Come Over

COME OVER TONIGHT
LIKE LAZY FOG OVER MOUNTAINS
MISTY RAINBOWS INSIDE FOUNTAINS
COME OVER TONIGHT

COME OVER TONIGHT
LIKE BEATEN SOLDIERS CRAWLING HOME
LIKE VICTORIOUS CAESAR REACHING ROME
COME OVER TONIGHT

COME OVER TONIGHT
LIKE PRIDE THAT RIDES A MOTHER'S SMILE
TEARS THAT TRAVEL A MILLION MILES
COME OVER TONIGHT

COME OVER TONIGHT
LIKE STALE MEMORIES IN ALBUM PAGES
LIKE DIRTY WORDS DURING ANGRY RAGES
COME OVER TONIGHT.

COME OVER TONIGHT
LIKE STIFLED SORRYS IN AFTER FIGHTS
MUFFLED WARMTH DURING WINTER NIGHTS
COME OVER.......

Cartography of Love

Let it be Vienna my Love,
Let it be a December evening
Trudging along with April in our hearts
Down the city plaza
Where soldiers marched 70 years ago
Our new found faith
Our opened up hearts
Like the shutting down of Concentration Camps.
Peaceful graveyard
Where the little girl from the last century
Still sleeps her 12 year sleep.
We walk by bullet holes
Mortar wounds and silent Cannon shots
Echoing in the narrow by-lanes of the city.
History preserved in museums
In a city where pubs come alive
In a twilight called Cappuccino.

Let it be Florence my Dearie
Michelangelo smiling, Vinci half asleep,
And Vassari snoring in forgotten Chronicles.
The city square bathed with
A distant roar from a football stadium.
The muted souls on fresco walls
Giggling at us, two silent speakers
Soaked in traffic lights inside a taxi
Lips staring at each other,
Your strawberry lip gloss mocking my parched tongue
An "Inquisition" into our past
And a Renaissance of our souls
Yet we walk with a freedom,
Of a gladiator with his newly won,
Wooden sword.

The Promise of Ithaca
The call of Atlantis
Be it Warsaw, Milan, Hwang-Ho or Tokyo
Promises of love...Sonnets of pain
Etched on the knees of David
The walls of Louvre
The lips of a troubadour
Water of the Danube.
Fingers Curling around each other
Bridges that separate.
And when i reach your doorstep,
Your promise of the Chalice
Is deferred for another day....

Let it be Vienna my LOVE....

A WINTER'S TALE

I saw Winter walk by last night
Veiled Woman, Sighs of ice, Thiefly steps
As Municipal guys turned off street lamps
She sought refuge through half drawn shutters.
Tragic queen eyes, Machiavelli smile
Matahari delight at her untraced guile.
Her drama and darkness keeps us under wraps
And me at the street corner.
Etherised Nature, Our frozen tears.
And when she invites her sisters
From the roof tops of the Alps
I crave for that theatre
Her opera...Her tragedy
My Numb heart lit up with Bavarian snow.

The Match That Changed My Life

  I wonder why i suddenly decided to write about the UEFA Champions League encounter that took place between Inter Milan and Barcelona, almost two years ago. Then i realized that i have often bored my students and Satabdi by recounting the story of that evening, trying to inspire them but ending up increasing their boredom threshold in the process. But that evening was magic, emotionally draining and the feeling was that of a gladiator coming out of the theater..bloody, battered and victorious.

   The stage was set. Nou Camp..one of the most hostile footballing arenas in the world and the mood was set with all the pre-match talk in the Catalan Media about how the Barca faithfuls would make Inter Milan hate football in the span of the 90 minutes. Inter were up against it, a team which many considered to be the best of all times, two midfield generals able to thread the ball through the needle's eye and a certain Lionel Messi..ballerina on grass. Inter had a bunch of workmanlike group of footballers, the glamor, the media attention all absent. Just the Herculean faith of their owner, Massimo Moratti and the self titled "Special One", Jose Mourinho.

    And here is where it all started. The footballing fraternity remembers Mourinho starting his managerial career under the supervision of the late Sir Bobby Robson right there in Barcelona. Mourinho worked as a translator and sometimes as assistant coach and is said to have been highly disappointed and insulted when the Barca hierarchy didn't appoint him as the coach once Robson had left. The Barca fraternity had always sneeringly called Mourinho "the translator",something which didn't go down too well with him. And here he was, almost one and a half decades later, with the chance of experiencing the greatest emotion of all...Revenge.

     I was aware of all the complexities and the hype surrounding the match. Curiously, i was going through a particular crisis in my personal life and had decided to watch the match just to divert my attention from the storm that was brewing in my own life. Sports has always been the greatest healer for me, and sometimes caused the deepest wounds...friends who know me for a while would understand how i had almost slipped into depression after Chelsea lost to Manchester United in the final of the same championship 2 years ago.

