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