Memories

Old thoughts -
Bitter sweet
Subtle.
Dusted into the nooks and corners
Of cobwebbed walls.
Stranded,
Incomprehensible.
Yet they are a pleasure
Though they never make you feel belonged to.
Uneasiness,
Difficult to remember.
Just like you enter the room,
And forget why exactly you are here.
A kaleidoscope of memories,
Loosely tied in a thread.
You try to make something beautiful out of it.
But the colours won't dissolve
The canvas remains empty.
The pink-orange of your heels,
Reminds me of the sunsets spent together.
I try to knit the warmth of old days-
Blue
Grey
Sew them together.
But the eye of the needle is too small,
It won't go through.
Instead
I smile.
Cause that's the most beautiful memory
I have of you.

Departures

The long winding road with no limit,
You cycle your way through
The dusty memory lanes,
Leading to azure skies and crimson sunsets.
Find happiness in old photographs,
Carefully tucked away like old receipts or faded bus tickets,
Now as unimportant as they are -
Like the fleeting permanence of love and lovers.
You say I smell like home,
On a lazy winter afternoon
Gorging on boiled rice, some kaffir lime and a pinch of salt.
Nothing fancy, yet a favourite.

Plan your life in arrival and departures.
The tilt of our smiles will tell us
When it's time for us to leave.
Then with a crumpled map in your hand,
You must make your way in search for a new home.
But till then, stay.
Won't you come over
For another day?

A fool

Burning flame melts the wax,

Dimly lights up the border of the country I love the best.

Veiled under the foam and the rising smoke from the tub,

Can you hear the splash her ankled feet makes?

Now I stand in a barren land,

Neatly arranged like rice plants in rows,

And boots covered in dirt and snow.

The clouds of despair hover above.

As we point our bayonets at each other,

I fail to distinguish between our men and the enemies.

But they had made us learn, you know.

Was it the difference of colour,

Or some personal interests disguised so?

While hiding in the trenches,

I've often closed my eyes

To find myself in a paradise with you.

Bring home toys for the children

Hear the rooms flood with their easy laughter.

But I open my bag to find,

The bones of the dead,

And the skulls of the animals

Were the only things I could get.

The memories haunt me down.

My head with each bullet fired throbs,

As my soul laid bare on the string bed starts to cringe.

I remember the days spent with you.

You were the only country whose love in me grew.

A fool.

I thought, love was the answer

To every question I knew.

The Bells.

The tree had bent old at your backyard,
Dropping fires of red on the ground.
You came visiting in the afternoons
And I assured the folks were fine.
You handed me a krishnachura,
That you kept twirling between your fingers,
While your mind kept wavering at the thoughts of a distant lover,
And smiled at my complain of not ever getting anything else.
Your eyes almost close when you laugh.
Did I tell I love the way it makes me feel?
I still got those anklets you got for me,
And said you would love to see me wear them everyday.
They are old now,
But the bells still make a sound,
Of made up memories inside my head.
I tuck them away underneath the mattress.
They annoy me for the loud noise you make.

But today I bring them down,
For my granddaughter to wear.
She has the same dusky skin
As your lover, I swear.

Favourite song

You clear your throat,

Ready to hum your favourite tune.

Give it all away to laughter,

You haven't decided which one that must be.

You travel lands to find it behind sunsets;

Or sit with your headphones on,

Scrolling through the albums.

A single white hair glistening on your forehead among all black,

As your laptop gathers dust.

Your blocked nose makes you breathe heavily,

I love listening to that tune.

Your hand strumming the guitar;

You ask me my favourite song,

Unaware that you are it.

You've always been.

So I just smile.

I smile at you. 

I'll find you

In the vapours rising from the hot cup of tea,

And the ring it leaves behind on the table,

I'll find you.

In the smokes arising from the vehicles,

And in the long wait at traffic signals on a sultry summer day,

I'll find you.

In the colourful jars of pickle laid out in the afternoon sun,

And in the laughter of children from stolen joy,

I'll find you.

In the mingled call of the cuckoo at dawn,

And the red lit sky of my dusk,

I'll find you.

In the unfinished books of tales untold,

And inbetween monotony of daily chores,

I'll find you.

In the thunder of the French revolution,

And in the raindrops falling on the warzone countries,

I'll find you.

In the grocery list of daily needs,

And the unsend letters hidden under the mattresses,

I'll find you.

