Sunday Posts

A November day, U sual , it seems, Cl ouded sky and invisible Sun, Empty trees and their fallen leaves Sadness heaped, lying indifferently . But, is there a difference of order - Whether we pressed a button, Or they pulled a trigger, Whether they fired into a crowd, Or we bombed from the air, To look into the eyes of the dead, This morning-after, And to feel this stillness of bodies,  meaningless ends, Of the slain and the slayer.  There would be memories to deal with, And fears to overcome, Is this war inside us Making us less human. The battles that would follow, The promised heaven in return All be stained with indifference, And sadness overhung. So, this day, freeze, Remain with us as we live, The November day of indifferent death, And waste of all that could have been.

A tune melancholy The foreglow of the Sun, A morning quiet Without the city-burn. A few minutes perhaps Of watching nature's glory, Triumph over the skyline And start the daily story. What is past was once the future And so would this moment be Before the noise steals it, however, Consign it to memory.

Time, for me, is a house to live in Built in air perhaps, A bit crowded too, with all people of the past But one I can't get out of. Time is also my dear old friend, Like a suitcase that travels along, With all photos and moments, and a familiar smell, One I can't ever get rid of. Time feels like a running train I was let in without a pass, I have to get off when it stops But there may still be a long way to go. Then, time is the place I go to, To become a bunch of moments perhaps, And to end up in someone else's suitcase, May be her, who loved me.

I remember that afternoon. The rain seemed to be tiring off intermittently; the wild wind was waking it up yet again. It was all darkness: I did not want to work. I took the instrument, And the tune of the rains flew out of it. She came to the door, and went again. Then, came out to the balcony. Then, slowly, came to the room and sat down in silence. Kept knitting. Then, stopped knitting and looked out of the window to the faded trees. The rain stopped, my music stopped. She went to do her hair. Nothing else: An afternoon of rains, music, darkness and silence. History is full of stories of kings and wars, dime a dozen. But, this afternoon, this frozen moment, would remain hidden in Time's chest like a rare treasure; Just two people will ever know of it. (Translated from Bengali, a poem by Rabindranath Tagore)

Wherever I go However far, There travels with me Weaved in waves The name of our river. However far away I go. Embedded in my eyelids There remains The neat courtyard Painted with Lakshmi's footsteps However far away I go. (Translated from Bengali, A poem by Subash Mukhopadhyay)

Don't blink, or you go under. The policeman sleeps, The eve teasers hang about - The eve is trying apple juice in the corner shop. Buses everywhere. A queue forms in front of the ATM. Another, in the panipuri shop nearby. This is Ekdalia. The corner of joy. An eternal Calcutta moment frozen in a frame.

There are moments when you think, Life's not worth living. Either boring or compulsive, All is tedious, and repulsive. These are moments when you see What we live for, is the key. Money matters, but we know, There are limits it can go. So is love, or sex if you please, Happiness appears more of a tease. Friendships matter, but waver too, No one lives just as you. These are moments when you choose, To keep going or cut loose. All of us have habits to keep, Even on board of a sinking ship. So, keep going, keep going till you die, Because you can't change, nor can I. Head down, and throw up hands, Or say, let us dig in sands.

There was a trial in Baghdad, And a President was on the dock, He shouted, we are for humanity, While body counts sored, and vultures flocked! But he must shout, for the TV, Though he knew his time is past, He fought an unjust war, and must get punished, While newsreaders chattered, the dice was cast. We knew the outcome, still we waited, For justice to take its course, as they say, Our senses held in balance, and our values, at ransom, Till the president’s judgement day.

If it's your blessing glowing bright Amid my grief’s darkest night – Let it be; If only death brings me near Your death-less sphere – Let it be; If it’s for my pain to burn To light up my prayers’ urn, Let it be; If it’s only my tearful eye Can see how loved am I, Let it be. - A translation from a popular Bengalee song

As I stand with Prometheus, My hero, Who stole God's fire and gave it to men- I am forced to ponder Why was God so angry, Is he not as merciful as newspapers claim? Was fire like WMD And the power to unleash harm God hated to let go? Or was it an IPR That he transgressed And let the secrets men know? Yet one knows, He did not profit And gave it away to us! Yet, he was chained and pained, Without access to justice, Probably in Cuba, alas! And, then, God sent us gifts - Illness, Greed and Lust, To keep us forever poor and lost! Oh! We still have our Pandoras, Fair-minded but naïve, Who keep unlocking His box. And, yes, there was Hope in this package too, Called The Market, Or did Adam invent the term? We earnestly believed There will be deliverance And did ourselves harm. So, as I stand, Oh Prometheus! Be unbound and let us free! God is angry, But watching us keen, He is frightened, as you see!