What goes around comes around

Having walked together

to get lost,

and then to get found.

Having split our own

selfish paths,

only to turn around.

Having heard

so many melodies,

but your laugh

is the sweetest sound.

So twice ten miles

still a long way off

to get to that blissful ground.

Did someone say,

what goes around

always comes back around?

Did you see

those mountains glowing?

And that fresh stream

spilling over?

Did you see

those clouds hanging?

And the crisp waters

cascading lower?

Does that misty land beckon?

Does that feeling of love abound?

So twice ten miles

still a long way off

to get to that blissful ground.

Did someone say,

what goes around

always comes back around?

Is the dying day

coloured violet?

Is the melting moon

made of chalk?

Do the flowers really breathe,

the stars twinkle?

Or is it the vibe

of our walk?

I could trust you'll always love me.

That magic will always surround.

So twice ten miles

Still a long way off

to get to the blissful ground.

Did someone say,

what goes around

always comes back around?

What if you had to

tread the path alone?

What if one day,

I went up in smoke?

Would life still

always be this beautiful?

And our being

suddenly become a joke?

Why do I feel I'll always stay?

In some bunker deep deep down.

So twice ten miles

still a long off

to get to that blissful ground.

It's this crazy li'l thing

called 'love', my friend.

And that's what makes

the world go round.

Piece of the past

A drifter decides to possess the most beautiful thing in the world.

Love.

And then, he decides to lose it.

Reject it, not because it wasn't beautiful enough.

Or not because it wasn't what his heart had always searched for.

It is, sadly and paradoxically, all he ever wanted.

It is so beautiful that he cannot accommodate it.

It chokes him.

He is so sinfully alive to the pangs of his lost past,

that he's brutally dead to sense the life running through his veins today.

Why does he not try and repair his rift with his past?

Why can't he let go?

Why can't he move on?

Try and give himself a fair trial, an honest chance?

Why does he treat any beauty in his life as a curse?

Why does he push it away?

Why can't he embrace love with all his heart?

Why does he surge away from his honest sentiments?

Why does 'life' happen to him like a Sunday?

Almost like an apology.

A ridicule reminding him,

that THAT painful Monday will come back again.

He is stock-still to the world outside.

Living in a mystical bubble.

Living a self-deluded existence.

Seemingly unable to snap out of illusion.

Water-tight fossilized compartments.

So action goes on.

But the actor is motionless.

Frozen.

In love.

In time.

Consuming Me

Because friendship sometimes, wears a crisp white shirt.

And then, wears a crazy smile.

Because friendship is a lover of writing with his voice.

And then, once in a silver moon with his heart.

Because friendship is always steadfast in his affection.

And then, even more steadfast in his snubs.

Because friendship says he loves you yapping nineteen to a dozen.

And then, shits you for playing the part.

Because friendship loves eating vegetarian pizzas.

And then, for the most part, your head.

Because friendship digs taking you for a ride.

And then, despises anyone else who dares.

Because friendship sounds deep when he says, 'I'm right here okay.'

And then, his deepest when he lets his eyes talk.

Because friendship always makes you lose an evening too soon.

And then, finds it back from that memory-lane walk.

Because friendship sometimes, rests in the bunker between your neck and shoulder.

And then, gently makes his way for your heart.

Because friendship sometimes, calls you when you least expect him to.

A thing unpredictable, from the start.

Because friendship sometimes, demolishes your bar of chocolates, in a matter of a few half seconds.

And then, carefully holds your hand to teach you, how to stitch up your heart.

Please, God, please.

As little pain as possible.

Let him break one piece at a time.

Someone tell him, your heart is not a bar of chocolates.

Broken. Sweet. Broken.

But never bitter.

But then again.

When you stop and think.

You know, somewhere,

it's always consumed with love.

Or even if it's not.

You say.

Hey no, that's okay.

If anything, one day,

he may have a thought.

This pen I love

There is this pen I love.

Like a moody girl, it changes colours.

Splashes hues.

Castes off jewels.

Words.

Now lush.

Now stark.

Making the verve of life ebb and flow. 

There is this pen I love.

Like a fire-cracker, it lights up my eyes.

Sparks off dreams.

Glows of life.

Words.

Now bright.

Now dark.

Bursting like a spider in the sky. 

There is this pen I love.

Like a rambling samba, it has a poet’s walk.

Knocking off worries.

A rhythm in his stride.

Words.

Now long.

Now short.

