after 20000 years of existence was still beyond the discovery of human civilization. The God did not know that of course. Also, the news of His death reached Him pretty late, as his office is located very far from the farthest star system, which humans describe as Far Far Away, though they really do not understand what they mean by it. When God came to know of his death, he decided that the earth must be punished, and checking all his arsenals he decided the famous lightning of Zeus, that would strike the world out of existence. But, before he could reach the earth with the lightening, the process of destruction of universe suddenly began in accordance to the laws of physics. When the big crunch was going on, God thought, now I shall punish the offender in the Judgment Day, but, he suddenly remembered that the last judgment day had taken place four days ago, and he gave Harrison Ford a place in Judgment days Walk of Fame for some achievement he could not quite understand. But he remembered the sly smile on the face of all his pontiffs. And that was the last thought before the entire universe along with God got concentrated in the source of the next big bang.

Harrison Ford was born in the obscure English settlement of newest New Hampshire which was by some inexplicable circumstances and some unfortunate design, situated in the jungles of Assam. The founders of the settlement came with the first flood of emigrants from England, and soon after the settlement was founded it was quickly surrounded by a thick tropical rain forest preventing any external communication. This was the inexplicable circumstance. Now, the settlement elders, very wary of the snake eating, head hunting tribes of Assam, forbid anybody from venturing out in the forest. That is the unfortunate design. Adding to the circumstances was that, no such tribe ever existed in anywhere in the world; forget. So the settlement of Newest New Hampshire never knew that India was ruled by the East India Company for a hundred years and by the Crown for another ninety. They did not know that Knight Shyamalan has unknowingly made a movie featuring their story, and they also did not know that there existed a thing such as steam engine. Harrison Ford did not know that a very famous actor in Hollywood was his namesake. He did not know of Hollywood of course as he did not know of the USA to be an independent country.

মেসো- একটি অতি পুরোনো কবিতা

2009-10-23T08:51:00.001+05:30

ছিলেন মেসো চেয়ারে বসে চশমা এঁটে সোজা,

শীতের দিনে গরম চাদর, পায়ে নীল মোজা।

হঠাৎ মেসোর বুকে ব্যথা, শ্বাসকষ্টের কাশি—

নিজের বুককে আঁকড়ে ধরে বাঁচার মলিন হাসি।

আমার মেসো ছবি হলেন চশমা এঁটে ভোরে—

এখনো তবু হাসতে চান প্রাণখুলে খুব জোরে।

মেসোর হাসি ছড়িয়ে পড়তো খোলা জানালা দিয়ে,

পাড়ার কাকু ছুটে আসতো এক খিলি পান নিয়ে।

মেসোর মুখ পান বোঝাই, টইটম্বুর রসে—

পিক ফেলতেন পিচিক পিচিক জানালায় পাশে বসে।

মাছওয়ালা আকাব-উদ্দিন মেসোর জিগরি দোস্ত,

মাসিকে লুকিয়ে চলে যেতেন প্রায়ই খেতে গোস্ত।

আকাব তাই চলে আসে বিশাল মাছ নিয়ে,

প্রাণের শান্তি করতে চায় সেই মাছের মুড়ো দিয়ে।

ছবিতে বসা প্রবীণ মেসো, চন্দনে ও মালায়,

মিচকে হাসেন আকাব দেখে, চোখ যদিও থালায়।

মাছে গন্ধ আসছে নাকো ধূপ জ্বলছে থালায়,

আকাব তবুও বারে বারে ছবির দিকেই তাকায়।

আরো এসেছে সব্জীওয়ালা, টুনটুনি তার নাম,

বাবুর ছবিতে একবার সে করতে চায় প্রণাম।

আমিও এসেছি সবই দেখছি, দেখছি মেসোর হাসি—

শোনার শব্দ দেখতে হচ্ছে — বুকে ব্যথা ও কাশি।

Five

2009-10-21T02:00:00.002+05:30

These are stories of course, of love and pleasure, but, the characters are ill-formed, and the purpose ill-defined, yet I tell the story to satisfy the most carnal of my desires.

.1.

“I shall not make love to men anymore” he said, pushing his partners face away from his chest, “it is totally depressing, and unwholesome, but then, I sure had desires before.” The partner, his name not known, was rubbing his face on his chest, on the dry and harsh hairs, and the sweaty smell was making him grow every moment. The partner licked his armpit. He shuddered. With pleasure.

“Why is not our body subject to our thoughts, why does it not stop feeling when it is commanded not to feel, why is it still pleasurable to have my armpits licked by a man, when it seems to me a man I do not desire?” His partner could sense the thoughts rushing through his blood. He started licking his nipple. The thoughts stopped suddenly and the hands rushed to press that brusque face up on his chest.

He pleaded with himself again, half-moaning. His eyes were dilated, his breathing fast, and every hole of his body was secreting some sort of mist or the other. His partner was a musician, whose choice of instrument throughout has been a MALE BODY. He did not classify himself as gay though. He did not need to fell proud being a gay. Rather, he was just an admirer of Greek sculptures.

.2.

She wrote him a message, “I m ur pumpkin.”

He wrote her a message, “u r my munchkin”

She wrote, I luv u

He wrote, I luv u 2

She asked a man, “Can you make me blush?” The man said, “The power is long gone my lady, or, as I feel now, I never yielded any such power. I rather think that, it was you who chose to blush.” She said, “I will go and blush with another man. Perhaps I shall tell him what flowers I like, and perhaps, he will bring them when he first meets me. I will blush then.”

The man said, “There lays my vindication.”

The game of extortion has already begun.

.3.

He went to ward every day, and every day they would assemble. She would come too, and her first glance would be towards him, and she will stand in front of him, and undo her hair. Her hair always smelt fresh, but it was not what he noticed. He always smelled her sweat underneath her armpits, he imagined the sweat drops, how would they dangle from her curly thick hair, he prayed she was not shaved like the freaks who think having hair is akin to monkeys. He was tall, and she wore a salwar the back of which was very daring. He would look at the olive skin of hers, the lighter and darker dots on her back, the pearls of sweat that accumulate only to be soaked by the fabric. He could she her rubbing herself, in a messy bed, all sweaty, he could imagine her stare at his eyes, her licking her own fingers. It made him feel famished. He loved it.

She thought he loved the scent of her hair.

Some men like to remain hungry.

Some do not know how to feed.

.4.

It was bright and sunny outside. And a barren day. The room was painted brightest of bright yellow, and all the sheets were white. Too much light he thought as walked out naked from the bathroom. He has just taken a bath, his member was limp and in close proximity of his dark brown skin. His body was not made but carved out of granite, and every stroke of chisel could be traced on his body. He was made to be a savage man.

He walked straight to his wardrobe, and wore a white shirt and perfectly ironed black trousers.

All in front of his woman sitting near the window, whose left hand held a burning cigarette, and the right hand has just stopped rubbing her genitals.

.5.

“Life is lie, so fuck the lie” he thought, grasping his hard member with his ever moving tight fist.

That love is tender

2009-08-26T12:25:00.003+05:30

Tender perhaps the rose is,
And tender perhaps the world;
Tender is everything around you
Right down to your curls.

In light man can see,
Every blemish ever made;
In tenderness every thought is conceived
In love, it is said.

Rudimentary are man’s ways
Which he chose to be followed,
For love is never sacred or pristine,
It never wants to be hallowed.

In caresses and kisses it is conceived,
In light it manifests;
In glitz its glamour lies,
In vanity everything it vests.

The measures and parameters all go wrong,
For all are doomed to be doomed,
And every afterthought is a lover’s excuse
To keep on licking his wound.

No tenderness I have to say, for it is infernos I proclaim,
And like a lover, I keep on searching, somebody to share the blame.

দূরে জঙ্গলে In a distant forest

2009-08-17T21:33:00.000+05:30

(তুমি অনেক দূরে গিয়েছিলে,
সব কিছুর থেকে, নিজের প্রাণের থেকেও
পৃথিবীর আদিম এক অরণ্যে,
নিষ্কৃতি পাবার নেশায়)

আমার গাড়িতে তোমরা যখন জঙ্গলে গিয়েছিলে,
তখন গাড়িতে বাজিয়েছিলেম-- "জ়াহিদ নে মেরে"
আর তুমি বলেছিলে, " আরে ড্রাইভার! এটা তো আমার favorite গান"
আসলে তখন আয়নায় দেখছিলেম তোমার উড়তে থাকা চুল।

'রূখ পে তেরে জ়ুলফো কো পরেশান ন্যহি দেখা'
গাইছিলেন পারভীন, আর ভাবছিলেম,
"আমি তো দেখেছি খোদা,
তোমার লাল জ্যাকেটের তলায় সাদা শার্ট।"

রোদের সকালটাও ছিলো ভেজা-ভেজা
তুমি বসেছিলে ওই গাছটার নীচে
তোমার পায়ের লাল গোড়ালিদুটো
আমি প্রথমবারের মতো দেখেছিলেম

'ম্যায়নে মগর অ্যায় দীদা-এ-হেরা ন্যহী দেখা'
তোমরা সবাই খুব ব্যস্ত ছিলে,
ছবি আঁকায়, নাচে, আগুনের পাশে বসে গল্প করায়
আর আমার এই ঠাণ্ডা গাড়িটার ভেতরে বসে আমি ভেবেই যাই,
চতুর্দিকে ধোঁয়ায় ভরিএ দিয়ে
'ক্যায়া ক্যায়া হুয়া হাঙ্গাম-এ-জ়ুনু ইয়ে ন্যহী মালুম'
আর সকালে উঠে তোমাদের ফিরিয়ে নিয়ে যাওয়ার সময় শুনি
সেখানে তুমি নাকি তোমার জুতো হারিয়েছো, তোমার সবথেকে প্রিয়
ভাবতে পারো! এই ড্রাইভারটা তোমার জুতো চুরি করিয়েছিলো
যার একটাও ফোটো তোমার ক্যামেরায় নেই,
যার একটাও কথা তোমার মনে নেই

'কুছ হোশ যো আয়া তো গরেবান ন্যহী দেখা'

(You went far far away
from everything, perhaps, even your own soul
In an ancient forest,
In search of the addictive freedom)
When you were coming here, on my car
I played on the stereo, 'Zahid ne mera'
And you said, "Ah Driver! That's my favourite song"
And actually I was looking at your flying hairs in the mirror.
'Rukh pe teri zulfon ko pareshaan nahin dekha'
Sang on Parveen, and I thought,
"Oh lord! I have seen
Her white shirt under the red jacket."
The sunny morning was a bit wet,
And you people were sitting under the tree,
And I could see your red red heels for the first time,
'Meine magar ae deeda-e-heraan nahin dekha.'
You were all busy, painting and dancing, talking by the fire,
And in the night, sitting alone, in my cold and comfortable car,
I think on, smoking in this enclosed den
'Kya kya hua hungaam-e-junoon yeh nahi maloom'
And in the morning taking you back, I hear
That you have lost your heels, your most precious ones,
I smirk, and think, you can never find out,
They are with me now, whom you never shall remember again
For there is no picture of him in your camera.
'Kuch hosh jo aya to garebaan nahin dekha'

দূর্গে বৃষ্টি

2009-08-15T10:33:00.000+05:30

কালকের কবিতা কালকে লিখবো বলে,

বালিশের তলায় লুকিয়ে রাখলেম কাগজ কলম

আমি ঘুমোলেম, কিন্তু কবিতা ঘুমালো না।

তার সাদা পোষাক গিয়েছিলো ভিজে,

বাদামী গায়ের রঙ গলে মিশে গিয়েছিলো

সাদাটার সাথে---

দূর্গের মাঝে, কোনো এক বৃষ্টির প্রভাতে।

তার বাঁধানো রাস্তায় দুপাশে হাত তুলে,

তুমি খুব ভিজেছিলে,

সেই ধোঁয়াটে প্রভাতে

সবুজের সাথে--- একা শূণ্য হাতে।

স্মৃতি রেখেছিলে করে, ক্যামেরায় বেঁধে তারে

দেখেছিলো অনেকে, ভুলেছে সবাই

যাদের মনে আছে, বলবার ভাষা তার নাই।

দূর্গের রাস্তার লাল রঙে

তোমার নীল দুটি পা--

বৃষ্টিতে ভেজা সেই ধোঁয়াটে প্রভাতে

তুমি বেঁধেছো তোমার ক্যামেরাতে।

সেদিন বাতাস ছিলো খুব,

তবুও তোমার ভিজে চুল

তোমার গালে লেগে থাকে,

যেনো খুব ভালোবাসে তাকে।

বাতাসের প্রগল্‌ভ হাত, তোমার শরীরে ঘোরে,

তোমার দেহের উপত্যকাতে

বৃষ্টিতে ভেজা তোমার শরীর

কিসের আকাঙ্খায় আরোও ভিজে যায়।

তোমার নোনা স্বাদ, বৃষ্টিতে ধুয়ে ভেসে যায়,

সে পাহাড়ী দূর্গের গায়,

দূর্গের লাল রাস্তায়।

শরীরের বাদামী রঙ, আবরণের সাদার তলায়

ধীরে ধীরে ম্লান হয়ে যায়, নতুন সূর্য্যের আভায়--

বৃষ্টির জল-- সকলি শুকায়।

আর হৃদয়ের? তা কালি হয়ে নামে,

কবিতার সাদা পাতায়।

কালকের কবিতা আমারে আজকে জাগায়--

নিদারুণ প্রসব ব্যদনায়

Hills and rivers.

2009-07-08T09:26:00.005+05:30

Now, after you have heard Suzanne Vega for the past 24 hours, and you have traversed across the vast plain lying besides the mighty river, and crossed the plains and highlands of that matriarchal society, it appears impossible to me that you are not speaking in rhymes. But than, you yourself decided that you are not going to indulge in rhyming any more. Would you defy your own self?

