Elomelo Sob Rastagulo

emni korei jodi baki somoy ta hush kore metror moto kolkatar edik theke odik chole jay? jodi harimati school theke mohini mohan kanjilal obdi ekta ichhe, tramline hoye okaron bichhiye dey nijeke? gariahat er footpath theke kena sosta deodrant gulor gondho jodi hothat kore shohid minar er niche chhoriye-chhitiye thaka jonjal theke uthe ase? kimba, metro-gali'r morer cold drink er dokan ta jodi hoye jay south city'r himshitol anach-kanach? howrah station er probol bhir katiye E-1 e uthe chokh bujlei jodi dekha jay GD Birla Sabhaghar... New Market... Sector 5 er jhna-chokchoke sob corporate imarot?

majhe majhe kemon sob guliye jete thake. ei je roj ami niyom kore auto dhori 8B-r ultodik theke, bag samle samne bose kaane phone dhore dial kori ekta nombor... ar sei jete jete je gaarir awaje praayosoi nije chup kore giye bokar moto cheye thaki baire... kimba garia neme rasta par howar somoy poolish er haat theke banchar jonye dhore thaka line ta chhere dewar bhan kore ek minute er jonye kaan theke phone ta soriye niy... 

toke ekta katha bolini konodin, ajke hothat habijabi likhte giye mathay elo.

tui ektu ektu kore kemon jyano amar shohor hoye jachhish, janish...!! jhilpar theke exide er haldirams... ITI er tram depot theke Aminia... triangular park theke milan mela... sob rong mishte mishte mishte mishte mishte mishte...

amar shohor.

"ami onyo kichhu bolbo bole tomar kachhe ese,

ami sibai, kebol sobai hoye jai..."

Moments

Very few moments are like those beautiful negative afterimages that appear for a second or two inside our dark, misty heads and then disappear into an abyss of dusty, deep crevices of unwilling oblivion. Very, very few moments, again, out of these, occasionally float back onto the delicate surface of old, blue memories tainted with fragile, moth-eaten pages of maroon and gold diaries. Of dried tear-marks. Of transparent fingerprints scattered around the keys and reeds and stops and bellows like the crispy leaves of Fall. Of long-forgotten tunes echoing back from antiquity to merge into the songs of today.

Such a moment was that moment, one of the very, very few.

I don’t know if I can live up to its bouquet of promises.

Brishti

বৃষ্টি বৃষ্টি, evening sky
খোলা ছাতা, raincoat, passersby
একা নীল মেয়ে কাঁদে, anemic
কমলা আলোয় ভেসে, nostalgic
জানলার তাকে রাখা saxophone
বেজে যায় আনমনা, home alone
ভাঙা keys, unseen fingering
নেই কথা ফিসফিসে lingering
গাড়ি কম, জলে আজ flooded street
কাঁচ-ঢাকা সবকটা window seat
ছাঁট মাখে ভাঙা সেই saxophone
আর কিছু নীল মুখ, all alone

The Women Lay

The women lay on the sheets, like strawberry pink polythene

Trembling on a pavement with dust, trembling on a puddle

Trembling on the gutter with a stench of sour rust and then

Flying away to another world of ceaseless, intense blight

To be picked up and thrust back into the circle of being

Plastic, dead, but strong beyond the grasp of putrefaction, elastic.

The women lay along the window sills, yellow sunflowers straining

Petals towards golden lights, away and further away from the brown core

That’s bound to spread its wings, a hawk roosting to devour life

And to savor it till its gluttony has oozed away in fatigued pleasure

Like copulating dogs panting delight in biting off the bitch’s flesh

To plant a pain that taints a body and paints a life in vain.

The women lay with their backs on the floor, their eyes on the ceiling

As clouds tempted their vision towards a paralysis of reality,

Magic and blues, their eyelids never closed like counterfeit Barbies

They never let a sound escape from between their chipped, faded pouts

The same well-curved smile they wore and dyed them anew

In scarlet, orange, maroon but mostly in some violet shade.

The women lay with silent stings, clutched the gash between

Tolerant banana thighs, all wings were clipped, their breath lost way

Among meandering sighs, and soundless blood that leaked

Hidden inside an unresolved bandage of rainbows, stars and polythene

As the women lay with vacant eyes, and prayed for bail from motherhood

All the same they understood, the wound is meant to be evergreen.

For those who thrive on my flesh, I must eat on...
For those who live in my heart, I must beat on...

Kohl

She is dying. In sleep she thinks she is a swallow, singing and singing and singing and singing and singing and singing… but no, she’s human. The more she wants to be the swallow, the more sleep evades her. At dawn, she stands before the mirror completely naked and dabs kohl on her lower eye lids until they are smudged in blackness. Then she moves closer to the mirror to admire her eyes. She can’t believe those are her eyes. More like a river, yes they are, more sad, more strange, more haunting, more hurt than any eye she had ever seen. As the day grows older, she suddenly feels shame, ashamed at her bestial nakedness of body and mind. Narcissistic? She knows not. But she hides her body behind her dress, she hides her mind behind her sanity.

“Have you been crying lately? Your eyes look red and swollen these days!” her acquaintances ask.

She never tells anyone about her kohl therapy. She knew they would forbid. They would make sure that she gets to see only her nude eyes. But she loved her kohl, she could never give out the secret. If she is to go blind, she thought, what better way than to love her eyes like her life before she lost them? She hates sunbeams, specially the yellow ones. Doctors would give tranquilizers. She never takes them though, she fears sleeping at daybreak, the time when she can look at her eyes silently. She even admires her sockets, her auburn sockets with their tiny violet veins just beneath her eyes. Sunlight blinds her eyes and thought. As it enters her room through the gaps in the curtains of the window, she sits crouched on the bathroom floor panting for breath. No, she had never smoked a cigarette in her life. Her lungs fail her without reason.

But she is scared. Scared to take the leap. She can merely bruise her knees again and again or prick her fingertips with a sharp needle until cute little red drops start oozing out. Dizzy… dizzy… food nauseates. Egg chicken mutton fish cabbage cauliflower cornflakes apples bananas mixed noodles hakka gravy veg non-veg… the waiter leaves as she vomits on her table and pays the restaurant for cleaning the mess.

The world is revolving. Five revolutions per day. Only blur. Not blindness. Blur. Madness. Nakedness. She drowns. They grab her fair neck and stick it inside the water until she drowns, completely. Does she resist? Does she force her head up to breathe? Does she…

Her dabbed kohl melts down her sallow, ill cheeks. Her tongue is black and salty in pain. She is dying. Maybe death can make her the real, singing swallow.