Like steps while riding a mountain. 

There is this pen I love.

Like a coolie, with an armload of feelings.

Lugging failure.

But carrying faith.

Words.

Now heavy.

Now easy.

Trying to reach an eternal destination. 

You and I

Have you ever wondered why – you and I

could never walk bare-feet on that beach?

Or ever hold hands in that green park bench

or just hug round the bend of that street?

Have you ever wondered why – you and I

could never make our lives sail together on that raft?

Your thoughts, my words, our rain,

and that tired seventeenth draft.

Have you ever wondered why – you and I

could never make that lingering dream come true?

Your smell, my skin, our moment once,

I haven't danced since – have you?

Have you ever wondered why – you and I

when together, never quite managed to sleep?

Your hands, my cup, our tea,

and watching that blue tent above, seep.

Have you ever wondered why – you and I

could never become what we always should've been?

I'd be left wondering till an eternity after

And then one day, you'll dream me a new dream.

Nostalgia has no other name

That quaint, old social village.

Remember it?

I pray you do.

That small, simple place where we all dreamed our first dreams. That place where we learnt how to write our names. In which we kissed our first inexpert kiss. In which we got our first salaries.

Peter Cat, Park Street, Coffee House, College Street, trams, rickshaws, bandhs, book stalls, dosh takar roll, ek takar phuchka, maidan, adda, para cricket, bharer cha, debates, academics, protests, politics, Hoogly bridge, Victoria. Ah.

That bastion of culture, that mediocre life, the quicksand of politics, the indolence, the price; those purposeless conversations with indiscriminate passersby; and that pace which made us feel so hamstrung, that we knew we had to move out one way or another.

Leaving Calcutta, the mother that grew us up. And without a whisper of protest, made us her own. Always had our backs no matter how we were made. Refusing to ever, ever make us feel alone.

Calcutta. The only place, which in my heart, I know I will call 'home' no matter where I end up in life. The home I heartlessly left behind. As many / most of the people belonging to my time, did. Hoping for greener pastures. Heavier wallets. Fuller lives. And a dream to belong where all the hummers of the world do.

And then, return only and only when we need to, knowing fully well that she'll always be there for us, even if we are not.

Speaking for myself, perhaps it took me a little long [5 years] to realise what that feeling truly is. Of understanding that you've left something very, very important behind. Of bleached memories and family and friends and things. Of skittering and scattering and scrambling to find it back here, hidden somewhere, in this cold, hard city.

Learning to understand what missing home really means. Cherishing the place which made you who you are, to begin with. Of realising that your bond with your mother, at its core is like a banyan tree. You may branch out. Grow your own fresh roots. But that closeness to the trunk will never be lost.

Of silently realising that you won’t quite find her, in any other city, any other life. You won’t. And of coming to terms (perhaps, for the first time) with the fact that you haven’t exactly managed to break that proverbial umbilical cord. Just yet.

So since I realised it late as hell, I'd just request you to do something today.

By all means live away and run through each day on the fly.

And ride through the skies with clouds between your knees.

Living in some athletic, insomniac city, where you make money by the hour, and find talent by the road.

But tonight when you crash on that cushy bed; and the sky slowly plums the earth with dimness – cobalt, royal and navy; before shutting those eyes softly make a promise to yourself that,

"I will remember my mother,

every now and then.

And one day,

I'll go back home." 

Just

I am in no hurry

I have no place to reach

But every time I see a road

Rolling out like a grey carpet before me

It makes me want to run

Just run

I have no designation

I have no deadlines to meet

But every time I see a blank white

Lying bare like a dry, thirsty leaf before me

It makes me want to write

Just write

I have no lovers, no letters to weave

No heart to touch, no promise to keep

But every time I see a wounded pup

Whaling like a forsaken child before me

It makes me want to love

Just love

I belong to no dream sequence

I've never had luck with wings

But every time I see the brink of a mountain

Waiting like a dizzy diving board to throw me

Into the arms of the sky

It makes me want to jump

Just jump

Let there not be light

Please God please. Let there not be light. Even if just for another day. Keep it away. Because today, this large red balloon on the map has seen something it never has before. Silence. Calm. People dreaming in slow motion (for a change).

And most importantly, stopping to look. At the nature outside, that yearned. Yearned, but never quite succeeded to be heard like that shouting baby, for attention.

People even stopped to admire that white gas balloon that floated like a stunner in the sky.