What is all this fuss about solitude and loneliness. Two different words for the one and same thing. Which you have had experienced across its length and breadth.

Arriving here, at the banks of the mighty river, I found one book, which I had traded in my previous life. The book was used to convey what I felt to a spirit who used to be the source of all my feelings, back that time. Now, she scribed all over the book one liners, in pencil, and I was reading them now. It appears strange to me now, that all the signs which I thought were positives translate so differently now. It is not that I still bear any remnant traces of longing, but, it is strange sometimes, and very interesting to look back at the codes which we created long back.

It is solitude than, which I had in my mind when I began writing, but this river, with all her current, determines what you think, whenever you come close to her. And I have been close to her for last 7 years.

The story begins and ends with rivers. For his birth was between two rivers. Not Tigris and Euphrates, rather, two unknown and obscure rivers, but than rivers always give birth to civilization, however obscure their origin may be.

Solitude, you said. Solitude is man's existence, for his mind is always his, always impenetrable, never ajar. It is the craftiest of key-makers who can find a way, and it is the most able buccaneer who can find his way through. But than, to recognise this as the prime form of living is such a waste, as you shall find thousand living around. It is so hard, to exist and never to extend your hand. But, than again, what is outside is just a reflection that is seen on the inside.

Enough rants. It leads nowhere. Still, it says what I want to say. Some day, I shall edit this. When I cross the hills that is.

How to read and write bengali the easy way

2009-07-04T23:09:00.002+05:30

to read Bengali, and to be able to write in Bengali to friends and on your own pc, you can take the help of this link

Link to bengali writing and reading software ...Click on It

It is hundred percent safe for your PC. I have written using the same software.

Cheers.

পড়া যায় কি?

শহর

2009-05-06T20:14:00.001+05:30

আমার জন্ম এক মৃতপ্রায় বন্দরে, যে শহর অনেকদিন জাহাজ দেখেনি,
দেখেছে অনেক কৃষ্ণচূড়া গাছ—
বসন্তের রঙে লাল।

আমি অনেক শহরে থেকেছি,এক যান্ত্রিক শিল্প-রাজধানীতে,
সেখানেও বিকেলে সূর্য্যের আলো সব ধোঁয়ার রঙ থেকে বেশী রঙীন।

বিকেলের ট্রেনে সে শহর যখন তার সব আলো নিয়ে দূরে যায়,
আর সামনে থাকে কিছু শুকনো ক্ষেত আর গায়ে গায়ে বাড়ী
তখন একই মন হয়, যেমন আমার বন্দরের সবুজ গাছ।

অনেক পাহাড়ের উপরে খেলনা কাঠের বাড়ী, সেখানে আমার দিদি ও দিদির মেয়ে,
হঠাৎ বাঁকে সে হয় অদৃশ্য, কোনো রোমন্থনের সময় দেয় না।

আর এখানের নদীর পাশে ঘর,
এ শহর আমি দেখিনিকো তেমন, অনেক মানুষ আর ভাষা,
তার বৈচিত্র বিকেলে ছাড়া যায় না, আমি যাই রাতের নিঃস্তব্ধতায়—
যদিও দেখেছি বিকেলে তার দূরের রাস্তাগুলো— চায়ের বাগানে সবুজ।

আমি অনেক শহরে থেকেছি, অনেক দিন, অনেকের মতো আমিও
অভিজ্ঞ ডাক্তারের মতো, অনুভব করেছি তাদের নাড়ীর স্পন্দন,
বসেছি অনেক নদীর তীরে।

দক্ষিণের মেয়েটি বলেছিলো, ছাদের উঁচূতে, জলের ট্যাঙ্কের উপর বসে নাকি শহরের গান শোনা যায়।

muse

2009-04-27T00:45:00.005+05:30

It happens now and then, that I find myself
Slowly gliding amidst all, unless someone snatches me,
Out of perception, from imagination,
Taking me to a ride of reality.

My quietitude has often been a lament for forlorn desires.
My schizophrenia is a cure for the blatant mediocre, and their proclamations.

Fleeting

2009-02-28T19:36:00.001+05:30

I
I used to read a lot, in boastful voice
Affirm ideas, vanquish foes, with sheer speed,
Mere words, it all took.
Light is unconfined, can not be defined ,
To those, Unexposed, can not be propagated
Through a mass blind.
Prophet's message can not come
In words written, hymns recited,
Can only incite brotherhood of arms.
Holy books, pages bound, bind freedom,
Men's demise is in seeking discipline
Trying to carve liberty in lines.

II

All those, who sought truth, truth above all
Must have felt, there is room, in abundance,
For mundane things, to create havoc
In decided mornings, over breakfast
In closed rooms, between two souls.
How much difference can one undergo,
To stop deciphering and start feeling?

2009-01-31T19:27:00.002+05:30

I have been walking alone,
Through sea-shores, and on caverns,
I have been carving stones,
Designing arches in unknown chapels.
There have been times when, wandering and going astray,
I, decaying, often lamenting, had envisioned a woman in May.
When I meet her, through the monotony, above the cacophony, her voice rings,
Her hair flies, tender eyes, sweet disguise,
My mind clings
To every bit of music, every memory, every tavern, and their wine glasses,
Camera reels, begging children, their stories, dead carcasses,
Which we saw, walking together, miles afar, in same cauldron,
Being boiled, in clothes soiled, flesh spoiled --- Never to be known
To the other, Miles afar, never to decipher, the eternal purpose,
To juxtapose on my mission, The woman who came so much close
To the definition of that lady, that my young heart drew,
A white paper, lines darker, shades and light, without a clue.

What does this mind possesses that it keeps on drawing and redrawing?
Never to stop or admire, the offerings of this February morning------

Memories

2009-01-28T00:52:00.000+05:30

New wonders are everyday creations, not in submission, potent bliss
An empty pitcher, a wanderer, no water, deep in thirst.
Beautiful world, mysteries and dust, flowing and ever draining lust--
Covered in dust, memories are, liked or disliked, always bore,
With a care, tender touches, swift brushes, pictures gallore.

I with me, bear myself, back from the outgrown days
Hazy or lighted, Agile or blighted, finding or forging unknown ways.
Rays come and suddenly delight, falling on those pictures pale,
Fresh they are, and foreign their smell, Sailing in spring gale.
And then shaken, I start with a start, shudder and gallop, nothing amiss.

On an evening, Candles burning, yellow light, and faint caress;
Wild smell, sweaty palms, heaving breasts in a hefty embrace,
Suddenly broken, never forgotten, dark night and blue stars,
Tendriller hairs, fifteen years, coming through ages, silent whispers.
All alive, as now is, flickering as if an old movie screen.

Times barrier is barrier of action, not to be undone, set in motion,
Suddenly sometimes, to pick up and relish, to breathe and cherish, forgotten emotion.

Cycle

2009-01-26T02:01:00.002+05:30

A little girl all unaware, jumps in a puddle, gets wet and muddy,
She sleeps in bed, covered by her mom, hugging her brown cuddly teddy.
Her dad wakes up, reads papers, comments and laments, the plight of society,
Mother undresses, and washes, searching every bit of her naked body.
For the beauty, that made the man, of the last day, to come and have her,
That man presently, is drunken and drooling, dodging of in his broken armchair.
Dreaming of his childhood lost love, who left for but no reason appealing,
She is seeing, with wide eyes now, her own husband leaving.
Her kids are dressing up in their bedroom, chatting and being all unaware,
That their mom is all heartbroken, by their daddy's secret affair.
Their dad is searching for an argument, to give the lady, no longer lovable,
His lover, The writer woman, is penning down her latest fable.
All fabricated, and sweetened, that the girl will read on her birthday,
And she will grow up, learn to cope up, and live the same life someday.

Few lines

2009-01-25T00:09:00.001+05:30

There was a man, name forgotten,
Wrote poetry, small ripples, in steadfast water.
Trying to adjust to coercive life, dementing him, to unknown quarters.
Describing life, as it is, often imparting strange character.
Fluorescent colours, painted or scattered, on a previous white sheet of paper.
Like tendrils, gripper for support, yet gatherer of food, from that very provider:

I would often walk by him, peeping in to his white canvas,
Painting writing, creating cursing, smoking rings of brown leaf-grass.
Lines on face, and its shadows, feather on the cap, slowly agitating,
Against the rustle, that is the wind, through the wood, slowly whistling,
Dropping his coffee mug, I would sit down, beside or behind, not to be noticed,
A drop of dew, a few words, callous or intended, to a mind famished.
That's all it is, a thrown away smile, without a grimace, even on dry skin,
The winter brings that, to the astray, showing no tooth, the old man laughing.

Such agile life is, but smokes on the sky, and always the clouds,
Never a rainbow, nor a raindrop, a grasshopper flying over the mounds.
Suddenly someday, old hand gripping, papery skin of old man walking,
A hop and start, going wayward, with the wind, goes rainbow hunting

Woman by the window

2009-01-17T23:10:00.007+05:30

She was standing by the window, she always does.

Her shapely calves, her blue dress was knee high,

She was looking straight out.

I was nowhere.

It was a beautiful house I built, by the lake,

When the sun set, I had windows opening to it.

Such is my fascination with it.

The little boat which was seemingly rowing, without sails,

Perhaps, a man looking to be alone, perhaps, a couple,

Looking to be together,

She was staring through them,

She was not melancholic.

Her elbows, placed on the window pane, never moved,

Her hair did, as it was untied, with the breeze, it flew in,

Perhaps, some entered her mouth, but she never knew,

She was looking on, looking afar, amidst the cotton clouds.

Her sandals, huaraches, showed her heel, pink from standing,

Her dress hugged her, and her lines were distinct, every swelling to every valley,

In the window, her scarf lay, same blue as her dress,

Blue through which you could see, blue which was never out of the view.

The panes glowed orange now, and so did her margins, as sun laid down,

The lake became the same as the sky, the boat a spec in it, further back,

As if in horizon, its destination lay, Her hair still kept flying.

There is some scent, so typically wild, that it turns your stomach,

And you feel the pressure down, that you need to be hugged and caressed,

That was the scent of the wind then.

Did she know of it?

The wooden plates of the floor were brown, touch darker then her brown skin,

I knew the colour of her nipples, I knew the colour of everything alive,

That lived in her, that died in her, or so I thought,

For I can see only her blue and brown now.

She always stood there, but then, she stood face inside, the window open,

Her legs could be made out through her dress, in that orange light,

I could not see her face, I just could see her smile,

More often I would here that, like forgotten springs,

Warm and full of sulfur, they carried the same smoke with them.

But, she was looking outside now.

In love, her embraces came, came invitations to make joy,

Came kisses, and whispers, moans, and pleasure, came our bodies, alone, or together.

But, still everywhere, we touched, there were something more to touch, more to find.

As Dona Fargo sang, that there is this certain kind of something,

That everybody searches, we did not find it, we did not bother.

There is a couch in my room, she called it alter,

There we sacrificed our shame, yes, for we were never so expressive,

For to be naked, it was a great deed, so we managed to hug quickly,

And it ignited, it still burns, and I sit there, looking at her,

Does she notice it?

There, far, lay those parts, which are dreams yet, neither grasped or lost,

Dreams, her children, she wishes them well, before she goes in labour, to have them with me.

She waits for them, watches them for the last time, as she never would, for men change,

More so, in love, she looks through the world as this is the last time she does it.

P.S. Image by Salvador Dali

সঙ্গ

2009-01-07T17:08:00.002+05:30

নারী, আঁকো তোমার ছবি, মনে,

আমার হৃদয় তোমার, অধিকারে, বোধে,

জাগরনে।

বড়ই অল্প সময়, দুজনের হাতে,

শীতের প্রভাতে,

চলো, নদীতীরে যাই,

কল্পনায় স্নান করি।

আমি বাঙ্ময়, আমারি সাথে,

আমার কল্পনায়, আমি পথিক,

আনন্দের পথে।

এই সহাবস্থান, ক্ষণিকের,

নেই কোনো আয়োজন,

নেই ক্ষমা, দান, অশ্রু বা হৃদয়ের আন্দোলন-

শুধুই দেহের, প্রাণের প্রয়োজন।

তোমারে কি কেউ কোনোদিন ডাকেনিকো?

