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.