| Distances |

Distances
--
I don’t understand distances
but i feel them, much like
i feel pain and sorrow
congestion or loneliness.

Pain is excruciating,
sorrow catches your eye,
congestion debilitates
loneliness much like distances
but perhaps not so alike -- are inexplicable

You look at the clock and think
what would she be doing now,
in some other part of the globe
You are awake in the middle of a day
She in her sleep , resting from a world of constant running

Let her sleep, you tell yourself,
and then you turn, to find ‘distances’ waving behind you
You realise how the biological clocks have inverted,
why the routines are now walking the opposite paths
And how much like when pain, sorrow and congestion waves,
you resign, you give up here too,
having failed to understand distances.
--

When will the time come?

Not now, not yet..
the time hasn't yet come
the writer tells him in solemnity;
didn't you once read somewhere
that you should 'let the world
change yourself, and you will
change the world'..

And only then,
you can pick the pen up,
be done with the room's lights,
light up the candle,
peer out the window,
and in the dead darkness of night,
start with what you want to
share with me..

Not now, not yet..
The time hasn't yet come
for you to board my ship;
but i know you are keen
and a student of my trade
so i will keep you in mind
and if there is a calling one day,
i will send you a red herring..

Tend to it,
nurture it carefully,
and then sit beside it
as it playfully jousts around
in the aquarium, to
jot down your misery
and stories of life..

And things you want to share
and those you don't,
even those, lace it around the
herring's heart,

I will be waiting,
for it to come back to me..
with the words of yours
and if i like them,
i will take them along with
me and my herring..

On the journey of a lifetime..

Till then,
not now, not yet, my friend..
the time hasn't yet come..
try one more time to be embraced
not with my life, but theirs
and i will wait to hear
more good or bad news from you..

Whichever way,
it doesn't matter,
it never mattered,
the sailing is always a emotionless
journey, and you will know by then
so too is writing..

Till then..
not now, not yet my friend..
the time hasn't yet come..

to the poet and his poetry

"He repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager more lucid or dangerous, than a poet."

--Garcia Marquez in 'Love in the time of Cholera'..

Door er jahajider kobita

Kemon kore jeno
dur er beugol
aar chole jaoa shomoy er
hathchaani dekhte pai..

Kore bhoy, lage oshohaay.
kintu bhetor theke jeno
ke bole othe..norbor e hole
cholbe ki kore..

Nouko r haal dhora r shomoy
tor to chole elo..
chokh er jol rakh
lomba ekta shaash ne..
aar neme por ei jibon
er jowar bhata r taan e..

Koto din aar er bimukh
hoe thakbi, domka haoaa r
moto er maadol daak
er theke dur e beshi din thaka je
boro mushkil..

Jedin tor daak ashbe,
dur er jahaji der beugol e
kinba chole jaoa r
hathchaani dekhte pabi dheu er shuduuur kon e

Ekta proshonno hashi dish..
ekta lomba kore nisshash nie chaarish..

tor chokh buje jaoa r pore..
Baki ta amra dekhe nebo..
---

An ode to a nameless bird

On these occasions
in loneliness and sadness
when i am all by myself
having traveled from god alone knows
where, and going to now, i don't know
where, i am left hurt, bruised and broken.

I know, the events
have not been all about me,
i have been blessed,
in many ways than i would have
not imagined and yet
somewhere within me
the fact that i deserved
better, if not as a matter of my skills
but just as a matter of a person

makes me wonder
if there is at all
on this earth,
be it snow or rain,
day or darkness,
any more value of being
good, being true, being honest
and caring for others..

values, maa and pa
taught me while growing up
but now it seems they have
all been reconciled into the
unknown dust, in that archive
of a lofty library..

Here's to life, love, and longing then..
and also to that unknown speckle of dust
take care, my good friend
i will see you again
in some other world,
in some other life,
as some other living being perhaps..

A bird maybe?
Nonchalant about boundaries
Ignorant about politics
Reverent only to innocence
Faithful only to your wings..