“হৃদয় করিব দান” বলে ;

পৃথিবী করুণার ঠাঁই,

মানুষ প্রস্তুত, প্রতি মুহুর্ত্তে,

ক্ষমায় মহীয়ান হবে বলে –

ঘৃণা তো করেছো তারে, অবিশ্রাম,

শ্রান্তি, কলুষ ঠেলে ঠেলে,

চলে আসো, নিজের আসঙ্গ পাবে বলে।

তোমারি পথের দান, এই মুহুর্ত্ত,

এই সহাবস্থান।

দেখেছি মানুষ, অনেক, শত শত,

ভয়ে বিভ্রান্তিতে লক্ষ্যহীন তারা,

লক্ষ্যের মানে খুঁজেনিকো—

তাদের জন্যে তো এই প্রাণ নয়,

যদিও তাদেরো দিয়েছো জীবনের অনেক সময়।

যারা প্রাণহীন, খুঁজেছে তোমার দেহে তোমার আত্মার স্বরূপ,

ভয়, বড় ভয় ঘিরেছে তাদেরে,

যখন তোমার দেহের পরে, তুলেছে তৃপ্তির নিঃশ্বাস,

তোমার হৃদয়ের শব্দ বড় জীবিত

বড় উদ্বেলিত মনে হয়।

আমিতো ঈশ্বর খুঁজিনিকো,

যাইনিকো, তীর্থে, বন্দরে,

সমুদ্রে, হিমালয়ে, নিজের সঙ্গের খোঁজে,

এ মনের চারিপাশে বাগানে ফুটেছে ফুল,

নিজের উল্লাসে, তোমার প্রতীক্ষায় নয়,

তবু, আনন্দ, তোমারি আসবার সময়।

দূরের মন্দিরে নিয়তঃ ঘন্টাধ্বনি হয়,

হয় মসজিদে আজান—

মানুষ মানুষকে কাছে ডেকে আনে,

প্রতীক্ষা বড়ই কঠিন।

তবু প্রতীক্ষায় পার হয় এই দীর্ঘ জীবন।

প্রতিটি পথের পাশে পাশে, ছোটো ছোটো গাছে,

প্রত্যহ ফুটে ফুল জীবনের টানে,

মানুষ মানুষকে টানে, বয়ে চলে আজীবন,

বড়ই বিমুর্ত যেন অস্থির জীবন।

আমার পথের শেষে ফুল ফোটেনাকো,

নেই তাতে সঞ্জীবনী সুধা,

মুহুর্ত্তমাথেকের উল্লাস আছে শুধু,

বুদবুদ তারা।

আমার জীবিত এই প্রাণ,

তোমায় দেবনা আমি দানে,

তোমায় বসাবনা মনে,

তবু তুমি অধিশ্বরী হও,

নিজেরি উল্লাসচেতনায়।

এই দিনটির শেষে,

ফুরাবে প্রয়োজন, আজকের তরে।

সমস্ত জীবনের আয়োজন,

যে সমস্ত সুধা, সময়ের সাথে সাথে বাড়ে,

তাদের রসিক নই আমি,

ক্লান্তিতে বয়ে চলা সঙ্গী,

অভ্যাসে সংজ্ঞাবদ্ধতা,

আমার প্রেমের প্রয়োজন নেই তাতে।

আমার হৃদয় লুন্ঠিত হতে চায়,

বিদ্রোহে, তারে অস্ত্র দাও

প্রতিরোধে, প্রতিরোধে, রক্তপাতে,

ক্ষমায় মেরো না তারে,

এই প্রাণে একটি যুদ্ধ দাও।

আমি কাহারে কি দিতে পারি,

কিছু অনুপ্রাস, ছন্দ, কাব্যায়িত গদ্য আর,

কিছু অপাংক্তেয় মুহুর্তের সমাহার ছাড়া--

কবিতা আমার ভালবাসা।

An ol' rhyme

2008-12-27T23:37:00.001+05:30

In every way I think, I can not but blink,
When staring at her, or her friends for that matter
Is beauty always served on a 'platter'?

Though all the wise men have said,
That with time beauty does fade;
But so does lust and craving for glitz
Beauty sure takes your mind in a blitz.

Since when it started to matter?
That only beauty is on cater--
For but a few old spooks
It has always been the taste of crooks.

In the banks shallow and gay
Many have made all the hay,
Now, I am not going to say,
That total fools were they!

Neither are those who subtleness loved,
In tender passion, their love was carved,
Through mind they dealt, and mind's wealth,
They sought, and payed the homage deserved.

Contradiction is not the cause of fray,
But sure it leads men to astray,
But then you love now, or through time
Somewhere here lies your awaited climb.

If you seek an advice from me,
I shall offer plenty gleefully,
Choose either to value, never neither or both
Here you must proclaim your unuttered troth.

The inner me

2008-12-22T10:44:00.000+05:30

Bless the wind, all around,
bless the water, flowing, profound,
blessed are the wishes, tempting kisses,
Bless with your presence, omnipotence.

Bless the clouds flying high,
Bless the tears, till eyes go dry.
Bless the remorse, of wrongdoing
Bless the ideas, and thinking
Sing the hymns, and seek joy.
The omnipotent is never intervening.

তোমায় দেখি

2008-12-20T15:01:00.000+05:30

আমি ছিলেম, আজও আছি,

বাতায়নে, -- অনেক দূরে।

আমি আছি তোমার মনে

বেশ গোপনে, স্বপ্ন পরে।

দীঘির পারে সূর্য্য ডোবে,

রোজ বিকালে, আনমনে-

ভাবার কথা ভাবায় নাকো,

হতাশ হাওয়ায়, এই বিজনে।

পথটি চলো, রোজই ভাবো,

ছাড়বো নাকি, ধরবো তারে--

প্রেমের কথাও মনে পড়ে,

কাজের শেষে, পুকুর পারে।

একটি লাল ঘুড়ি ওড়ে,

অনেক দূরে, ধরবে তারে?

গরম শেষে, শীতল শ্বাসে

একটি সাপ খোলস ছাড়ে।

অনেক দূরে, হাওয়ায় ভাসে,

পূজোর গান, মাইকে ছড়ায়,

তোমার মনে, বাতায়নে

শিউলি ফুল গন্ধ এলায়।

অনেক আগে, ছোটটি ছিলে,

চায়ের বনে, গাছের ছায়ায়,

ছোট হাতে হাত ধরতে,

লজ্জ্বা নেইকো হারলে খেলায়।

আজ তো অনেক বড় হয়েছো,

ভাবতে পারো, জটিল কথা,

তবুও কেন, এই বিকেলে,

ভাবায় তোমায় পুরোনো ব্যথা।

হয়তো অনেক বড় হওয়া,

ভেঙে যাওয়ার দামটি বেশি।

তবুও কিন্তু পথের লক্ষ্য

একটু খানি সরল খুশি।

তাই বিকেলে, কাজটি ভুলে,

চলে যেও পুকুর পারে,

সাপের খোলস, শাপলা ফুল,

হু হু বাতাস, জলের ধারে।

মুখটি দেখো, পুকুর জলে,

কাঁপতে থাকা চোখের তারা,

দেখেছিলেম, আজও দেখি

হয়তো অনেক দুরের পারা।

সময় পেলে

2008-12-12T14:23:00.001+05:30

সময়, আমার বুকের মাঝে

ছেঁড়া-ছেঁড়া, মেঘের মতো,

আকাশমাঝে, ভেলায় ভাসা।

সময়, আমার মনের মাঝে

সূতোয় বাঁধা, ঘুড়ির মতো

গগনপরে, সুদূরমুখী।

সময়, আমার হৃদয় পরে,

শব্দ করে, প্রেমের মত,

একটু একটু স্বপ্ন দেখায়।

প্রেম, আমায় গল্প বলায়

নিজের সাথে, সন্ধ্যাবেলায়,

বা সকালে, ধোঁয়ার নেশায়।

ঘুড়ির নেশা, সুতোর টানে,

দূর গগনে, মেঘে মেশা।

মেঘের নেশা, আকাশ জুড়ে,

কালো রঙে, জাঁকিয়ে বসা।

প্রেমের নেশা সেই সকালে,

লেপের তলায়, মেলামেশা।

দাগ

2008-12-08T23:06:00.001+05:30

দাগ থাকে চরিত্রে, কাহারো কাহারো মনে-

দাগ থাকে পোড়া কাঠে, জং ধরা আলপিনে।

দাগ কেউ রেখে যায় এই পৃথিবীর বুকে,

Acid-এর দাগ থাকে কিছু কিছু মেয়ের মুখে।

চন্দ্রের মুখে দাগ, কোনো ষোড়োশীর ঠোঁটে

চুম্বন দাগ কাটে, গর্ভ তলপেটে।

মুখে কাটা দাগ থাকে বড় বড় ডাকাতের

অতীতে দাগ থাকে আমাদের নেতাদের।

কবিতায় দাগ থাকে, লুকোনো না বলা কাম,

দাগ সব ধুয়ে মুছে, কবিতায় বিশ্রাম

আমারো দাগ আছে, আর সকলের মত-

কাপড়ে লুকুই সব, ঢেকে দেই দাগ-ক্ষত।

আতঙ্ক

2008-11-30T00:00:00.001+05:30

আকাশের রঙ রক্তের মতো লাল

মুম্বাইতে; দুশোজনের মৃত্যু।

ছেলের মায়ের ঘুম হয়নিকো কাল--

ওখানেইতো ছিলো সুকেতু।

নিজের রুমে টেলিভিসন,

রঙ্গিন মদ্যপান,

আর গুলি, বিস্ফোরন,

হঠাৎ আর্তনাদ।

ছেলের বাবা ঠায় বসে নিউজ দেখে যায়,

মা কাঁদে, আর চেষ্টা করে যায় ফোনটা,

হতবাক বাবা দেখে TV -তে ছেলের মৃত ছবি; কোলকাতায়

আকাশের রঙ রক্তের মতো লাল।

আবর্তন

2008-11-18T19:06:00.000+05:30

একটি বদ্ধ ঘর, মীনার, উঁচু--

অনেক উপরে তাতে, একটি জানালা,

আর অসীম সূর্য্যের আলো।

একটি শাদা বিছানা আর, সাদা চাদর,

আর তার বুকে, শায়িতা নারীর ধবল শবদেহ।

একটি স্বপ্ন, আর কিছু মুহুর্তের অক্লান্ত ঘাম,

শায়িত দেহের ভেতরেও জেগে উঠে কাম--

অনিশ্চয়, তাই, একাকিত্বের অশ্রু, ঘুমের বীর্য্য-ক্ষরণ।

সকালে, অবসাদ, মৃত্যু আজও আসেনিকো,

অপেক্ষা খবরের, কাগজের, চায়ের।

আসে, সব, একে একে, বয়ে চলা, দাঁড়ি কাটা,

ধোওয়া কাপড়, ধোওয়া শরীর, আর ঘোলাটে মন--

পিছুটান নেই, কর্মও নেই-- দায়িত্ব-কর্তব্যের কিছু ধোঁয়াটে আন্দোলন।

পথ টেনে এসে, ক্ষণে ক্ষণে এমনিই হেসে,

তেতো স্বাদ, না স্বাদের অভাব নিয়ে ফিরে আসা-

আবার নিজের সাথেই বসা-

আত্মরতি, অবসাদ শেষে, আবার--

সেই বদ্ধ মীনার,

জানালার বুকে, হলদে সূর্য্যের মুখ,

বিছানায়, নারীর চুপসে যাওয়া বুক।

একটি প্রেমের পর

2008-10-19T13:29:00.004+05:30

প্রতিটি মুহুর্তের স্বাদ,

ক্ষণিকের অবসাদ, দীর্ঘশ্বাস,

পুরোনো প্রেমের স্মৃতি, অচঞ্চল।

ছবি সব, রঙহীন, তিক্ত ধোঁয়া, কাম

হতে চায়, মধুর রোমন্থন,

প্রতিটি আবর্তন, বা প্রত্যাবর্তন

আমাতে, প্রেমেতে, অস্থিরতায়।

বিভ্রান্তি বিন্যাস-- জীবনের,

পেন্সিলের স্পষ্টাক্ষরে লিখা;

অবকাশ, প্রতিমা নিরঞ্জনের পর,

আবার সময়, নতুন প্রতিমা গড়ার

চরৈবেতি

2008-09-21T13:33:00.002+05:30

শুধু আরেকটু পথ, বা আরেকটু ক্ষণিকের অবস্থান,
নিত্য প্রগতির পর মুহুর্ত্তমাত্রের বিরাম।
পথ, শেষ হয়নিকো অজ্ঞানের, বা বিশ্রামের।

বিমুর্ত্ত কবিতা অনেক, জ্ঞানের, জীবনের, পরাজয়ের,
এঁকেছে মানুষ, বিস্ময়ে, বিদ্রোহে, গ্লানিতে,
ক্ষমতায়, অক্ষমতায়, মৃত্যুতে, অথবা জীবনে,
মানুষ চির-বিচরনশীল, নিজেরই পঙ্কিল পাকদণ্ডীতে।
সতত বিস্মিত, পরাজিত, পরাভূত।

আবেশ, শেষ ছোঁওয়ার, আশ্লেষ, চুম্বন,
মূহুর্ত্তমাত্রের বিস্মরণ, আর তার ভার,
বয়ে চলে, পৃথিবীর বোঝা,
অক্ষম, অনিচ্ছুক দৃঢ়তায়।

তারে ডেকে ডেকে, ভ্রান্ত অনেক পথচারি,
বিস্মিতা বিস্মৃত নারী, তবু যেন কোনো এক গোপন মায়াময়তায়,
তারে বারে বারে মনে পড়ে, যেনো মৃতা সঙ্গীনী, সংজ্ঞাবদ্ধ প্রায়,
তবু, বিস্মৃতপ্রায়,
তারে অসীম পুলকে ও স্বপ্নের সেবায়,
মানসপুরের ঘরে গোপনে সাজায়,
নিজেরই সেবায়।

আর হয়নাকো, আর কত সাজ, বিস্বাদ, বিস্বাদ সব,
যেনো রোমন্থক আত্মা তার,
আগের অসীমে ডুবে ডুবে,
মুক্তি আর স্মৃতি তুলে আনে,
পুরানো জীর্ণ ফুল-ঘ্রাণে,
বিস্মৃত পশ্চাত নিয়ে আসে,
আর নিজেরে দেখায়,
স্বপ্ন কমল কল্পনায়।

ভ্রান্তি যদি নয়, শান্তি দেখেনিকো কভু,
ভুল আর ভোলানো দুয়েরে পাশে রেখে হেঁটে চলে,
নিজেরে ভোলায় বা, নিজে ভুলে চলে,
কে সব মনে রাখে, স্মৃতি বা পুরোনো ঠোঁটের স্বাদ,
বা বুকের ঘ্রাণ, স্পর্শ ও আমেজ?

তবু ক্ষণিকের বিশ্রাম মাত্র, পথ,
অজ্ঞানের অথবা আঘ্রাণের

A KISS

2008-09-20T16:11:00.002+05:30

And then there was bliss--

Pleasure left by a slowly yielding kiss.

Ah! the lissome touch of it there and after,

Has been dealt over and over--

And I am nobody to differ

In a matter like this---

---"Describing a Kiss!"