I'll find you, I'll find you,

In the years to come with every greying hair,

And poetry left unfinished for the lack of muse,

And children that I have to take to school.

But tell me, in all your broken dreams

And dusty corners,

Do you find me too?

Do I?

Neon lights outline your collarbone on strange nights,
Marking the map of the city I love the most.
Do you still walk along the shoreline,
With the sand and shells jingling in your pockets,
And the wind in your hair?
Was it the dusk or dawn that we watched together,
I cannot remember well...
Is it all far gone?
Do I still play in the strings of your violin
Or in the sonnets you say you love?
Stole kisses like we stole pickels,
Laid out in jars in winter afternoon sun.
Fantasies paved the road,
But for our bare feet it was a long way.
Grey and old, turned to dust
We'll meet another day,
Maybe some constellations away.
Till then, tell me,
Do I reside in your poetry,

As you do in mine every single day?

'Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.'

The remnants of love

The remnants of love remained
Like the colour-washed streets of Holi,
Subtly fading each day.
Will crossroads that made us choose different ways,

Serve as souvenirs still?

White hair glistening and matching white waves.
What if you cut your feet on broken sea-shells

Will you remember me then?

Walking side by side through crowded streets,
The cacophony serves as Karaoke still.
The city smells of old love and lost melody,

Colours, Colours that fade away...

Sunlight falls on broken glass pieces,
A show of light decorates your dark room.
Come find me among wilted flowers in broken vases,

And dusty book ends when your memory fades.

On being average and middle class.

At times it is a matter of personal pride to have been born in a middle class family – blame the authors who have idealized the social setup – showing us that the only power at our disposal is Ray’s ‘Mogojashtra’. You grow up hearing some golden advice, that only education can bring about a change in social status and much glory. Hence charge ahead in that direction! But hey, are you a girl? Wait then, we need to catch up on the current scenario...

Now, if you happen to be past twenty, marriage proposals coming your way seems inevitable. No matter how old the groom is, the younger the bride the better. Whenever you visit a social gathering, you are constantly under scanner eyes of someone trying to fix you up with a possible match. No, we’re not talking about the Victorian era (And people still question me why I don’t like visiting social gatherings!). Though a different attitude may be noted regarding their approach to the males and the females. If you happen to be a male, it is of utmost importance that you complete your education, get a job and only then think about marriage. For females, education or jobs are important but comes only after marriage. Oh no, they won’t put a stop to your educational process, but sure they would keep nagging you to get married -- whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not doesn’t matter. I repeat, DOES NOT MATTER. But the words won’t be put before you so plainly, but rather camouflaged and interspersed with wise words such as – ‘you won’t get a better groom than this’ or ‘ ...time’s running. Who would like to marry an old lady?’ or ‘there is a right age for everything’!

I have heard my grandmother say that her daughters were given the minimum education (read graduate) so as to qualify them in the marriage market. She claims times have now changed for us, the current generation. Has it? If so, I wonder how. Well maybe yes, you now need to be a post- graduate in order to qualify in the marriage market, as graduates are all too common these days! While any problem regarding the ‘love-lives’ of my male cousins would simply be shunned with the wonderful suggestion of better focusing on studies than whiling away time in such stupid matters. But with that of the female ones, their behaviour would undergo a sea change – education is important but comes only after marriage-- you don’t want to die an old maid, do you? The same bunch of parents that once advised her to study hard, often drawing examples of other girls or boys of her age who were doing better, now wants her to think otherwise. What they don’t realize is that once you’ve made her taste the fruit of knowledge, she cannot regain her former state of innocence and ignorance. Call her Satan’s companion if you will, but why has choosing to lead your life according to your own terms got to be such a hard concept for the society to accept without being prejudiced?

While being brought up in between the ebb and tide of such people, corroding your coast-line daily and inflicting pain with broken shells that hit you with the waves, sometimes you are lucky to find an island of solace in some – your own personal ‘Sidhu jetha’. The duality amazes you as you sit there with your cup of black tea and one of your favourite novels in hand, while your mind constantly tosses between Milton’s ‘heaven’ and ‘hell’.

Estranged

You are not flesh of my flesh, and this no paradise

Love's far supreme.

Memories stir the fire in my heart,

And a ripple of light breaks from the disturbed coal

How to escape the light?

First gasp of air I breathed were you,

Saved from drowning in daily mediocre life.

Images flood like moonlit sky

You can count the stars in it.

The blind man sits at the corner of the busy road,

His violin still plays your favourite tune

While you take your children to school.