Under which i will hide
that dust, which in this life
maa and pa, old souls,
passed on to me..

now am old too..
And time has passed by in a mellow whisker.

from Ithaca, to Ithaca

--
I know,
as the clock ticks away
and the seconds pass on
out there in the dark gorges of Cayuga
Nothing will happen.

And even it will,
how might it really change
the lives of many displaced
centuries back by men of spears
with no concern for tears

And yet, i yearn,
crossing through those hills
into an old tower, sitting atop
passionately hoping,
that perhaps..

Cayuga is listening
and the gorges will open up
and take me on
as i continue my journey
from Ithaca to Ithaca..
beyond your silent tears.
--

to cornell, ithaca on a sunny wintry morning...

aaj jemon kore
emni kore chao go

aaj haoa jemon patay patay
mormoriya, bon ke kandaay

temni amaar, buk er, majhe
kandiya..kaandaao go...

-kobiguru robindronath thakur.

here and there...

"When a person meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, he is lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy. The two don't want to spend any time apart from each other. These are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. No one can think it is only sexual intercourse that they want, that this is the reason why they find such joy in each other's company. It appears to be something else which the soul evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which it has only a dark and doubtful presentiment." - A quotation apparently from Plato, in the book 'Solo' by Rana Dasgupta..

Of a Child and a old Man

In the depths of my heart

a child wells up in deep sorrow

It knows not where to rest its head

Worn down by years of walking and pricking

by this world..

And as the drops labor down the corner of

his eyes, he pauses,

takes a distant look,

and wonders, at the journey

taken thus far..

Was it worth it? - is not a question

he asks, he is sure, it was..

rather, he scrambles to pause

and pet the child with a lullaby..

True journeys are taken

without knowing where they will end

who we will morph into

how the hearts will contend with the pricks and battles

Instead in the joy, that tomorrow..

Looking back,

Into the mirror of life,

One can still see the child crying..

In slow, protected, isolated tears..

Down the depths of an old man's heart.

Moving Upstairs

-- Moving upstairs.. 

little by little 

this much by that much 

he gestured to me with his hand..  

And i smiled..  

Six years into a phd program is no small a time, 

perhaps after school, 

rarely there has been such a long chime..  

now is when they moved me upstairs.. 

i have been at the basement and first too, 

at the second floor,

so now upstairs is not at all a chore..  

For him though, 

my professor, 

a philosophical sore.. 

little by little.. 

this much by that much.. 

gesturing me with his hand..   

now, with many more grey hair 

than i even can dare 

that we all the academic bunch, 

faculty, staff and students.. 

Are moving upstairs..  

And i smiled.. 

Nodded.. 

hardly any words to give back in return 

but he said it all, though taciturn 

we are all moving upstairs.. 

-----

On how i love killing love..

She calls me,

the night is dark and deadly,

i come and lie with the smell of tobacco

on my mouth and body..

Closer she comes,

eyes half dead

half open for an embrace..

I spread my fingers on her forehead..

and then she smells the soot..

admonishes, and turns around..

That is how

i killed my love..

unbloodied..

stealthily..

dark and buried ..

on a black night..

writing useless poetry about it..

next morning..

" hows your poetry coming along..somebody asked ... "

so i replied:

poetry is a nice fancy

once upon a time by chancy

she gave way to nancy

to make poetry necromancy...

- amen..

Of mp3s, emails and old friends

Of Mp3, emails and old friends

---

I was in some confusion

whether to write about this

in bangla, my mother tongue,

or to stick to the language of business

english..let it be..

I let it be..

business ruled..and

so did history as on that fine evening..

i dug up my emails from yore..

And suddenly remembered

all of your faces..

old friends

to whom i had sent all

my choicest songs

perhaps irking you with my

own choices,

irreverent to whether you

liked them or not.