To feel the touch of her, her heaving bosom,

The poignant tongue, and the ever-caressing lips---

Oh! To taste her with our heads tilted,

My fingers keep sinking in her hair (sweet smelling!)

The last look in her eyes (Oceans, they are!)

Before each pair close---

Sigh! Moments of ecstasy are those--

To feel her submit and melt in my arms,

To embrace and to get lost in her charms--

She reclines, arching her back

Her hair hangs---She rests a hand on the old book-stack;

And dust rises and envelopes the room

The kiss still lasts, in this mystified gloom.

Love perhaps, but last profound,

With which, two bodies are bound...

No shame--name--apprehension or hidden desire

Together, just to light life's fire

And then she would open her eyes and look in mine for a while,

Throwing the last punctuation, as always, a shy and tender smile.

নামহীন

2008-09-15T17:28:00.001+05:30

তোমার কবিতা কিম্বা লেখা প্রবন্ধ যত,
আমাকে ভাবিয়েছে বারে বারে--
দেখেছি প্রতিটি প্রবন্ধ ও কবিতার নীচে,
জমা কত পুষ্পার্ঘ, কত আলোচনা।
পৃথিবী তোমারি মতে মত মিলিয়েছে--
গেয়েছে বন্দনা গান, আর তুমি হেসে হেসে তাদেরে
দিয়েছো বারে বারে, তারা যা চায়,
বেঁধেছো কল্পনারে তোমার, তারি সীমায়
আমিও এসেছি, আমন্ত্রিত, কিম্বা, রবাহুত,
বার বার বিভেদের চোখে দেখেছি--
তোমার রেশমের ভিতর দুঃখ, যন্ত্রণা,
অনির্বাণ কামনা।
নিজেকে সবারে লুকায়ে নগ্ন করে দিতে,
প্রতিটি কল্পনায় যেন নীরবে চেয়েছো,
তারে ফুটায়ে তুলতে, শুধু কাঙ্খিতজনের সাথে, নিভৃতে।
কিন্তু, আর কল্পনা নয়, যেনো পরিকল্পনা তার স্থান লয়।

তোমাকে নগ্নিকা বেশে, দেখেছি আমি,
আবেশের মুগ্ধতায় নয়, চরম বিদ্বেষে--
পৃথিবীর যত লজ্জা, রাখ-ঢাক আর ধুষর মুল্যবোধ
নিজেরে বেঁধেছো, আর তারি বন্ধনে,
বার বার অভিমানে মুখ ফিরিয়েছো,
কখনো নিজের নির্জন অন্তরদেশে,
অথবা, পৃথিবীর ভাসমান জনসমুদ্রের বুকে।

স্বাধীনতা, পৃথিবী দিতে শিখেনিকো কোনোদিন,
বলে গেছে, "যতটুকু স্বাধীনতা পাওয়া যায়, তোমার আয়ত্তাধীন,
তত তো দিয়েইছি তোমায়, তবু কেন সীমা খুঁজে যাও?"
সীমা থাকে নিকি, স্বাধীনতার? যেমন প্রতিটি স্বাধীন দেশের মানুষ,
নিজের খণ্ডিত ভূমিখণ্ডে স্বাধীন, তেমনিকি মানুষও?
নিজের শষ্যখেতের অধিকার কোনোদিন পাবেনাকো?
যারা বার বার নগ্ন করে দিতে চায়, তারা কি কোনোদিন ফিরিয়ে দেবে
স্বেচ্ছায় নগ্ন হওয়ার অধিকার?
অভিমানে পথ নেই, নারী, যতই মুখ ঢেকে চলো,
তোমার লালিত্য, কিম্বা খর্ব স্বাধিনতা, থাকে ঠিক তত দিন,
যত দিন তোমার উদাসী মন তার গণ্ডি খুঁজে যায় নাকো--
ততদিন, যতদিন কোনোনা বাউণ্ডুলে মন, তোমার সোনার খাঁচা দেখেনাকো
আর, তারপর? এক বিস্বাদ দিবসের আত্ম-খোলোস মোচন।
বিশ্বাস ছিলোনিকি স্বপ্নে, তাই তুমি হিসেবে পা দিয়ে চলে গেছো,
আমার সীমিত সীমাহীনতা, তোমাকে কি কোনদিন একবারও,
বলে নি হারিয়ে যেতে, সেখানে, যেখানে নিজেরে খুঁজে পাওয়া যায়?
অথবা, স্বেচ্ছায় নগ্ন হওয়া যায়?

This post is published in bengali font, to read this, and to be able to write in bengali to friends and on your own pc, you can take the help of this link

Link to bengali writing and reading software

It is hundred percent safe for your PC. I have written this using the same software.

Cheers.

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী

2008-08-21T22:48:00.002+05:30

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী-- প্রিয়তমা,
এখনো অভ্যাসবসে ওরে ডেকে ফেলি,
অথবামনে মনে কখনো একটি চুম্বন
বা আত্মরতির অভ্যাসে ওরে আরোও একবার চাওয়া।

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী, নাগরিকা
তার চুল অথবা মুখের গড়ন ও হাসি.
সবই রমণীয়, জটিলতার আচ্ছাদনে মোড়া
তার চোখ, সে পাঠিয়েছিলো ছবি করে
একটি চিঠিতে, চশমাজোড়া ছাড়া,
ছোটো সে দুটি, অগভীর, কিন্তু সময়ের একটু কৌতূকছাপ তাতে
যেন বলে," আমি না আমার চোখ
কোথায় ডুব দেবে তুমি?"

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী, ভিখারীনি
জড়ায়ে, আঁকড়ে, চুম্বনে অ আশ্লেষে
আমাকে বিচ্ছিন্ন ক্লান্ত করে
আমার বুকের কাছে মুখ নিয়ে এসে
বার বার খুঁজে গেছে তার ভালোবাসার প্রত্যুত্তর
আমার মুখের লালা-ঘাম-কাম রসে
আমার প্রসারণশীল বুকে মাথা ঘষে ঘষে--

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী, স্বয়মাগতা
আমার কবিতার নারী হতে, একটি রাত্রি কিম্বা মুহুর্ত্তের তরে,
কোন এক কবির কবিতা হবে সে বলেছিলো,
আমারে দেখে, তার ভ্রূ-কুঞ্চনে, ঈষৎ কেশ-আন্দোলনে--
"সবাই সংসার করে যায় রোজ, অর্থ-সন্তান-বিলাস, বই-এর সম্ভোগ
আমি মেরুর পরিযায়ী পাখী, তোমাতে আমার শ্রেষ্ঠের সন্ধান
স্থিতি কিম্বা প্রশান্তি নয়, আন্দোলন, আর নীরবতা।"

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী, বাগ্মী-গার্গীসমা
তার বয়ান অধিক বিন্যাসে নয়, মৃদুভাষে--
অধরচালনে নয়, কটাক্ষে কিম্বা ভ্রূ-উত্তোলনে
তার প্রেম আলিঙ্গনের স্নিগ্ধতা নয়, নয় কবির চন্দ্রবন্দনা
তার প্রেম অগ্নিসম, জ্বালায়ে করেছে অস্তিত্বহীন, আত্মবিলীন।

আমার জীবনের শেষ নারী, স্বাভিমানিনী
আমারে রিক্ত কিম্বা গর্বিত করেনিকো---
না দিয়েছে দান, ক্ষমা কিম্বা সমালোচনা
দিয়েছে অশান্তি প্রাণে, সর্বক্ষণ বিস্তৃত আবেগ
আর শ্রেষ্ঠকে ভোগ পান শেষের এক অসীম অতৃপ্ত আমেজ
যারে বারে বারে বিভিন্ন রূপে, কাব্যে, ভাষায়, স্পর্শে আলিঙ্গনে
যতবার পেয়েছি, অতৃপ্তি বেড়ে গেছে আরো
ভেবেছি, নারী, তুমি এত কিছু হতে পারো?

Of Life and Living

2008-08-18T21:18:00.000+05:30

When I was young, I always dreamt,
Of a bride, and me on a stallion, riding high,
Of her cute face [for a child knows not beauty, what it is]
And her red cherry lips,
But, as a child I could never imagine a kiss.

I was growing up, and the lady was too,
She no more wore the Red Banarasi she did,
But styled herself in a white frock, and a school bag,
She had those light curly hair on her calves,
And when she smiled their were dimples on her cheek.
I could touch her now, and she would often plant a smooch on my cheek,
And blush and turn away, and I would see her ponytail swinging,
And give my ice-cream a final lick and throw away.

I grew more, and stood tall, with beard starting to decorate my face,
My love sported a jeans, and a pink top,
And we were not just kissing anymore.
But there were those glances that only woman can throw,
And the way I held her, that only a male can,
And when power and lust collided, we found love,
My single bed was not lonely any more.

Now, you call me a grown up with specs,
Dressed in those impeccable suits of employed,
I smoke my cigars, and form blue rings, But her hand never throws it away.
And look at her, she wears glasses too, the rimless, the fashioned skirts of her,
She looks serious, and she often is, so we don't go out chilling any more.
We are planning a kid somewhere in the next three to four years,
Or after that, I might just fly to England, and she to Hong Kong,
And return and have lunch here, a meeting there, and return and eat and go to bed.

My double bed is so lonely these days, I still dream of the red cherry lips,
Of me playing with hair of the calf, of furtive glances, and concealed smiles,
And I look towards her, she is fast sleeping, but I see that she is still everything and more.
Just that neither I can wake her now, or she can when she finds me like this,
We live in confusions galore

Porichoy

2008-08-18T21:14:00.000+05:30

Onek proshner poreo thake ek abyay,

Peyechi atmoglani ar atmoporichoy,

Ami kichui noy.

Sesh hote shuru, ba tar ultopothe,

Dekhechi onek hente,

Jar ache sukh,

Ar abantor udyome badha buk

taro jibon nashwar,

Ek adbhut kheyale toiree prithibi, o tar isshwar.

Manush cheyeche hariyeche,

Peyeche tar theke kom,

Doshi bhagawan,

athoba manusher ashim kam,

Tar dam dite dite,

Ami firi amari amite,

Kete jay sab moho bhay,

Ami kichui noy.

Amar chaturdik ar ami,

Amar astitwer swarup,

Tai prithibite joto mile jete chai,

Nijekei bare bare khuje pai,

Prithok, ar sob theke,

Tai nijerei jorayechi buke,

Peyechi abar atmo porichoy.

Ami Ami-moy

Eccentric

2008-05-05T09:38:00.000+05:30

Your mum mom sucking your dad's cock,
That's all part of the tragedy, the ol' rotten sock;
And it is all that you want to forget, now that you know,
For you see, some place else, they build a new world.

In the horoscopes of a day, which is gone,
The old dame said, In a few days, everything shall be calm,
And now, why then this empty canon blasts?
Why, ah, live this, till the moment lasts.

Again and again, in this forsaking pain,
That you last, surviving the outburst, that your work brings,
You are gloomy, yet dreamy, yet lost, yet hopeful
You take strides, remembering your own chides,
For you could not, ever surrender your pride.

Is it pride, that makes you burn, in this filth?
Or is it your words, which have been encrypted,
Obsolete histories, that no man shall ever write,
Like this old rotten poetry, of a vanquished gunner.

Yet, you see, everything, pray, forever be,
Ah, sweetness, of this world, pay for this,
With own blood sweat, semen and musk
Of the men, the women, the eggs, and the sperms,
All come, cum, die and annihilate,
All Consume, defecate, Rot, and shine.
It is yours too, this old rotten sock,
In your life, your woman shall suck your cock,
And that is pride, oh yes, to command such an act,
If you only could look in to her petty head,
Yes, it is divine, that thoughts can not be heard
Or the world would have sure broken apart.

Ah, bliss, you said, in that perpetual bay,
Where the paramount intention was to hold and sway,
The old rhyme, the rhythm of creation,
The old process, of heavenly secretion, The cause of us,
And the cause of us behind, the cause of us to come
We die to cum, we lust for flesh, it is all afresh.
Like the old read crime novels, once read and left,
The juice is swallowed, spitted, or gutted,
The sperms die in acid, or lie on sand,
Or die by pills or by an intervening hand
After the world cums to stop, and there is no more kicks
Bliss is marijuana on a lonely hill top.

Cliched

2008-05-01T07:41:00.000+05:30

In this jarred world of idiocy and nonchalance,
I find a sweet small place, where I can write and see beyond time,
Where I can feel, yet suffer not, the ambiguities of rhyme.
There are several meanings, for men to find, and christened truth,
For them to walk by it, win lose or crumble under its pressure,
Yet, there is none for whom who sees all.

If I could stop drawing breath, for a moment, and
Look in to sky, and feel blessed to be alive,
Or feel everything was as insignificant, as my little endeavour to make it big,
As fruitless, as me appearing in battles,
In colours of an unknown country.
But, no, even fruitless these desires seems to be,
When I look up on men to find a resonating voice,
Or an agreeing "Yes" somewhere, predestined, not pretended.

There surrounds melancholy and grief, with repetitions after repetitions
Of a question and sex, a question and sex, And thus,
Some wanted to balance the history.
Men do not think, but answer, not asking whether they can or can not,

Impunity from these struggling believers, of destroyers, creators doomed alike,
I seek revenge, for my life, not destroyed, but defined by a whimsical God,
The more I flee, the more bound I am, to my griefs, and powerless walks,
The sanctimonious walks up and whispers, and folks give hope and urge me to go,
To the neverland, I charge on knowing not why, what to gain and what to lose
And thus laments, every living soul in me, for the meaning continuously ceases to be.

P.S. This was intended to be a poetry :P

Freedom on pyre: Retaliation rhyme

2008-04-21T18:22:00.000+05:30

Susan lane her maiden name,
She covers it now, with a dubious shame,
For she bloody fought, all that is rot
And she lost the battle which was a trot

To insanity, she fought her way,
And she could not control, to her dismay
the occurrences of life, joy and strife,
And it all sunk with a blot.