Feelings that grew on shadowy orchards, fled through the dusty window panes.

I can see the future in dark chimney smokes

Rising up again.

Will only death in the order of Dionysus

Help Orpheus reunite with his Eurydice again?

Loser

                               The morning was beautiful. It had rained last night. The raindrops hanging from the leaves sparkled like diamonds in the sunlit morning. Trisha had just sat down to have her morning coffee when her phone rang. It was Sudhir.

‘Okay, I’ll be there at five in the evening’, she said as she kept down the phone.

                             Sudhir had been Trisha’s friend for a long time. He had felt a certain interest in Trisha from the very first day he had seen her, his new neighbour. Crushes at such young ages were nothing new. Trisha and her family had shifted to Bangalore when she was in class six. Trisha was admitted in the same school that Sudhir attended and now, they were now in the same college too. Though Sudhir was shy in nature, yet they had bonded well.

Sudhir had been pacing up and down the room when Randhir arrived.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Just a little nervous’, answered Sudhir.

‘About what?’

‘I was thinking about confessing my love for Trisha to her.’

Randhir reminded him that she already had a boyfriend.

‘I know. It’s just that he is not the right choice for her’, said Sudhir.

                            Sudhir came back home early that night. As he opened the door, he was surprised to find Randhir seated on the couch. He was skipping through the pages of his favourite magazine, as the light from the lamp fell across his face.

‘How did you get in here?’ asked Sudhir surprised.

‘That is not important. Tell me how did it go, what did she say?’

‘She did not turn up’, said Sudhir rather sadly, trying to force a smile.

                           Sudhir had been waiting for Trisha at the Café for an hour. Seeing that she was late, he had tried calling her. Trilok, Trisha’s boyfriend had picked up his call. Sensing something fishy, Trilok had warned Sudhir and had made it clear that he did not want ‘losers’ like Sudhir to be around Trisha.

‘I can help you with it, if you want’ said Randhir. Sudhir hesitated but later agreed on Randhir’s repeated pestering. From then on, various tricks had been applied to lure Trisha, right from sending flowers and gifts to sending letters, in which he promised his love for her. But nothing helped. Trisha chose Trilok over Sudhir every time and Sudhir had thus almost resigned to the thought of considering himself as a loser. ‘Loser’ - such an abusing term for a boy of his age. He felt ashamed, anger seething in his veins.

                           It was the evening of their farewell party. Sudhir sat in a corner, watching Trisha, dressed in a red gown, enjoying a dance with Trilok. Her hair fell loose over her shoulder, making her look even prettier. Sudhir felt angry. What if Trisha had never met Trilok, he thought. It would have been Sudhir dancing with Trisha today then.

‘You’ve got to do something about it, haven’t you?’ asked Randhir. Sudhir was taken aback by surprise. He had not noticed Randhir’s presence.

‘Come on, follow me’, ordered Randhir.

Sudhir did not quite understand what was happening but nevertheless he followed Randhir, who led him to the backyard of the college. They were following Trilok, who had gone to dig out the hidden bottles of alcohol from underneath the piles of hay and dead leaves.

‘Go on, kill him’, suggested Randhir catching Trilok off guard.

Sudhir did not agree.

‘Come on, do it and show him that you’re not a loser’, insisted Randhir.

‘I can’t’, said Sudhir nervously.

‘Okay, fine. I’ll do it for you.’

Even before Sudhir could say something, Randhir walked straight to Trilok, grabbed a bottle of alcohol from his hands and broke it on Trilok’s head. He fell on the ground unconscious.

‘Stop it!’ cried Sudhir, as he watched Randhir stab Trilok to death with the broken glass bottle.

‘We’ll get caught’ panicked Sudhir.

‘No, we won’t. Just act normal.’ Randhir sounded quite calm. Sudhir was terrified. He ran back to his room. Images of the gruesome crime committed flashed in his mind as he stood staring helplessly at his reflection in the mirror. Just then he noticed blood stains on his T-shirt. It was Randhir who had killed Trilok, yet there were blood stains on his T-shirt. Sudhir was puzzled. Sudhir could not go off to sleep that night. He kept tossing and turning in his bed restlessly. He called up Randhir to tell him that he thought it wise to surrender before the police. But Randhir warned him not to do so.

With the dawn of the next morning, Sudhir went to the police station to confess about the crime committed. Guilt had kept him awake the whole night. He gave the police all details about Randhir and the murder committed.