Today on a fine evening

after a sunny day

that decided to end without a whimper

or a roar

those mails, mp3s and all of you

touch me painfully

somewhere in my soul

tears roll down my eyes

for all the days gone by

and some of those mp3s

keep playing in the background

a harmless poem

sums it all

an obituary for that decade,

filled with you all my friends, emails and the mp3s..

I am still alive..

only just..

still tinkering with the words..

remembering not only you

but even myself which once comprised

of emails, mp3s and you all, all my friends..

Of my problem and a few lines..

My problem

--

My problem is

that this time around

when i was back home

i saw an ugly me,

having grown up

and with lost faith

drifting and trying

desperately to regain one's senses..

The smells,

the taste,

the sweat,

the sounds

and the sights..

not to forget the tears..

But the more i tried,

the more they seemed to elude me..

worryingly, i was unperturbed

as if each hour,

each day spent,

was just a budgeted one to go by,

and i knew i would be back

to my own unreal mess soon..

On other times

x or y or z happens on the way back

or on the way to home..

invigorating me

about home, my country, and old close faces..

this time though,

nothing substantial happened,

except meeting an old man

with grim stories of living a life

and fulfilling one's duties..

or maybe i have lost my senses to feel..

Why was the story like that?

I wonder, i scrounge for solutions..

i fail ..and despite the sleep..

i try these lines..

No longer worried,

if i have changed,

or others have,

or if i have grown old,

or others have,

just plain simple asking

whats going on,

Do you know?

---

Love you..from a laptop...

I have been horrible to you..

i know..

but your morning eyes..

make me write this apology..

Maybe one day you will read it..

by volition, perhaps like old days..

without me telling you..

and i am hoping..

that you will again fall in love with me..

Forgetting the scars and bites in between..

that we shared..to just pick a pen..

and on a paper..to write a piece of poetry..

the poetry of love, togetherness, and tears..

Alas, its the blog stupid, no pens..

no papers, a laptop..a digital poem..

saying this 'love you'..from a laptop..

--

No wonder life has changed..

have we both too?

A Conversation between the 'Bottom and the Top'...

Or maybe between the top and the bottom

Bottom: Hey you..

what are you doing here?

Across the North American border..

in Motown Michigan,

enjoying the pleasures of a business school

and jargons about the bottom of the pyramid..

Top: Nope not me..

Somebody else,

traveling, and reveling,

kind of like a child,

still to get one's bearings..

knowing not where i am going

but feeling all right that i am here

not forlorn or lost, as if this is my place..

Bottom: What happened to me then?

If its not you..remember just a decade back..

Ok i admit, more than a decade, 15 years now..

you and me were the same being..

and now you say, you are not me, or i am not you..

whats going on mate..

Top: You won't get it bottom..

the road was long..

i have lost my way..

i just drift along, like lake michigan into the bay..

Across the window..into the sky...

we always will be the same..saying each other a forlorn hi..

Into the water we will drop the cent

the price we paid why now repent?

Akashe Chorano Megh er kacha kachi...dekha jaay tomader baari...

http://www.esnips.com/doc/7e682559-f6f9-4ed3-9d22-23e76cd53054/Akashe-chorano

Amita r chokhe Amartya

Amita r chokhe Amartya

--

Prio Amortyo..

Aaj onek jug pore..

hotat kore shujog ta eshe gelo.

Tui bodhoy chilish naa..

aar ami o sherom bhabe..

janano r proyojon bodh kori ni..

Nijer moton kore..

eka eka gie..

tor aapis tuku dekte cheyechilum..

Dekhe elum!

Shedin December er shokaal..

toder subway theke berie i

dekhte pelum, toder aapis..

Amaader shantiniketon er moton..

naa khete paoa, rong uthe jaoa building to noy..

jhaa chokchok e, orthoniti r apis bote toder!

Harvard bisshwobidyaloy...

ore baba, naam ta shune o jeno..

Haar ta bhaare jaay..

Jaai hok, moja korchi naa re..

dekhlum, onek din er mon er shaadh o metalum..