Now, Hellene Kelly,her unhailed boss,
Covers the mistake with unholy moss,
Says, it's a mess, dying in distress
And her blood shall never clot.

Some men decide the life of others, what an irony,
And voices sink, vampires drink, in this cacophony,
Give it a shot, all you have got, to fight this tyranny
And if you lose, you are a goose, though it might be uncanny.

For you shall be shot, believe it or not, that's the rule of the world,
And you shall know, I don't know how, the life is unfurled,
And you shall cry, Why me O' God, but nobody shall hear
All are fucked, but they never show that, and that's the truth dear.

Give it another shot, that's all you got, you might lose or win,
Nobody lives, or nobody dies, it's the story of could have been
So say your prayer, and lie on pyre, wishing there's no match stick,
And perhaps then, you might know, who gave Susan the Kick

Reality

2008-04-07T08:42:00.000+05:30

That you see, forever sways, tantalizes, mesmerises,
That which you hear always changes, in the air always arches, paralyses.
That which is, seldom changes, stays serene unless change it chooses,
And if change it chooses, it changes, but that change, it never randomizes.
The one who knows, and the one who bothers, can see as it stays or changes
The one mystified, on a rush forgets, often in dichotomy, his judgment perishes.
Duality, phlegm is vision of his, he who is hung in mind's impotence
To judge to say, to know for sure, to be the cause of duality's riddance.
That he chooses, is what he gets, not by choice, but by reality's process,
In his efforts, he wins or loses, but the course of time, he never changes.
But he alters, the things that exist, and changes the list of that which might have,
Bringing new things, he creates and propels, the existence of his beyond mere chances.
He who nullifies, and commands by choice, truth for him is, non-existence of it,
And when he acts, or tries to create, chances always govern it.
The man to win is not the man of reason, nor the contrary is always true,
But the man of reason hails changes, creates and fight that which he faces.
The path that he chose, to act and know, or to know and act is governed by truth,
For he decided to see that which can be seen, forgetting what else it could have been.
The possibilities that are, all which can be, but bees not, and a form it takes,
And that form can be seen, in definite structures, and all that could have been, men can not see.
But do they know not what other things, might have existed and ruled this world?
That which is not, that which could be are all parts of reality unfurled
But that does not change what it is, for that what is, shall always be,
And all "could have been"s lie in darkness, unseen but known to all who can see
And thus, men walk, move forward, choosing chances for existence's campaign,
Never he says, why he lives, but he lives for his life's gain.
That it is is all that there is, to see, but to know many more exist,
And all of those, coming together, objective reality, for men they consist.

A sketch

2008-04-03T19:49:00.000+05:30

Lovers

2008-03-21T19:20:00.000+05:30

Lovers are fools, for they think their pain,
Is glorified by poets, and not in vain,
Lovers are fools, because from moon they borrow,
everlasting light, to be immersed in sorrow,
From poets, they steal words, and rhymes they recite,
And in liquefied laugh, lies their plight.
Why not they just love in peace,
And seal every moment, with a tremulous kiss?

If

2008-03-14T02:09:00.000+05:30

If my love, my love for you,
Is for the flesh that shapes you space,
Is for the blood, and the sweet scent of yours,
And that gate, that which gives you the grace.
Then you would for sure, let it rotten,
And all the pledges that were made, would lie forgotten,
But its only the mind which differentiates and breaks,
Your existence in two, and different names it takes,
The dichotomy of yours, the jealousy of your mind,
Who though being one differences can find,
Between the flesh, and the mind of thine,
Which decidedly ignores, the love of mine.

Onek Choto kobitar Khando chitro

2008-03-12T00:44:00.000+05:30

I
Kagoj kimba tuli kolomer choya,
Sristi to noy, nijekei boye chola.
Andhokare guitar bajiye gaoa,
Ek muhurto bastob bhule jaoa,
Hajar dater mukhos pora shapod,
Ajana tor hazar hazar bipod,
Likhbe kimba ankbe chutir dine,
Jibon tomare niyeche kobei kine.

II
Jara bhabe, ar jara kade,
Dui-i byartho daripalla ke edik sedik ektu nariye dite,
Jara jane, ar jara haante,
Safollo sudhu taderi muthote.

Jara cholte cholte hothat hariye jai?
Prithibi nityoi tader bhule jai.
Tai tumi bojha hoye boso, tomar babar kimba premer mathar upor,
Prithibi bhole nai Jishur kaantar topor.

III
Amar chaturdike ghure chole chaka,
Ektu ektu kore, amar gayer asoman chamra ghose ghose,
Amay sobbhyo kimba bastab-socheton kore tole,
Ar protyek muhurte mrityu hoi amar bikkhipto kalponar.

IV
Keu bolechilo, pothei haazar sukh,
Tai pothik hobar torei badhi buk,
antohin joto janjal rashi,
badhe ni amare proti muhurte asi
Gontobbyo hok na jotoi dur,
Amare dekeche ojana pother sur.

V
Ekti kobita tumi likho,
Ar ekti kobita ami pori,
Tatei bondhutter shuru o somaptir somapoton.

spittin shit :D

2008-03-11T13:26:00.000+05:30

I realized that nothing was in my hands, I could act, and only act. I had to face all the consequences.
Life is a loser's game. How much you try, you can never win. You can have battle victories, but never ever, you can win the war. Strangely, you were not the one who commenced it.
Have you ever had a situation in your life where a hugely built ruffian walks up to you and says, " Today is your day, mate, let us fight." And you have to fight till he eventually vanquishes you.
You are born in a religion, language, race, socio-economic status which were not built by you. You enter the drama when thousand acts have taken place and thousand more are to be taken. And the script does not allow you to save your ass from burning, that which is the prime fact of your life.
You see people around, some happy, some sad, some winners, some wretch. Well, its their choice entirely. I think, if you take enough risks to become happy, you become a wretch. Happy are those people, who knew the limits of their achievement, and never leaped for moon. And there are some stupid people, who feel that the existence of moon is for the sole cause of them jumping for it. So, they land in the vast empty sky, and the sky makes a wretch out of them.
There are few people who are measuring every step towards success, walking with the stealth of a thief. And, just once, they are lured. And they are fucked, for their lifetime.
I wonder, what is important, if you took an outsider view to the lives and happenings of the world. Surely, there is no victory, for once. For the victory is defined by every individual. So, it is entirely subjective. Why do we run? Why do we run fucking our own posteriors all the time? Just to keep busy?
I think, enjoyment is only attainable to those who are stupid enough not to understand the consequence of their actions, and who can pass it on to their near ones.
The man who walks with all his burdens borne by those who love him is the happiest man in this world. The moment he knows it, he is a wretch like all the rest.
I think, if we did not have nerve supplies in our ass which brings the pain, we would have been happy. ALAS.

fun

2008-03-05T10:43:00.000+05:30

this is a random recitation of a random poetry [never written by any random poet] by a random guitarist playing his random guitar.

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eSnips Social DNA

Duti kobita

2008-03-05T10:04:00.000+05:30

Mrityu, othoba jiboner kache,
Amar haazar proshner uttor ache.
Tai jibon ullasroto.
Tumi khuje dekhecho ki, amar chokher prante,
Ektu bhalobasar daag?
Kimba Jiboner?
Aro drirhotai, aro sampurnotay, Aro prottyoye,
Ami aguan hoi, mohian hoar pothe,
Kimba amar attombhori anter pothe.
Abar proshno ashe,
Tumi khuje dekhecho ki, amar chokher prante,
Ektu chahida ache, aro ektu kam,
Ar chokher koler kalo chap,
Amar porishromer abodan.
Jiber mrityute bidhata kondin bhabito hoy nai,
Ar asampurno bilap koreche tar songi, pita-mata,
Bhule jaoar ager muhurto porjonto,
Ar tarpore, abar ek-dui khela,
Je jiber mon mara geche, ajker sokal belay,
Tar tore ke anibe duiti tulsi pata,
Dheke dite tar jibito duti chokh,
Shayito tar chiro bangmoy mukh dheke debe ekti dhabal chador,
Ar keu kadibe na, tomar amar chara,
Chokher kone jara ronger akash rochechilo.

[II]
Je jon chobi hoye sokale peyeche ekti mala,
Ar je jon joyi hoye peyeche rajnondini bala,
Duere ghrinay abhisompati ami,
Somapto tai amar jibonkhani.
Prttoho tai sokal belay, phuler gondhe pakhir danay,
Swapne uri kabyo kori,
Ajotha korme bela boye jay.
Sundari ek ramaniratan, jahare korechi bhagyer dhon,
Ajotha chokre poribortito, ami tai tar aradhonaroto.
Kaler kalush chap chere jay,
Amar sotto sundara gay,
Sundar rupe mugdho manab,
Bare bare tai rasta haray.
Bokro amar moner prodesh,
Tahate anumotite probesh,
Koreche nitto hinsa o ghrina,
Manush moner bhasai bojhena.

Jahara jiteche jibon juddha,
tahara boroi durboddho,
Kiser juddho kiser bijoy,
Kaharo kichui jay ase na,
Ami tai roj sokal belay,
Phuler gondhe, pakhir danay,
Swapne uri ba kabyo kori,
Ajotha korme bela boye jay.

Life, value, Purpose

2008-02-26T23:07:00.000+05:30

This is a very innocuous looking statement which can simply be agreed or disagreed up on. I mean, if my life is meaningful, then I simply ignore and walk on, and if it is meaningless, then why the hell do I answer?
But I answer because I choose to.
Life begins without the consent of the living being. And to sustain it, the being must follow some set of rules that keeps the existence alive. Though there are numerous ways by which one may fulfil the rules, but no being, ever can live without fulfilling the laws. So it is a situation where one is playing a game without his consent.
This should have shocked the individual, that waking up one day, he suddenly realises that he is in a world where he can see, hear, smell, eat and have sex. Well, anyone would be shocked if he wakes up one day to find himself in a different world, where the perceptions are entirely different. But a new born is not shocked. A new born has no memory of any previous world, nor has any intelligence which can conceptualise his present state of being. When he is able to do so, he has identified with this world and has resigned to the laws governing and as such there is no more shock. Life is meaningful to him, because he has dreams which he is to achieve, he has jobs which he must do, he must fulfil the laws or otherwise, there will be no him anymore.
The dreams that make his life meaningful, are dreams which he could have done without, if he was given a choice, to be or not be. It is not fair to ask any body after letting him exist, whether he wants to exist or not. Because, then he wont know what it means not to exist. So, practically, never a man makes a choice on whether he wants to be or not. Rather, he always keeps making decisions about the mode of his existence.
So, life has no meaning. For if it had any meaning, one would have known from the outset what he is entering, and what he is supposed to do. A man knows all these, yes, but from his fellow men, or by a mind which is conditioned to keep him alive without ever asking why. Life is a gift that he must preserve, for it is the thing that give him a sense of identification.
If one ventures deeper in to the molecular aspect of life, then it is a set of molecules which are surviving, replicating and multiplying together, a concept that is vaguely understood. The entire process of replication is meaningless again which stems from a single desire of one type of molecule to arrange the whole world in to the shape of himself. And such replicating molecules assumes a proportion when it understands that "Unity is strength", it forms a body, and climbing the ladders of evolution, it reaches the human life. Human life, which can back-trace its origin.
The desire of human to have a pre-defined meaning to life is again a process that is directed towards self-defence/self-preservation for a being who is always doubting the purpose of his own existence would not be giving everything towards preserving it. As I said, mind can only direct you towards life, mind tends to blank out when such questions are asked.
If mind is always trying to preserve life, then it might be asked, why is it that some men commit suicide. The answer to that lies in a few complexities of mind where it tries to assert its existence over everything around it. When it fails to do it by being present, then it might try to do it by removing itself. And there are similar reasons which answer why/how a man might commit suicide.
At this point, one might feel that I have grossly deviated from the topic, but I have my own reasons for doing so.
All the meanings in life that a man finds are meanings that lead him to follow a particular way of sustaining his existence. A man can never find a meaning which gives him reasons to keep having this existence other than the bonds that he has formed during this very existence. So much for the Grand Purpose of life.
Now coming to the second part which is mentioned first in the sentence, that "life is empty". This would again have only to replies. It is or it is not. And this point can not be discussed without forming an absolute plane and as such I ignore it for the moment. If life is meaningless, then it does not matter whether it is full or empty unless you feel that having a meaningless life has some meaning, at least to you. So, I am not going to discuss this part.
As it is obvious from my posts, I agree that we are obsessed with our identities and not with our beings. But that does not mean anything because being obsessed with our identities is the only way that helps us sustain our beings, or as I understand the term "Being". I strongly disregard any concept that differentiates between identity and being as they are not two comparable forms but two expression of the same thing "life" in two different level of awareness.
The purpose of life can never be determined by any individual, he is not free enough to decide what he wants. Every living being, to have any wants, must want life. And to be alive is the purpose of life, and there are no other possibilities to choose from. A being can not be alive without choosing life as its purpose. Period.
Though it would be a repetition, yet I have to write this again that, a being can only choose the ways that keeps him alive. He can only choose to do the same things that every living thing does, in his own sort of way. Now, this choice is not free of consequences, and this choice, is the cause of variable concepts and experiences amongst human.
This choice that a man makes, to live in his life in a particular way leads him in to having some secondary values, which make him uphold his primary value, life. And everything follows a pattern from this way. I say again, a man never decides whether to live or not, he only decides how he lives. And by deciding this, he enters a pattern where there can be a contradiction or two which he must solve. And his only absolute truth all the time is that he has to live.
I personally think that every endeavour of man, whatever it brings, does not add anything to life, and hence life is always empty.
Why I do not add the joyful and blissful part to the core value of human existence is because, if I add these two words, then there is an intention of an intelligent behind the existence. And that, surely, relates to the existence of a creator. These two words and their meanings are discovered by human during his lifetime and as such, they can never be the core value of human existence.
About the identity part...
Human beings can only relate to their identity, and it is psychologically impossible to relate to the being part. When he talks, he talks about himself, and not about his existence. A man knows that he exists because he has an identity, and he can not think in the opposite way where he has identity by virtue of having an existence. The human perception is trapped in identification and all he can do is form names for everything that he percepts. His ability to identify the being comes from his ability to conceptualise and actualise, that is, he can find the attributes and characters that a name bears. The identification of being is only in the mind, and the mind is paralysed in such a way that it can only form notions about a name, and can never form a name for a notion.
The identity is not formulated by the mind, rather it is the being that is conceptualised. We only live having a notion of the beings that we want to become and the only way to achieve that is to add those attributes to our identities.
I do not think that a man ever feels alive. Because to feel alive, he must know the opposite feeling, which is only a notion to a living human. A man may feel any and every feeling that you may name, but a man never can feel alive, and can certainly bot feel awake. These are two names which are used to express the absence of two other feelings, that is feeling dead. Feeling dead is only a fancy word.
There is endless possibilities in this world yes, of course, but again, that does not mean anything for you are not free to choose everything.
A man when he chooses something, destroys all other possibilities of him becoming and experiencing other things, and as such, you find many a man who are disgusted with their lives. A man is not free in this beautiful world, not at all. He is bound, and he must face the consequences of his every deed. And this is unfair because, a man before acting never knows EXACTLY what the outcome shall be. But, he has to act and to keep his spirit from sinking these fancy theories are put forward.
Yes, man is free to one thing, to choose the values in his life. And it makes a huge difference to the way he feels about his life. This is an important point, because this choice does not affect life that much, because if life is in danger the man will abandon every previous thoughts and would act in such a manner so as to ensure his survival. But this is important because this controls the way one feels about his life, and as such is the governing point to the feelings happiness and bliss.
Now, I previously discussed happiness and bliss is the sole objective of life as you might remember, and I wanted to emphasise on this very point. Though I know that the function of the mind affects almost all the functions of the body, yet, every pathology of mind which is not organic in nature can be cured. Or, so I think
Just to add another point, with every choice, we add things to our identities, and rule out the possibilities for our beings.
The difference between identity and being is that, identity is what is being built every moment by everything that you do. And being, is losing continuously the possibilities of becoming different things, every moment with whatever you are doing.