Next morning, he was called to the police station.

‘Whose phone number is this?’ asked the police inspector.

‘Randhir’s, Sir. I have got his number saved in my phone’, answered Sudhir.

The inspector dialed the number. Sudhir’s phone started to ring. Before Sudhir could say a word, the inspector slapped him across his face and threw him into the prison cell.

The cell was dark, with a dim bulb hanging loose from the ceiling. Sudhir sat in a corner, with folded legs, staring into the ceiling, still confused and unable to figure out what was happening.

‘Were you trying to get me caught by the police? I warned you not to’ said a familiar voice from the dark corner, ‘You’ll always be a loser. Yes, that’s what you are’. It was Randhir.

‘How did you get in here?’ asked puzzled Sudhir. He was supposed to be the only inmate of that cell. ‘You’ll now be hanged for the crime you committed’, said Sudhir nervously as he saw Randhir advance towards him.

‘I’ll kill you before that happens’, said Randhir fiercely, as he leapt upon Sudhir, whom he had caught by the neck and was trying to throttle him to death.

‘Help! He is trying to kill me’, begged Sudhir.

The police stood helplessly and watched Sudhir. They seemed confused as they could not understand why Sudir was trying to throttle himself to death!

Of broken dreams and tobacco

She recalls her wretched life,
           Staring at the sea.
And gasps for air,
           Heavy with stale tobacco and broken dreams .
Her crimson dress has lost its lustre,
           From years of loveless coupling.
The image of an old lover creeps in,
           And memories like cigarette butts lay strewn on the floor.
Bright lipsticks and flowers can't hide the paleness of her eyes,
           As the darkness of the night closes in around her.
She had once dreamt of love,
           Now she gets paid for it.

Exchanged Glances

Closing in the dripping umbrella,
I met your gaze.
For a moment I was taken aback
After all these years...
Could it be true?
I tried to look away and took a seat near the window,
Trying to catch your reflection on the glass.

Is Red still your favorite color,
As it were thirty years before?
Do you still swear on French Revolution?
Are you still the same polemicist,
who could raise a storm with his words on sultry evenings?
Are Dylan's songs still your favorite?

I could still be your Desdemona or Juliet
Or better still - Radha maybe.
Age never seemed a bar for lovers.

You get down the bus, casting a last glance
But nothing changes.
Years down, asphyxiating in the dead society,
We had always promised to change the world
But do we forever remain captured in our indecision,
Wondering like Prufrock- do we dare disturb the universe?

Thirty years it took us to meet again
Maybe it'll take thirty more to meet in heaven.

Unnoticed

You pluck a leaf from the tree without much care,

Just like you force her to abort that girl child,

Thinking it wouldn't cause much pain.

You step carelessly on those daises bordering the pavement,

Just like you ignore that roadside poor hungry boy.

You don’t realize the roles they play.

You try to bonsai the plants,

Just like you try to control every aspect of your child’s life.

It’s for good, you say!

You plucked a frail unnamed flower and tore its leaves, playing a game that only you enjoy,

Just like you mock that boy calling him sissy because he varies from the conventional mainstream
You axe a tree and cause its fall,

Just like you ignore your old parents,

For their purpose is served.

Those axed trees, those unborn children, those unfinished tales – that go unnoticed;

Were all in the scheme of life, you think

Yet, you bring down the night sky on the park street roads;
Burning candles, like twinkling stars in your hand
And rent the air with thundering catchy slogans,
Trying to harmonize the discords
Promising to change the society for better!

Someday

We will meet someday,
Walk together a little while.
Roses and carnations should mark the start,
                    and fancy restaurants would be fine
We could sit in those dimly lit beautiful restaurants,
                   having small talks about things insignificant.
Peppy tunes or soft music could border the background,

Then saunter back hand-in-hand when the day is done.

We met someday,
Quite differently it turned out thus.
Came across him a thousand times,
                   in each stranger's face in the busy Esplanade crowd.
Only resounding cacophony of the city stands as a proof,
                   of those quick short romantic glances exchanged.
Societal divisions, the only wall between us

That we made no efforts to break down.

We will meet again someday
No, roses and carnations wouldn't mark the start.
The crowded city buses
                  shall mark the beginning.
The hawker's song,
                  the only song that'll soothe the ears.
And closing my eyes, I'll imagine a better world
With you by my side.