Nature. A thing of beauty. Who always affectionately enveloped us. Like the mother's hug. The softest in the world. Like that heavenly quilt stuffed with cotton.

She gave us our dreams. Our poems, our songs. And maybe, even life in parts. In that beautiful slant of sunshine. That unexpected burst of rain.

But strangely, even tragically, always went unsung. Most insultingly disregarded.  

The city today is black, yes. But there is light all around in the eyes of the people, milling around on the road. Purposelessly, untainted by agenda (for a change). Not sprinting vapidly, but wandering. Relishing the melting moon. The only noise around is that of the winds speaking to each other, the freshly-bathed leaves singing a song. The streetlights are off, as are the screaming TV sets. The AC exhausts aren't yelling.

And the glimmering silver clouds are floating about, like sweet scented smoke.

In this grand scheme of things, Delhi cries hoarse. But somewhere deep down, it sleeps easy. Darkness, literally or metaphorically, is a way of life here. Often unaccepted, but never rejected. Tonight in Delhi, in this insomniac, athletic city, I strangely like the grid failure. Somewhere deep down, it completes a vicious circle. 

If anything, it's worth a think. Even if a little gingerly. 

My Mother

And it's that part of the year again. 

When Pujo's exactly 30 days away.

And as Bengalis, no matter where we are, we almost magically breathe a different scent in the air from this day on, every year.

[Something my grandmum always used to say, is called 'Pujo'r aamej' in Bangla.]

Last year, this time, I had the fortune of being home. 

Watching my city dress itself up, for maa to come visit again. 

Tall chopsticks of bamboo filing every street and lane.

And elaborate light decorations encasing them like spiral garlands.

Watching pandals being raised from mark one in every nook. 

Bamboos standing like naked skeletons on the roads.

To being festooned with fancy fabric and figures of foam.

Draped with art and heart and sweat and things.

I close my eyes and remember.

I see the idols are all ready.

And the city is decked to kill. 

And then I remember the ashtami'r anjali, shada shari laal paar. 

Maa'er bhog, khichuri, dhaaker awaj, dhunuchi naach. 

And I realise how miraculous each of these is.

To be continuing to make our blood rush in full tide, year after blinking year.

Make our hearts pound to the euphoric beat of the drums.

Make us dance like all the worries of the world have gone on a timely sabbatical.

Make us wolf down platefuls of delicious food like it'll all evaporate tomorrow.

The makeshift installation art.

The quirky fashion riot.

The sea of people, pandals.

The intricate decorations. 

Splashing all the colours of the rainbow.

Of life and prayers and dreams and more.

The mother.

She comes and she goes.

Plunging us back to the ugly, the routine.

Dull tedium of life.

And you find yourself wishing every year (without fail), that she stayed a tad bit longer. 

Just a few days more.

And when you finally make peace with the fact that she can't.

And when the celebrations fold up.

And when you go to see her off.

You find your heart sinking along with that idol.

Into the crying river. 

Again. 

It's sad, I know.

It's sad.

But then again, it's as magic as ever.

Every. Single. Year.

My mother.

A Hand - Full Of Words

Words.

They say words, sometimes, are hopelessly inadequate to account for our feelings. Incapable of testifying or stringing our thoughts. And yet, as incurable lovers of the alphabet, keepers of the craft; we almost never seem to be able to regulate the temptation of giving it at least that one shot.

One shot, may be, for those who incorrigibly believe our pens have talent. Or one shot, may be, even for those who relish tearing our words apart. One shot, may be, for those who wish their words looked as fine as ours. And lastly, but most importantly, one shot for those ridiculously restless hands.

Hands.

Hands full of words, that tremble, even throb until they get to dance spontaneously on that keyboard. Hands that get restive, insomniac, even crabby until they get to put pen to paper. Hands that do the most brilliant job in sorting us out in the head. Hands that make us smile, in spurts even cry. And calm us down like magic.

But of course, there are a fair few different kinds of hands. Hurt hands. Warm hands. Angry hands. Soft hands. Soothing hands. Searching hands. Strong hands. Long hands.

The key is pure and simple, though. You've just got to know which hand to pick. To get introduced to the many writers living inside you.

Writers.

But who precisely can be called writers then? Those who use their own special pens? Those who own magic thinking caps? Those who wolf down word salads for breakfast? Or carry English alphabets in their bags?