P.S. This is written as an orkut post.

Kobita

2008-02-21T02:38:00.000+05:30

Nityo chitto haroshe motto,
Prakashi choliche Nijeri sotto,
Adbhut joto jibana-tatwa,
prakshi hoyeche Mado motto,
priyar sokashe, Nijere prokashe,
Chondo chayay, Stabdho belay,
Praner galpo, noyto alpo,
Nityo tai mosite Likhite,
Aponare chahe puno-prokashite,
Jantrona tar, abodh sobar,
Praner modhye, Murchona roto,
Shinjini Samo, Sada runjhun,
Harshe bishade, Nijere poroshe.
Priyar sokashe, Priyar Prokashe..

Jiban

2008-01-28T10:32:00.000+05:30

Amar jiboner shuru, Amar hazar bhai boner mrityur por,
Ar amar jonmer artho, tahader jibonhinota,
Amar dimnabu bhag, amar matar dehansha,
Amarei cheyeche prakashite,
Ar amar shukranu bhage diyeche ashroy,
Ar sei saathe, amar haazar bhai-boner mrityu hoy.

Mrityu tahader, amar jiboner dan,
Amar gurutwohin jibon,
Dayi aro lakhyo-koti mrityur,
Murgir, Chagoler, kimba bostite, chemical kheye boro hoya dhaner.
Ar haazar haazar macher.
Tahader me kadeniko,
Kimba amar,
Amar bhai-boner mrityute,
Tai utshobe uchhase gaurbanwito amar jibon.
Amar pashur jibon.

Ami, jibonke bhalobasi niko,
Ar taro age, ami jibonke kamonao korini kokhono,
Kono ek andhokar nisthobdho raate,
Duiti manusher kamonate,
Amar mukti ghote ek andho kupe,
Ar upore prashinte shayito duti hatobak agyan manush.
Sei shuru hote, ghotona ghote geche hazar,
Ar jibner shorte, ami lore gechi,
Kheye gechi dhan, mach ar murgir deho,
Ami, amar bhai-boner ghatok.

Amar pashobik jibon,
Tomader prati ghrinay jar sutropat,
Duti manusher chirayaman hobar asha,
Ar tatei amamr prokash.
Amar jonmer saathe,
Aro ek bibhajoner prokash,
Ami, ar tomra dui dal,
Ar amar jiboner bandhura mulyaban.
Ami debonako tomadere bhag amar swapner,
Ja amar baba amar hoye dekhe,
Lipsar sabuj athoba neel ronge,
Dekhe amar ma, parjayer majhe, ekti alokrekhar moto,
Ar dekhi ami,
Ami?
Amar bhai-boner hotyakari.

Ei jiban ek parajayotsob,
Ar parjitorai madyopan kore,
Parjoyer ucchase bilin.

Kabita-Sainik

2008-01-28T10:26:00.000+05:30

Parajito sainik ek, boye chole tar nijo shob,
Ar chaturdike, bedonar baibhab.
Nitya, Bimatto apratihoto sure,
Se lore geche, prithibir saathe,
Tari Kalponate,
Ar Klanto, hotodyom aj notun prabhate--
Prabhat, Jeno Jiboner Sukh
Alo, tar bhasa, Sanjeeweeto koreche Muhurto sobe.
Ar akash, Seemahin, Chaturdike,
Ghire dhore tar ashim shunyotake.
Dik-chakrobale, mukh ek bhase,
Jeno prashanti prolep tar kolpito khyato sobe,
Tahar priyar mukh,
Jeno samastiboddho prithibir sob sukh.
Ar muhurto-raji,
Kalpona bilase jibonere Prokashe Notun Bhasay,
Sainik Badhe buk, notun Ashay.
Parajito hoy nai Atma tar kobhu,
Tabu, seemahin dukhete,
Bara bar atmo-nimojjito se,
Jeno bedonar sager pare,
Priya tar roche ghor, nijo kalponare.
Ar bilombito rakto pate,
Khyomahin aghate,
Sainik roche chole juddher akash
Tar byartho kalpona bilash.
Sagar parer seshe,
tahar priyar sokashe,
Ghumay saddojato sishutir samo
Ar roche bhranto swapner bilash.

Kobita

2008-01-06T11:36:00.000+05:30

Tabu acho tumi, ar shunyo chaturdike
Stabdho akash, jeno ek andhokar, biras sandhya bela.
Tomar kheyali anchal ure, Nijer chonde,
Ar protibare, thot chuye jai, amar, choyachuyi khela.
Bose thaka, tomar aporjaptotar pashe,
Ami hashi, ar tumi dekho.
Chokher konay koutuke, tumi chuye jao,
Amar moner pashe tomar deher chobi anko.
Eito, protiti sokal, coffer chara chara gondho bhase,
Bichanay bose ami haat duto mele dei,
Ar duto haat ese jorie dhore,
Ar mon mor stobdho hoye jay,
Gaal neme ase, tomar haater kaache.
Anek dur hote, tomar chondo bhese ase,
Ar ami sei sure pouche jai, bar bar,
Amar deher somaptite.

Whose soul shall remain empty?

2007-12-28T00:51:00.000+05:30

And yet prospers those fastidious growths,
Rotten hearts, filled with mirth,
Their pleasures were mine, yet crude, it all was,
Incoherent thought sure takes its birth.

The solemn truth, that which heart binds,
That which is pure, the mind seldom finds,
The earnest cycle's forgotten ways,
In blissful tenderness, everything sways.

All was his, who chose to command,
And yet laws bound, and sanctimonious it becomes,
The kingdom restricts, the cage enslaving,
And all is lost, in its drudgerious churns.

Quivers he, whose hands were blessed,
And on his forehead, A kiss was marked.
And in that gaiety, he walked unheeded,
Was there a wish, unknowingly asked?

In the cycle of eternity, pledges are made,
And all is cursed, to perish in self-pity,
Some find right, and some get lost,
Yet, who shall die, with a soul dead empty?

I love myself

2007-12-26T08:57:00.000+05:30

I love myself, and while doing so, I love her. And that's all I do.

Loud enough?

Well, this is it, secret, yet, robust. As if the world holds no power to destroy it, and as if the ride is never against anyody. As if there is no "them" just "us" just me, just you. And I think, is it essential for human to find a battle, a war, a challenge to live? Is it not foolish? Who else is here? What else bothers? Is it not us who create? And is it not "Us" again, who destroy? The drudgery, the friction are all insignificant events in life. Do you feel gravity pulling you down? You only can feel it when you are climbing a rock, or trying to fly. There again, when you are half-way up in the rock, neither up. nor down, and you look below, to top seems to be too high for you to reach, and the bottom to inviting. But you remain there, not daring a movement. For you know, if you go up, you shall come back to this point again. Will you like it? And you forget the joy that reaching the top shall offer. And you decide to come down. But you can not.

All is useless. And everyone is fretting. What to do? Why to do? Why not to do? Is there an answer? Is there a book you can read without following it or dismissing it? What do you have other than opinions? What do you know?

I love myself.
Do you waste your time? Half of the time, my course does not interest me. And yet, I scamper through the exams. Never reaching the top most position, never waiting for another chance.
Why do we see life as a battle? Why I am "I" and you are "you"? Why we could not just be "Us"? What if this is what we are meant to do? What if we are meant to do nothing? What to value?
Ask a thousand questions, and the universe has space for answers. As if it says, "Go, find it." And I ask back, is it all that I can know? Is my knowledge the limit? Can anything else be known? And if yes, where from? If I know its presence, do I not know it then? Can I love her, and yet wait to find another better one? Will I love her then? If I this is not love, then whom can I love without waiting to see better? Do I acknowledge the existence of better ones? A better her after a few years?
I have done the best thing in my life, and yet, it seems that I can do even better. I have done the best, for the best is the reality. Then why does the mind say, there are better tasks, that await you. How do I know? Is my mind just pretentious? Is it just adriving force that drives me on.
I have answers, and yet, I have a question. Are my answers the best answers? What defines best answers?
I do not read any more. I read books as if to feed myself. I do not grow anymore. Human are human after all. They can not grow like a tree, life long. After sometime, everything becomes repeatitive, and only the girth increases. Still there is growth. There is richness, without the adventures.
The youth offered money, and spending aveneus. Now, the money still comes, but the roads are bolcked. Everything ferments, and secrets juices. Fragrance. I live on, loving myself.
A day comes, when I wake up, come to the virtual world, and see this empty screen. I want to write someting. I write I love myself. And the words flow out of no where. As if I initiated a chain reaction.
I would write on. Without planning. This is a for this moment post. I spent a fortune last night. A fortune that I do not have now. What if the world ends to day and I die without paying for last night's pleasure.
There is this "Iron Maiden" song, "Hallowed be thy name". And there is this Sonu Nigam song, "Tera Milna". I have strange thought. I think Punjabis like this name. Bengalis like "Vicky", "Suman", names which are girlish.
Anyways, Whatever. What the fuck Am I writing? Who cares? This is my free space. Well not free actually. SOmebody pays for this Space. I do not. I do not earn any money. I eat, drink, sleep, love at my father's expense. And I keep criticising him, labelling him. Again, I love being a hypocrite. Who cares as long as my food and my bed and my sex-sprees are paid for. My smokes, ah, I cant even buy the food for my mind. I tried to make myself believe this was value addition, I tried fooling myself, I tried justifying my parasitic existence.
No more. I love my life, and I deserve to live. I shall live. I was one of the ten million sperms that fought for me, the Ova. I was the sperm, I was the ova. I was two different things, present in two different people's body. And half of me could have been born. My sperm half could have lost the battle. My ova half could have not found any sperm. It could have been killed by contraceptives, abortion. Man..It is a fluke I am here. But, when I had a chance, I fought, and I fought like hell, depriving all my brother and sister sperms. I did not let them have a life. I wanted life. Well, even if they succeeded, I would have been here. And this is my ovum part writng.
It feels one thing was sure, its existence. It is male now, could have been female as well.
Holky shit. I swear I am not drunk.
How insignificant you are, how greedy you are, you are a parasite, you are a killer, you steal, you justify in vain. Fuck human race.
I love myself yet.
And I need no reason, no justification, nothing for that. This is unconditional, the best form of love, my self-love. Even if I steal, I would love myself. I have stolen things. Yes, I have. I know.
Great, yet I love myself. My love for myself never dies.

Hungry, thristy parasite will drink blood, again. I shall be the leech, and derive pleasure out of it. And it shall be pleasing to the other person as well. We want to be sucked.
We suck so much in life that when somebody touches you, your thing gets you know what, and the same happens to me. When somebody sucks me out, I feel like the king. Oh..Grat, I have loads to give. Suck me beautiful.
Insignificant we are, yet we keep looking forsomebody to say the contrary. SOmebody to say it is not so.
I love myself. Again.
I love her for I love myself. Again.
And I do not care for the others. I want money to come in, foods cooked, drinks served, I want a bed. As long as these are present with her to please my blood-thirsty mind and body, who cares about others, the same old dumb "piece-of-ass" kind of people who are suckers like us? Why would I walk out to see a man sucking the same way as I do every morning?

I love myself.