Those last enigmatic words

                                                  She woke up to the sound of the alarm clock, searched for her hair-clip from under her pillow, tied her hair in a loose bun and set out for the daily household chores. Sleep still lingered on in her eyes making it appear redder than on other days. Yesterday had been a long day at office, followed by a late night office party and therefore she couldn’t get enough sleep.

                          The calendar reminded her that there was a parent-teachers’ meeting today at Sneha’s school. Sneha, her daughter, fifteen now has always held a good academic record much like her mother and was polite and shy in nature. Her teachers never had much complain against her. Meera knew that Sameer, her husband, wouldn’t be able to make it to Sneha’s school today.  He’d have to leave for Kochi today and therefore the responsibility of attending the meeting was on Meera.

                           Meera sat with her morning coffee and the newspaper at the table quickly scanning through all the headlines, when one news article particularly caught her attention. ‘Naxalite leader injured but escapes being caught by the police…’- it said. The news chilled her spine. The Naxalite leader was none other than Niladitya Roy, the boy who had made her heart skip a beat during her college days…that boy with whom she had often imagined life together…that boy who had broken her heart because he chose his dedication to his work above her. Life had been terribly hard after the break-up. Her academics suffered a setback as she could not concentrate on her studies. She still remembered those sleepless nights, when her pillow would be wet with her tears and those long sessions with the psychiatrist. But then life had gradually moved on, as her parents had said it would. She had got a job for herself, got married (albeit her parents had chosen a husband for her), had a child and was raising her in the best possible way she could. In the initial years of her marriage she had often wondered how she would react if she ever came across him. She had often struggled with her own mind in trying to forget him and be happy in her married life, as she had promised to her parents. But the human mind works in strange ways, forgetting things that it should remember and remembering things that it would rather forget.

                         Meera wanted to call him up. She still had his phone number but there were very little chances that he would still retain the same number for twenty-six years. And, moreover, what would Sameer and Sneha think of her if they ever came to know about it? No, she wasn’t supposed to call him up.

                       Meera finished her coffee and kept down the newspaper and was just about to get started with her household works when suddenly her phone started to ring. She checked it. It was Nilanjana, her college friend. She picked up the phone and started chatting with her. They talked about their good old college days, their families, their careers and then just when Meera was about to disconnect the line, Nilanjana asked,’ Meera, do you still remember Nil da?’An awkward silence followed. Meera didn’t know what to say. Nilanjana continued,’…you might remember that I was his cousin…’ Meera had almost forgotten the fact. ‘…he got seriously injured while trying to escape the police and has lost an arm but somehow he managed to escape. He is now at Pishi’s place. He wants to meet you. I think you remember the address, if not I can text it to you…’ No answer came from Meera. ‘Meera? Can you hear me?’ inquired Nilanjana. Meera disconnected the call.

                   ‘Why now? What now?’ thought Meera as the whole world seemed blurred in her teary eyes. She was surprised to find that even after so many years this boy, now a man, could again set her heart amidst a whirlwind of emotions.

                   Sameer left for his work at ten in the morning. He would be back from Kochi almost after a week. Meera had taken a leave from her office that day because the parents-teachers’ meeting was scheduled at twelve in the afternoon. The meeting went well and while returning Meera dropped Sneha off at the Indian Dance Academy for her dance classes. Watching Sneha had always been a pleasure to her eyes and therefore she would often remain present at Sneha’s dance classes, watching her learn. But today something troubled her. She thought of driving back home. Sneha could board a bus to return home, she was a big girl now, Meera thought.

                  On her way back, something (she didn’t know what exactly) forced Meera to drive to Niladitya’s Pishi’s (aunt) place. She knew the address; she had been there many times before. She still remembered all those Narus(sweets) Pishi used to make for her whenever Niladitya and Meera paid a visit to her. Pishi had always told her that she would make the perfect wife for Nil. Meera had always blushed at the thought.

                   Her car stopped before the gate of the once well painted double-storeyed building. The beautiful flower garden that the house once boasted was now gone. Long wild grass had filled up the place making it appear rather haunted. She wouldn’t have recognized the building had she not remembered the house number. She went in and knocked at the door. Pishi opened it. It took her a while to recognize that it was Meera. ‘Come in, my dear’, she said in her usual soft and familiar voice. Pishi led her to Niladitya’s room and left them alone on the pretext that she’ll fetch them something to eat.