Tobu keno jeno kichu i chue jete parlo naa..

Ei aapish er jonno tui aaj eto door e..

jaani tor onek aapis..shudhu ki ekta..

baki gulo o hoyto..onnanyo desh e ..

erom i hobe..

Amaar khub ekta tate kichu ashe jaay naa..

pajor e aagle toke jokhon manush korechilum..

bhebechilum tui ektu onnyo bhabe bhabbi..

Bhebe o chish..

durbikkhe r chokh gulo ke nie gobeshona korechish..

boro boro prize o peyechish..

Tobu hotaash i holum re..

janina, aar o bodhoy kichu cheyechilum tor kache..

hoyto ba, panjor er je sneho tui peyechili..

shei gulo r ferot paoa r oppekhay chilum..

Manush to..

Sharthopor to..

Boyosh onek holo to..

Tai shesh porjonto likhe o fellum..

Bhalo thakish re..

Ihojonme na hole o..

Tui to Amartya...

Hoyto ba poro jonme!

--

On seeing the Economics Department at Harvard, Boston - Dec'09.

Pagol Bondhu r Prithibi

Pagla Bondhu

--

Bondhu ke, ba keno keu bondhu

eta ekhono thik bujhe uthte parini

shudhu bujhi, pagla ta bondhu..

Hotat kore phone kore, kinba mail

abaar thik hotat i kore,

puro chup kore jaay..

Din jaay, maash jaay,

pagla bondhu amaar udhao,

nije r paglami shamlate besto thake bodhoy..

Thik jokhon pare na shamlate

abar thok thok kore,

dorjaay kora naare..

Ore, kichu kor,

poth dekha, hante jaabi chol,

lekh, dheu ke nie jolokeli kor,

koto shob abdaar taar..

Bondhu bole i to abdaar..

Jodi o por hoto,

jodi o amar eka raat er,

chaand er dike takie chokh er jol er shathi na hoto,

tobe ki kokhono korto oi abdaar...

Oke shamlate gie nije o pagol hoar jogar,

Keno thok thok korish,

Keno bolish dheu ante, ba dheu er opor die jete,

besh to achi, nirbaak, nirlipto, nisthobdo, niruddesh o bodhoy..

Amaar aar kichu chai naa,

shudhu tor paglami,

aar tor bondhutto,

ei tukui jotheshto..

Aay, prithibi ta r ekta round mere ashi, cho....

--

Karur kono shara shobdo nei...

Karu r kono shara shobdo nei..

--

Karur kono shara shobdo nei..

Othocho kichu bochor agei

Amra na choto chilaam..

Aar shei choto thakar shomoy..

Pujo r chuti bolo, baa vindeshe,

Onno kono chuti bolo..amra shobai..

Naatni ra, naati ra, chute jetam..

tantipara lane er oi barita te..

Dadubhai thakto amader jonno mukhie..

Didubhai roj nanaan dhoron er maach..

Kinba shondhe holei, roll, chop-cutlet anaato..

Aaj..Karur kono shara shobdo nei..

Buro manush gulo ekhon

chaai hoe ube geche..

amra choto ra ekhon boro hoechi..

nanaan mohadeshe..naanaan kaaj e nijeder moton kore

obosthaan korechi..amaader shobaai i ekhon aar keu,

choto o noy, ekaa o noy, shonge jibon shathi ra esheche..

Ma-baba ra, maane oi amader mashi-mesho-mama ra, shobai boyesh hoe..

notun projonme r alo amaader haate tule dieche..

Ei ashay..

je notun projonmo abaar alo aanbe..

aanbe onek kolahol..shokale fute thaka chotto kuri r moton..

notun jibon..

Ashchorjo -- tobu charidike karur kono shara shobdo nei..

Keno jaano ?

Ei juge,

keu shara shobdo kore naa..

Keu kolahol kore naa..

keu chop-cutlet khaay naa..

Jug ta amar moton 'karu' der noy,

tomader moton 'Goru' der..

---