Dheera-Adheera

2007-12-24T15:06:00.000+05:30

Ami Nirbadh, Abodh, Satato-mukto, Abishram Anande,
Nitya atma-magna, Sabita sama Alokpurno, Bikashita chitta
Ek abirata Atma-magna Deba.
Amar mon ek Chiroswapno-rachayita, Abishranto Abyaye,
Asim Bismaye, Sada-Kalpana-rata, Apana-Mohita, Taba Tapa-samahita,
Kabita.
Tumi ek Naari, Sundari, Darpan-sama, Bismayabrita,
Tumi Kandari, Nitya-Nirasa-nirathak-Nimeshe PolokeSanjeebito,
Rasbrita, Artho-Samanwito, Taba Manas-Krita Range Paripurnakari.
Ami Premik Tomar, Rasakankhi, Bhaber atisojjye Chira-bilin,
Ardha-cheta, Aradhanarata, Birata sakal Parthiba Kame.
Ami Samrat, Birat, Chira-Kalpa-Sagar, Rasa-nagar, Ardha-Abaeshe Chira-Samahito,
Nimojjyito, Akantho-Ashiro, Tomari Preme.
Tumi Jagroto, Chiro Bichitro, Dheera, Salila-Sama, Taba Bhabarashi,
Aponari bege Tatinee-Sama, Chira Tunge, Aponari Chonde.
Mama Prem, Nirjharini, Adhira, Abega-purno, Bichitro Abyaer Saathe,
Tomare Prokashe, Kokhono Ucche Kokhono Shante,
Chiro Bigalita Tomari Anande.
Atha(H) Premakrita Shabdabesha(H) Prakasha(H)

Dwaito

2007-12-21T12:48:00.000+05:30

Ami adbhut rishi ek, chandoboddho prachin arbachinota,
Tomar prem amate, muhurter chirokankhito abinashwarota,
Ami adbhut rishi ek, khando khando muhurter dinota.

Amar hridayer pashe, moner uchhase, tomar hriday,
Ar chaturdike, akasher pashe, stutiroto, gaddyo mohomay,
Kabitay, chonde, anonde, sarobyapto, amar asthirota,
Ar tomar sthayitter pashe boddho, atmonogno amar kobita.

Ami bijito, prabal chitto mahiruha bot,
Amar prabolyer bhare anato, amari mostok,
Ar tomar khymahin prjjyolota, amar nirbapito deenota,
Sarbotro tomari tore, amar parajoyotsab.

Bijito, kritodar, chondoboddho muni, Ami,
Tomari tore rochiyachi, amar e monobhumi,
Ar tumi, tomar kalponar poroshe, Chitto horoshe,
Jelecho je alo, tate muhrmuhu andolito, Ami ar tumi.

Priya, prithibir pore, sotto mithya ache,
Ar ache prem, sthayitter shikhor pore chiro dyutiman
Pollobito brikhho mor, grohon koro se,
Amar premer chondo, tomari kirtiman.

Amader tore, natun prithibi ek ache,
Hridayer alo ache, bhalobasa, shukh,
Nam ache, Bhasa ache, bondhoner gane,
Sourabhito, udwelito, amader buk.

Amader biswa swargo, tomatei ami,
Chirodin khuje jai, chirayoto more,
Ar tomar buker pore, amar anoto shir.
Bhalobasa esechei, swargo rochibo ami prithibir pore.

P.S. Onekdin por ekta bangla kobita.

An Attempt to a Rhyming Poem

2007-12-20T16:23:00.000+05:30

They walk to a land unknown,
Where there are prayers, and God exists
They walk to a land where pleadings exist.

A man it took, to go to the hell,
Who sold his soul, and rang the bell,

A man it took, and nails pierced,
When he bleeds on the cross,
And the world watched.
A man it was, and a chariot's ride,
For losers to win, and the outrage of pride.

A man it took, who could not write,
To write a book, of humanity's rite
And men it takes, to follow them like sheep,
In the darkness of doom, where emptiness is deep.

Yet they walk, beheaded souls,
On mysteries path, with forgotten goals.
Truth's forsaken path, where flowers bloom,
In their eyes, is covered with gloom.

The man rode on, imaginations high,
The spires were built, and it obstructed the sky.
Drove on men, carrying their Book,
Sword they showed, and weak hearts shook.

And here we are, on a liberated earth,
Vanquished rule you, and losers enjoy mirth.
Your hands are free, yet create you not,
Your wishes perish, and your desires rot.

The canines of gatherings, the power of a bundle,
And when it comes, your heart does rumble,
And you wish you were them, the suckers of life
And your mind some times, makes a bitter strife.

The power is hailed, and the weak surrender
And creations empower the meek, and the creators prosper
When the world watches along, and it can only drool,
Why survive, when you can live and rule?

A walk

2007-12-16T23:19:00.000+05:30

A man and his bride were on a path,
Trading values, and whispering they walked.
A man held his bride’s hand and watched,
And in sunlight, their thoughts were washed.
The man, the miner, the conjurer of life,
The bride, the joy, the abundance of rife,
Together they walked and mysteries got going,
And the happiness is in them, it was all overflowing.
With her hands in his, the dreamy eyed lady,
In her melancholic voice, asked her man,
If love is what I get, and you don’t walk,
Why don’t you love other ladies then?
The man, solemn, and his somber voice,
That was just about a whispering noise,
Told her lady, it is all about a choice,
To love you or walk otherwise barren.
For they land beyond, however different it is
Carries the same knowledge unless it is pondered and imbibed,
And to go and to stop there, my present deprived
The thoughts, that I may repent, come then.
It is worth not the risk, nor the endeavor,
The serendipity of it, or creator's pleasure.
We can be here and eternally talk
For it makes more sense to kiss you then walk.

P.S. This poetry is one of my conjugate works. The thoughts are Her, the last line is Her, and it is she who is the man here, and I am the woman. To bring this poetry in to existence, I changed the occurrences a bit. This disclaimer was present when I initially posted it, but when I added a few lines, I ignorantly deleted it.
This post/poem is a philosophical reflection, I would like to have inputs from the readers

P.P.S. Viv, do you still differ?

Life, Time, Woman and Choice

2007-12-08T19:17:00.001+05:30

All he wanted was a heaven full of her, and all he got was a name, and a woman. Dwindling lights told him that this is about the place where you would like to be. And shaking his head, he said, there is no place that shall have me forever. And he was asked what forever meant, and he answered straight, from beginning to the end of time. And he was asked is not time relative? He said, no, it is unidirectional in flow. He was asked whether the time had constant perceptible velocity. To this he could not reply confidently. For he knew hours which were a minute long, and he also knew minutes that lasted hours. So, he said, the velocity of time is constant, and that is reality. But he was asked, does time actually flow above perception level? Does the physical co-ordinate moves when motion of the body is felt? Was reality beyond perception? And if it was, then how can he refer to it confidently? Is he transcendentally illuminated?
Now, it was his time to think. And he thought, I am coming to an understanding now, that which I did not know of before. And to come to this point, in mental plain, I must make a motion. And motion means change in time. That means time is flowing. I can not go back to the point now, where I was asked the first question. Time flows, he again said. And it flows both in perception, and in reality.
Now, he thought he had solved the query, but the question again came back to him. He was asked now, if he moved from one place to another, then what changed and what remained constant. He said, everything changes and nothing remains constant and that proves that time is flowing. He was asked if he could go to a place, the co-ordinates of which was never defined. Could he simultaneously create a place to be in, when he was actually traversing the path. And he thought, the place must be there, and it must be me who is changing co-ordinates. And why, for he decided so. Now, again, he had his answer. I was going that way, my observation was moving. The world is pre-conceived, and it is I who is moving in space. Now, he thought, can I move in time too? As I am moving in space, my choices determine where I want to be. But, the place is always pre-conceived in reality, and I can never go back to where I was, for time has changed if not anything. And he again thought, can time change, or is it me that is moving? For if time was moving, and this was no assumption, then there must be a power that keeps it constant in my lifetime. And it is my birth, my existence all terms like now, here, there. If the time is moving, then it must be free to behave in whichever manner it wants, then we may land in past walking to our home.
But, no, it was always flowing, and he was moving along in it, going to places that he never intends to. Perplexed he was now, for he knew that assuming the motion of time to be constant, he found out that there were endless opportunities in life that can never be utilised, for the time is always flowing. But, he remembered science, and science told him that Time was just another co-ordinate like the spatial ones, and he found this idea a bit confusing to him. To say it is true, he must acknowledge that the observer is moving without any control over the speed, across time and space in a reality that is preconceived.
Preconceived? Yes, preconceived for as the time was not flowing, nothing was being created or destroyed. In fact, they were all present in Now, and Now was everything that was there to be had.
Then, he thought, if reality is prefixed, if occurrences are preconceived, then why do I act to change it? If everything is preconceived, then I shall have what is there to be had.
But, this was not right. For he could shape his future, the name he used for the next destination to be had. And what changed it? He kept thinking. And he realized, that choices were supreme in this world. It is when he decides to turn left rather than right, he closes the door that he leads to that life, and forces himself in a drift that leads left. These are the points where life can be changed.
He realized two things now.
That he was the creator of his reality.
And that reality did justice to those who tried to take both the left and the right way.

P.S. This idea is not original. Interested people can read, Richard Bach's "ONE". And further reference can be found in "Hinduism" where reality is said to be prefixed at birth. The sole important word here is Choice, and the importance of it. It appears that we only have the power to choose where we want to be. And that is a tremendous power to have.

P.P.S. though the statement contains the word woman, and she has been mentioned only once in this post, intelligent readers will find why she is here in this post.

The Sankhya Yoga

2007-12-06T10:26:00.000+05:30

This write up is aimed to understand and comprehend the Gita in modern light. It is not in line with any school of thought that is related or unrelated with the Gita. Rather, it arises from desire to know, and to comprehend one great book of human history. Here we shall discuss different comprehensions of Gita by different schools, and we will try to put in our view. It is not written to search for God or Godlessness; rather it is written to enlighten the philosophical aspects of the great book.
This is the first discussion of a series that is planned to understand the mystique philosophy of the Gita, and as is evident from the name, it will be dealing with the second chapter. Here, I plan to divide the book in chapters and conduct separate discussions on them, and then unify all the chapters to arrive at the total philosophy.
As many of us is unfamiliar with the language Sanskrit, I will be giving word be word translation. And I will be dissociating the Sandhis present in the verses for an easier comprehension of the Sanskrit part.
Again, I repeat, it for sake of knowledge.
To start, it must be stated that all schools have rejected the very idea of our endeavor, i.e. to dissect and understand. But, as we are seekers of knowledge we can ignore them and concentrate on our interpretation with our limited mind. We, as seekers of knowledge, believe in only one tool, i.e. the mind. And whatever inabilities it has, we will try to rise above them. If we fail, we will fail trying to understand the great mystery and that is worth a try.
Sankhya Yoga, the second chapter.
The word “Sankhya” arises from “Sankhya” which means number which is again in turn description of a given object. “Sankhya” is that philosophy, which describes soul as the source of life and as described in Gita, it talks about the relation of soul to the Parameshwar. Yoga means the power to control the senses.
It can be clearly inferred that the existence of soul does not take in to account the existence of the creator. The existence of soul can be dealt with or without keeping a view of creator in mind. But, the “Sankhya Yoga” of the Gita takes the existence of creator as certain and talks from then and there.
The Sankhya Yoga of the Gita relates the existence, explains the existence. The meaning that the existence must find is described here, though not in detail. The importance of earthly work has been dealt with in the “Karma Yoga” which we will come to in due time.
Let us first discuss the circumstances of this discussion between Bhagwan Shree Krishna and Arjuna that lead to this revelation. As we know, Arjuna was too much perplexed by the earthly relation and duties and as such Shree Krishna decided to give him a bit of the real knowledge. So, we will be able to see here the relation of the earthly life and life beyond as promised by the Gita in this part.
The Sankhya Yoga has 72 shlokas and it will not be possible for us to go through every one. I will cite those one which appear relevant to me. The knowledgeable reader can always point out if he feels that an important one has been missed.
The extract of all queries by Arjuna
Na hi prapashyami Mama apanudyat
Yat shokam utsoshanam indriyanam
Abapya bhumou asapatnam hriddhim
Rajyam suranam api cha adhipatyam..
||8||2||
I do not see anything, which can get rid of this sorrow, which is drying my senses.
Even if I get this whole world to me, undisputed, with the power of the Gods.