Honestly now, there's no rocket science involved. We writers, are just a bunch of loons, who could use up all the world's supply of paper and ink, and yet not quite be able to contain all of our thoughts. Most steadfast in our affection towards words, we don't know how to hold so many in such small hands. So we play with them. Drop some. Break them. And then put them together. Nurse them. Treat them. And finally, end up guarding them.

There are words, ideas, thoughts and pictures sailing all around our sea of writers. There are even times we come across a bunch of things and invariable say, 'Hey I wish that was me.' Or say,  'Only wish I'd done that, man.' But truth is, if you don't ever pick up that hand, chances are, you'll never be able to know if you really can.

So all you writers, with hands full of words. You know who you are.

So get out of your closets. Go knock yourselves out. Let those hands dance.

Because even if they turn out to be bad dancers.

It's OK.

It's alright.

The Only Sibling - A Personal Favourite

"Get lost! Go to hell! I'm studying you creep! Stop blasting the TV! Stop eating up all my chocolates! Why doesn't dad send you to boarding school? Stop using my deos! Stop wearing my track-pants!" – These are words that must have resonated across generations, in virtually every household - every language, every culture, age and demographics of siblings.

My household wasn't particularly different.

We argued. We teamed up. We fought. We made up.

In theory, we may be only a year apart. But in maturity, he is light-years ahead of me.

He, the head. Me, the heart. He, the ferrari. Me, the cart. He, the damage controller. Me, the mess-maker. He, the protocol man. Me, the ground-breaker. He, the rational. Me, the romantic. He, the move on-er. Me, the nostalgic.

With such diametrically opposite attributes, little wonder then that our relationship has always been like an ocean. With its own high tides and low tides.

No plateaus. Ever.

*******

I remember many moons back when I was learning how to drive, I had once asked him, "So what should I do if my tyres ever get punctured?" Without batting an eyelid, I remember he'd said, "Get out of the car. Open the diki. Find the stepney..." And so on and so forth. He explained the entire process of changing the tyre of a car to me. One step at a time. Not for once saying, "Pull over to the side. Wait inside the car. And call me or papa."

Here's a small something for the one who always protected me like a girl. But raised me like a boy.

My Google map, my Dairy Milk share-holder, my beating heart. The dark would be such an ugly place without you. 

What is love?

Is it risking your life to taste his 'experimental' dessert and then ending up asking for more?
Is it pretending to get annoyed at his bad jokes, and then later laughing at them when you're alone?

Is it having a zillion fresh answers to her question, 'How am I looking?'
Is it leaving your hair open more often than not, because he'd once 'requested' so?

Is it giving up your favourite butter chicken and fish fry because he happens to be 'animal-friendly'?
Is it going for 'her movie' even though your team has a crucial game in the evening?

Is it watching him peacefully sleep on your chest, breaking into a smile and not being able to stop?
Is it finding your fingers in a familiar fold and then taking that magical walk?

Is it thinking of each other ever so often, missing beyond words or reason?
Is it not speaking a word for hours, and yet having a perfect conversation?

What is love?

What is love after all?

Who is to say.
Who is to know.
Who is to stay.
Who is to go.

Keep Going

Keep scratching that elusive keyboard.

If you pine to be a writer one day.

Your masterpiece then, is imminent.

A symphony, nigh that way.

Keep plucking that derelict banjo

If you ever yearn to make a song.

Your words will then, drizzle off those strings.

And the tune won't take so long.

Keep mucking up those starched clean clothes

If you want to be a swimmer of streams.

You'll find your grit gaining muscle with each stroke.

And then, your palms rowing in your dreams.  

Keep swallowing nature whenever you can

If you ever wish to meet yourself.

You’ll find your soul start confiding in you

And then, you won't be such a stranger to yourself.

Balcony

My mind and I, often sit cross-legged at dusk in my balcony.

Streamers of smoke gracefully sail up from my forsaken cup of tea.

I try and jam with her sometimes, with a jar of half-baked thoughts.

She bites. I nibble. We gather the crumbs. "Now let's see what we've got."

We create together. Sometimes even with ink and paper.
I feel her hand-writing is clearer than mine.

Scribble. Scratch. Crumble.
Scribble. Scratch. Crumble.
If only, one could afford wine.

We throw away most of what we write together.
Into the arms of the universe.

Then sit back for a few moments more.
To eavesdrop on each other’s sounds of silence.

We mostly keep it down.
Don’t exchange much.
Don’t let our eyes talk too loudly.

But often get a feeling.
Suspicious that.
Someone out there has been listening.