                Meera stood still. She was looking at him, while he lay on his bed with his right hand bandaged that had been cut off from the elbows. He looked much different now, his eyes has lost its lustre, his hair had grown white. She didn’t know what to say. The cracks in her heart which she thought had mended with time had started to show again. Each second seemed a constant struggle to fight back the tears. Meera had turned back to leave when Niladitya stopped her. ‘Meera, do you still remember that poem, the one which you used to recite to me so often?’ asked Niladitya.

               Meera didn’t turn back. Poetry was a brilliant way to convey your feelings or thoughts for someone, she had always thought. She was good at reciting poems and had won several prizes at it but had given it up when she broke up with him.

                                    ‘Chaigo ami tomarey chai, tomai ami chai’, continued Niladitya reciting one of her favorite Bengali poems

                                     ‘Ei kothatai shodai mone bolte jeno pai

                                      R ja kichu bashonate, ghure berai dine rate

                                      Miththa, she shob miththa

                                     O go tomai ami chai…’

Tears rolled down her cheek. She didn’t turn back. Instead, she headed towards the door. His words held no more meaning for her… or did it?

Breaking Stereotypes

‘People who think plastering napkins is cheap and vulgar fail to grasp the fact that such a campaign operates with the intention of disturbing and disrupting the aesthetics of politeness and modesty propagated by a patriarchal power structure’, read a post as I was scrolling through my news feed on a social networking site.

                                   Even after reading various articles on how the students of various colleges have taken up this campaign, I still cannot bring myself to quite support this. I support their intention of breaking stereotypes but I am not quite pleased with the way they are doing it. Why stick sanitary napkins all around the campus? I mean, if you were to start a campaign making people aware of the need of contraception, what would you do? Would you go around sticking condoms with written messages on them?

                                 The campaigners are saying that if their way hurts you, then it is purposely meant to do so. Well yes, I agree, there is no need to hide or feel shy about menstruating. But, then there is no need to flaunt about it either! 

A law against love?

Do we belong to the age of dinosaurs? If not, then what was the Supreme Court thinking when it recriminalized IPC 377? Even when the Delhi High Court had read down Section 377, homosexuals were still looked down upon by many. They had to face constant embarrassment but at least there wasn’t this criminal aspect to this.

                           India has a population of about 1.2 billion. So, even if 5% of the total populations are homosexuals – that would account for a lot of people. And, these people have a right to have dignity and to have privacy. The Supreme Court can’t decide how a person must feel towards another person – a woman can have sexual feeling for a female friend of her or say, a man can have sexual feeling for a male friend of his. There is NOTHING wrong in it. It is neither against nature nor against Indian culture. There are plenty examples of homosexual depictions in the temples of Khajuraho. Now what should we do them? Destroy them? The law simply follows Victorian mores. What is even more funny is the fact that while the Brits have themselves rejected such laws, we still continue with them.

                             Through this dogmatic and regressive verdict of the Supreme Court, India has re-joined 76 other nations in legalized repression of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people. Which century are we living in, 21^st?!

Random scribbling

One of Tagore’s poems that has entered in my list of favourites in recent days, goes like this –

                             Pagol je tui, kontho bhore

                             Janiye de tai shahosh kore.

                             Day Jodi tor duar nara

                             Thakish kone dish ne shara –

                             Boluk sobai ‘shristichara’,

                             Boluk sobai ‘ ki kaj tor’.

                             Bol re ‘ami kehoe na go,

                             Kichui noi, je hoi-na’

                             Shune bonay uthbe hashi,

                             Dike dike bajbe banshi -

                             Bolbe batash ‘bhalobashi’

                             Bandhbo akash alokh bhore.

When I read his works, I get the same feeling as a bee gets , when it finds nectar.

                                                I read a poem by Longfellow, a long time back, as a part of my syllabus then.

                              …Tell me not in mournful numbers

                              Life is but an empty dream!

                              For the soul is dead that slumbers

                              And, things are not what they seem…   (~psalm of Life)

This poem has a lasting appeal and has got much more to say than just what it seems at first sight. And so were many of the other poems in my syllabus. I remember my English tutor, Mr. Suvro Chatterjee (Sir), saying,’…remember some day, maybe many years from now, some of you present here are going to call-up and say that you finally understood the poem.’ Right then his words seemed strange to most of us. But, he was correct – with age and experiences those poems do now hold a deeper meaning in my heart than they previously ever did.

P.S.  I’m not sure why I wrote this post. I intended to say something but I’m afraid I am a little muddled.