Now, to answer this question and a few more like this one, the Gita is brought into existence. Let us see how it answers:
Here this shloka from Karma Yoga requires a mention
“Loke asmin dwibidha nistha pura prokta may anagha
Gyana-yogena sankyanam karmayogena yoginam.”
||3||3||
In this world, there exist two types of exploration, as explained by me earlier,
By knowledge the seekers know, by work the others know.”
Hence we can say that Sankhya Yoga is for those who are venturing beyond daily life, i.e. who want to know by experimenting and trying.
Here shri Krishna said, “You are lamenting for living and dead and also, you are speaking like a pundit. A true knowledgeable man never laments for either”||11||2||
Why?
Shree Krishna says, “There was no time when either you, or me or all these kings in front of you did not exist, and there will be no time as such in future too”||12||2||
Here, he says, the existence is eternal, i.e. death does not kill the existence, and rather it changes the manifestation, as we shall see from the later shlokas.
The critiques of this shloka have criticized it of relative existence, i.e. the existences exist relative to each other.
The eternal existence as preached here comes from human insecurity of life and death. This relates to the existence of the absurd that I described in the human history post.
This has been made to utter by God, for if it were uttered by human, we would have debated his transcendental illumination, but god by definition is transcendentally illuminated. And all the justifications that have been put forward by believers w.r.t. this shloka have rallied on this point.
Though here, we can find a hint to timelessness, a concept of eternal now and here. We shall look forward in order to find whether this is actually professed.
Shree Krishna says, “as the body changes from young age to old age, the soul leaves the body at death to take another body and as such, true knowledgeable man never laments death.”||13||2||
Again we see, the eternity of life as soul is presented as a reason not to lament. We can debate it with inferior logic such as why does the soul not keep a memory of every birth, but as this is answered later, we will not resort to it right now.
[ A deviation from timelessness, for it is showing passage of soul, and passage signifies time.]
Now, what does a true knowledgeable man gain by knowing this?
Shree Krishna says,” the man who is not perplexed by such happenings such as life, death, heat or cold, is eligible for eternal existence.”||15||2||
The important point to note here is that till now life on earth has not been claimed futile for once. Rather, it has been said that searching for more meaning makes one eligible for eternity.
Now, Shree Krishna says
“the illuminated have augmented that the ever-changing substance is not eternal, for the substance which is eternal never changes.”||16||2||
It is the first bit of philosophical input that is directly mentioned here. If you read the proper Sanskrit shloka, then you will notice one term, Darshivi. It means observer. And Gita has drawn its inference from this observer or philosopher. Now, this argument was put in ancient Greece too. If you refer to Greek philosophy, you will see two early schools- one of eternal change, and one of eternal existence.
Now, this argument is not valid, as it defies simple logic and requires transcendental illumination, again!! But, as this statement is that of an observer, we can surely debate it.
Now, through the several shlokas that come after this one, the soul has been described in details. We will just look at the characters rather than referring to each individual shloka.
“Our body is sure to die, and it will decay, but there exists the eternal soul, which does not change, which can never be killed nor can kill, which is not created, neither dies. This does not die with the death of the body. It is shaswata, I.e. everlasting. The soul does not give rise to other souls.”
Here, it is said that the soul is the existence and body is its only manifestation. Soul changes its manifestation whenever the body becomes too old. As the body is bound by the rules of the world, where decaying is the rule where as the soul is above all such bindings and is eternal. Here again comes the promise of eternal existence, which has moved human mind for centuries.
Now, Gita also tells about the soul that lasts a life time, though while mentioning that it also says it is not the real truth. The truth begins with if you believe. Now, the argument given is that as decaying is the rule of the world that we live in, we must not repent the death as it is THE CERTAINTY of this world.
The argument that is put forward here is specifically mentioned in shloka 26-28 in the second chapter. The views closely resemble that of Buddhism and we can conclude here that this view has been put as an argument to them who believe that life is till death. The point to be noted here is that the Gita does not support this theory; but says that, even if it is believed, the ultimate result is not to moan over life and death as they are eternal reality. Krishna arguments that, as you know from the beginning that life and death is the Reality, then you must not let them rule over your process of work, i.e. you should work on becoming indifferent to the process that surrounds you.
In many verses of the Gita, this quality has been linked with the character of a true knowledgeable person. The Gita says that the person who is unaffected by the process/emotions of the earth is the true saint, STHITADHIMUNIRUCHYATE.
Shree Krishna says, some see this soul as something which is a miracle, some describe it in wonder, and some hear about it in awe, and even after that, many fail to know it.||29||2||
Now, in the next few verses, Shree Krishna tells Arjuna about the earthly and after death consequence that he is going to face is he does not take part in it. Now, here Shree Krishna appears just like another friend who knows a bit about the cause and effect. But, these statements do not even follow logical conclusions. So, we will not be concentrating on these statements.
Now, here Shree Krishna concludes Sankhya Yoga and within this chapter begins explaining Bhakti Yoga.
So, we will take a break here to review what has been said.
We can conclude from above discussion that, life is the manifestation of soul, which Shree Krishna holds to be eternal. Soul is one reality. It is touched by nothing and it is the main force behind every work. No one should repent life and death as it is only a changing manifestation.
Till now, we have only come across the root of life, but we have not yet found an explanation to this question, “Why Life?” And as we will go through we will find these answers.
Now, we shall progress to the Bhakti Yoga part of the second chapter.
According to Shree Krishna, Bhakti Yoga relieves man from the bindings of the Karma.

P.S. The discussion on Bhakti yoga is still awaiting to be put in to words. And I do not know whether readers would want lengthy discussions. So, discussion shall follow after dissection of this post.

Way to success

2007-12-03T16:39:00.000+05:30

There is thirty nine ways to success, I was told. And a man could take only one. A life that is given to him, over the existence of which he has no control till he is out of the womb and learnt to think. And he is expected to be successful.
A man must discover what success means, and that is one of the first tasks that he is to do in this world. But, the preparations to do so starts even before he can decide on what he perceives to be success. Some dreams are impregnated in him, and when he can define success for him, he has either walked too far, or he was travelling in a different way altogether.
He always thought that there were other meanings of life than he can hear and perceive of, he thought there must be a meaning to it. And he decided to discover the meaning of success for him. And he started reading everything he could find. So many different ways he did find, so many definitions of success. The he thought, if all can define success then why not me? So, he started defining the meaning of life. And he attributed this meaning to so many tings that he created a tangled existence which could not breathe without hurting one of his meanings. Then he decided enough, there is only one meaning, it requires me to be happy. But, when he traded that path, he found that the ways were more often than the destinations most of the time. He said, ends do not signify means. It is rather means that signify ends. So, he then decided to have means rather than dreaming about ends. And to his surprise, he found out that it was impossible to have a mean without perceiving an end to be at the end of his roads. So he was back to square one again, and this was more frustrating and demanding than the first time. He thought, perhaps ignorance is bliss, but again, he knew this and that did not ruin him of his bliss. The questions kept coming and he was confused, but all the while he felt that he was on the right path.
Now he could clearly see that his life's mean were depended on the ends he chose, and the gifts of end were always dependent on the means he used. In a circularity of reason he lived, and he tried with all his might to look beyond this circularity but he could not. Then he thought, what if there is no meaning at all? What if all meanings are brought in to existence by my desires to have them, what if all were my constructs, and me caught in them? What if I can decide to be happy. But still he found that he was more prone to choose some ends out of all the possibilities, and he thought yes, I am conditioned to choose them. Then he thought, who conditioned me? It is my mind that acts on me. So my decisions must be interlinked, that there must be an existing relation between all the decisions that are taken. There must be interlinked paths that are there, which mind can not see and find, unless it understands the weakness of reason and power of choice, and the power of reason hence beyond. The reality he thought is not my construct, yet the reality is affected in a great way by me. There is a constant option for me, to live in the construct, or to match the construct with the existing. I have power to challenge my interpretations, and that is about all the power I have. I can never see the existence as it is, for I always see images. But I can always match my findings, for nothing except the mind can escape the laws of nature, and even the mind is bound sometimes.
Now, he had an answer or lack of it to proceed.
And I met this man and asked him, How many ways are there to success? And he told me, None but the one I have taken. And I asked him what is the way? And he told me it depends on every individual. How? I asked, and he told me" Find it" . And that was the last I have heard of him, for he was never there to be seen any more.

The necessity to think objectively

2007-12-02T18:33:00.000+05:30

Whom do I name with my name and where do I go when the world is shattering down to shambles? And all men whine and cry, and create disillusions that are going to serve them through this earthquake which is rattling the fixed laws of mind. Men cling on, and their beliefs take them through to a world which there is not, yet a world which all of them would like to live a life in.
Whom do I name with my name?
Walking I noticed, the next step was always difficult, as it took me to a new land altogether, and planting the foot was the toughest, for I never knew what the land was all about. And still I walked beyond, and my walks were results of my minds desire not to be stagnant.
The objective reality, did I ever know? For what I did, was always associated with belief, and belief could never bring reality in existence, rather it created another fictionalized universe. Still, some men whine, and some move on, some create an idealistic dream, and some subjective illusions, yet, all there is to be found, is nothing but reflections of able/less able mind.
If you have to move on beyond this point, then your feet must be confident that the ground is farm below, and whether your knowledge is subjective or objective, you objectively believe the 'whatever' your mind creates. And you know that you are fooling yourself too, because suppositions were never your idea of a road, and yet you can not move without supposing this and that, such a irony called life you have.
And yet, in your breaths, you want to change this world, where you can not make yourself live. Which is always tormenting to you, and secluding yourself in your idealistic dream, you cry "I have found bliss at last". And it is bliss that your paranoid mind found, but you could not have it here where you were born, and you curse and kick all who are associated with your birth, for turbulence they all did bring. There are others who get bored by life, and seeing no escape, cry all is relative, and their limitless idiocy can never enlighten them, that they are even not qualified to speak.
My dream, it was to have a world for myself, where I could churn bliss and write fables, and does not reality hit you hard when you discover you are an escapist by nature? The mother that feeds you is all that you could see, and if your feeble hands can not create, you whine and escape, blaming all but yourself, worshiping Roark at heart, you cry this is not what there must be.
There is nothing called must and should, "Suit yourself" is the word defining world, and here you must build and gather, for here you are born, and now is the reality. Future is nowhere that you can find, and great minds never burn their presents to have breads, and when you feel time running past you, you ask yourself" Am I not a hero?"
Hero you could have been, if you acknowledged what is there to be had, and instead you kept running all the while, running to imagine bliss and happiness. And thus it is your necessity that makes you conceive a objective reality that justifies all the running that you have made.
And hoping that the world shall change, and you shall find a place in that world is escapism at its highest. No body changes the world, they just bring new things in it. Your neighbor shall remain the same and same will remain the everyday challenge. Yet, if you wish, you can find bliss here, for whatever chance that you have, is here.

P.S. This is a very light reflection of what I was thinking, the main idea is hidden somewhere, which is not coming in straight words now.

A few lines for myself

2007-12-02T02:57:00.000+05:30

Love not by brain. Love not by qualities. Love not for appreciations.
For all the above are present in a thousand, then how can a woman command your love unless it is looking for a mere gateway?
Love the woman for her name, though perfect yet she may not be, and seeker of truth is in her trait, then love her mate, without awaiting perfection.
Love the woman for what she brings to you, and not what she creates for herself. Acknowledge her light, but you are not a light-hungry parasite, and unless you don't have light in yourself then she is not so desirable.
Love the woman for the values that she brings, and not end there but go on creating values. And idiots were those who threw away their present, believing their future was something separate.
Hold your woman close when she is weak and fragile, and in her eyes you shall see yourself. And the might that you feel is nothing you command, it is what her ever playful minds give you as a bait.
Hold your woman close when she says the sea is distant and she will like a walk. For her mind is adrift now, and did you not wish to charm her a lifetime.
Leave her not, ever, till she is what you thought she was when you came in. For if you knew what you want and what you could create, then the chance to do so never eludes you.
Love her never wishing her to be something, for she may decide to be just the opposite. And you mean nothing to her unless your roads her shared by her mind.
Hope not to see a better face or traits elsewhere, for if you do, love is parasitism for you. And the flow shall leave you even more thirsty, and a thousand plunges shall not wet your skin.
If you happen to be in love, ask yourself, if you seek bliss or pleasure. The second love may or may not offer, but without the first, you can never feel love.
So, till you feel turbulence in your mind, and you are not sure where you are going, stop and check what is happening, for the answer lies just left to the right hand.
And you may ask me where from I write all this, and I shall say, this is what love brought me. And love for you may be an entirely different thing, but then, I do not define your definitions.

The way is uncertain

2007-11-30T20:04:00.000+05:30

The silence is slowly sinking in. And all the while I cried,"Hush...Hush.." And doing so, I destroyed every chance of me having a silent life. And now, when it catches me by surprise, I know the path that I followed never leads to silence. And hence words were numerous, and life was on a surf-board. There is a man named self-exile whom I know very dearly. And his name was the way, to everything. The pathway to light is there for everybody to discover and for nobody to share. He, whoever finds the secret of knowledge must keep its path secret, for a known path shall mislead all who wishes to follow that path, and there are many motels around the path, and any of them could be taken for a destination. The man says, "Drive on" in his solitude, and drove on, he did. And hence he could have a name like self exile.
What is objective in this world? Nothing. For everyone of us has a point of view. And we are eternally caught in this device of ours. Objectivity requires a man to rise above the planes of vision, hearing, taste and smell. Why? For senses lie, and however our cognitive mind may try to form a objective reflection, it is eternally trapped in relying on the perception that our senses bring. Reality is objective, but whenever we are speaking about it, we are speaking about our perception.
Can that objective reality be grasped by senses which can not discriminate between fact and fiction? And I might ask what is the use? Which is knowledge..Knowing your perceptions hundred percent, or disbelieving it to seek what your senses can not bring you?
Our mind is the best tool to answer every question. But, it must have a base level knowledge to stand upon so that it can see beyond now. A mind can not imagine cars if it knows no wheels. And the level of knowledge that human have now, they can form an empirical Objective theory, but that would never be an objective theory, for there are many more steps to be taken between here and then when a man knows his existence objectively.
Forming a theory is simple, every man can form a theory or two. Believing one is easier, a man can believe fifteen theories when his situation varies. What is difficult is to ask a question that shakes the root of your knowledge. The pathway to knowledge is imbibation, doubting and proving. And prove to yourself you have to, and that proof must not come to you by default.
An objective world shall give you an objective theory, but is this world objective? I may say so now, but how do I know? That which I know is so little compared to that which I do not know. The best word is, I have a gut-feeling that this world is objective. But do I trust my gut?
The failure of objectivism to be self-evident lies in this point. We all have different gut-feelings. Objectivists have a gut-feeling that this world is objective hence their theory is objectivism, and Mayabadi's have this gut-feeling that everything is Maya, and hence their theory is subjectivity. And yet, none can prove the first axiom of their theory.
Wait on Sannasin...Rather than having a belief, have questions, rather than practicing a religion, practice every religion, and then you shall know the practice of not practicing a belief is the way to light. You shall not know the truth, in this life, but do you care? Step ahead, walk proudly. The journey is worthwhile, the destination is far far beyond...............................