The Bus Stop

Your wheels may roll.

But sometimes, a person has kept you back.

Your shoes may move.

But sometimes, a feeling has not yet walked.

Your smiles may shine.

But sometimes your tears glow quietly inside your eyes.

Your skies may sail.

But sometimes, your fears wake up in the night. 

Your mind caves in. Your heart beats out.

It feels like an ever-consuming burrow.

Why do people travel right into your life?

And then leave in the morning tomorrow.  

You think. You curse. You laugh. You cry.

But hug warm when you stand at the bus stop.

Destiny is one crazy animal. 

And homewards is always a funny ride.  

My Child

Sometimes at night, I don't get sleep.

I often hear the sound of wailing trees.

Sometimes I think how my child will fare.

With the wars and the bombs and the knives and the thieves.

Sometimes on the road, I can barely see.

Just feel a flash of people devouring me.

Sometimes I think how my child will fare.

With the words and the eyes – power trips on the street.

Sometimes in life, I can't make peace.

With suffering and noise and horns and sleaze.

Sometimes I think how my child will fare.

In this ball of bricks and bats and beasts.

I am

I am

A small fish in a big pond
A chipped brick on a full wall

An ink stain on a crisp white
A black hole to a world of light

A caravan of thoughts that rolls breakfree
But collides at bends with reality

The fight for a flight of a paper plane
The dreams behind the dust on the window pane

The coin that can't decide between roots and wings
The giggle that stayed back on that childhood swing

Get Up

I often get people writing these soul-touching, mind-bending, tear-jerking, heart-rending emails on my inbox from time to time. Extremely sensitive people. Many of whom I don't even know. Have never met. People from all over - from 15 years old to 50 years old. People telling me about their lives. Sharing their fears and kryptonites.

How someone got cheated. How another's confidence is in the pits. How someone had a life full of abuse. How another's heart is broken to bits.

Sometimes I don't know what to do with these emails. What should I tell someone I don't know, about a situation I've never been in? How do I pull someone up from a bunker of self-doubts and sorrows when I grapple and struggle to wade off my own?

I am no counselor. A listener. A friend. A fellow sufferer. Yes. But I don't have formulas to a perfect life. I wish for nothing but the best for you. But I can't guarantee I have magic fixes.

Truth is, more often than not, we are our own obstacles.

So if you're reading this all I want to say is this.

Appreciate yourself. Love yourself. Appreciate when you fail. Appreciate when you pick yourself up and try again and fail again. Appreciate when you go blank in an exam hall. Appreciate when you get rejected at an interview. Appreciate when you slip on a banana peel and fall flat on your nose. Appreciate when you drop sauce on a crisp white shirt and bite your tongue.

Appreciate when you forget to switch off the fan when you leave the room, for the 551st time. Appreciate when you burn your cake. Appreciate you bang your car. Remember that everything that goes wrong in life, comes with a salvation. God always gives you one right for every wrong. Sooner or later. We don't realise it instantly. But we realise it just in time.

So appreciate yourself. Love yourself. They will tell you that it's easy. But the truth is, it's perhaps the most difficult thing to do in the world. Because we spend all our lives cursing, belittling, doubting and comparing ourselves. With all the rest of the world. Remember that this life is not a competition.

It's not a beauty pageant or award function, merit list or train junction. It's a gift God gave you. For free. So take it. Keep it. And spend it well. The day you stop thinking of this world as a race course, your run will become a lot simpler. The key is always to try and become a little bit better and a little bit stronger than who you were yesterday.

No one can grow you up better than yourself. Not your parents. Not your teachers. Not even God.

All Love Hurts

To love someone is not to fix them. It is not to talk nineteen to a dozen and recap every day. Every gossip, every meal, every moment. It is not about spaces. Not about shirts and dresses. It is not about Skype and Viber. It is not about gifts and flowers. It is not about check-ins and selfies. Not about 'aww's and 'baby's.

It is not about being perfectly synchronized.

It is about coming back after going grossly out of rhythm. It is about holding hands and jumping puddles on the rainy days. It is about cooking and burning the whole kitchen down, and then cleaning up the mess together. It is about bathing the dogs and painting the walls in the weekends. It is about enjoying roadside tea or any side tea as much as cheesecake and calamari in a star hotel.

It is about fighting. It is about hurt. It is about labour. It is about dirt. It is about distance. It is about war. But not for a second to feel that - it's the end of it all.