    But this match was different. Inter Milan were up against it, and Mourinho by the sidelines was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Abuses poured, every time Inter touched the ball, boos rang out. It was a cauldron where a crowd in the excess of around 40,000 kept baying for blood. I must remind the readers that it was here that Figo was greeted with a pig's head when he returned as a Real Madrid player after his infamous transfer to the bitter rivals. And this evening was no different. Inter were beginning to feel the heat, and someone going through a rough phase in his life, thousands of miles away, watching the match in the comforts of the living room was getting sucked into it.

    To make matters worse, midway through the first half, Inter were reduced to ten men. A red card.. and the Catalan country had erupted. It was a given that teams do not stand with all personals intact against the pace of Barcelona. And here was their greatest enemy, with their strength diminished. I was almost angry to tears. replays had shown that the foul wasn't a grievous one, and that the referee had come under immense pressure from the crowd to produce that card. I was fuming and suddenly i realized that this is how bound and helpless i had been feeling for the past few months,as if the entire world had conspired to defeat me. I knew this would be a mammoth task, almost a miracle to come out a winner from this hell-hole. And then the cameras captured Mourinho, in all his glory and arrogance, smirking at the crowd and applauding sarcastically for getting the man sent off. In a moment, he was directing traffic from  the sidelines, marshaling his men and regrouping his troupes. I saw that he believed that this could be won. And if this could be conquered, so could be LIFE...

     The second half begun in much the same way. Wave after Wave of Barcelona attack raided the Inter territory, and Inter were defending with all they had and with more. Mourinho was still his usual self, and as the minutes ticked by, i began to believe. A curious thing was noticed by everyone watching-- every time Inter had the possession of the Ball, they gave it back to the Barcelona half. It is only later that all of us realized what was happening. Inter were a man short, and it was impossible to play Barca with the latter's speed and pace. So better give them the possession and wait with all 10men to defend, and in this way they wouldn't be in the danger of facing a counter-attack with men short in their own territory.

      The seconds ticked by.. And i remember, pacing up and down, literally praying. Every time Barca threatened, my heart was in my mouth. The players were tired, but still they hung on. Fighting for every inch of the grass, winning every tackle. Mourinho seemed to have passed on the message to defend with life. In the 82nd Min, Barca scored. But those aware of the away goal rules, would know that since Inter had a 2 goal cushion from the first leg, Barca had to score again to win. 8 mins were left on the clock. Inter were a man down, the entire stadium wanted them to lose. But still Mourinho believed, his men did..I DID.

      What happened after the final whistle blew is etched forever in my memory. Mourinho had run the length to the pitch, pointing to the Barca hierarchy Box. Those images have been played over and over on Youtube and remains one of the most watched football videos ever. But thousands of miles away, i didn't have nowhere to run, or to point, or mutter. With hazy eyes, my fisted palms kept punching the air, again and again and again....My grandmother (who was alive then), woke up to find me in a frenzy..my flashing eyes and my floating hair...In that trance I realized that this was more than a football match to me. A Movie from the home theater of God, asking me not to give up. To fight, To believe...To win..Even the "translator" may have been lost for words that night...

Phone Call

shute gie dekhlam bhor 4 te baaje
ghorir knaata duto jeno shorkaari office er clerk
controversy heen jibone nijeder kaaj kore jaache
tomaar phone er jonye opekhya kore kore
6 ta ghonta kete geche
shonibaar shondhyer discotheque duniyaar protyekta awaaj i
mone hoeche phone er korkosh ringtone
ghorir tick tick o aaj jeno cring cring
mathaar bhitor ghurpaak khawa
" shorir kharaap", " accident", "loot", " rahajaani", " rape" kothagulo
jokhon klanto hoe ektu jiroche
tokhon i sms e bheshe uthlo tomar ashash baarta
"bhaalo aachi...ghumie porechilam"

 bhoy ebong anxiety r catharsis shesh

mathaar modhye ohetuk kharap shobdoder pashbaalish

abar bichhanai...

janalar kaach e lege thaka shei meyeti

Bus er janalar kaach e tomay prothom dekha
Hoito ba sheshbaarer moto.
Tomar chokh e vodkar gondho dekhte pelam
Buk er bhitor lokano teel tar lojjito hashi.
Intuition e bhor kore tomar mon er
Shupto bashonar epic o shunlam
Conductor er ticker er taray.
Aanmone janlar baire nikhepito drishti,
Everst joy korar shopne moshgul.
Koila khonir gobhire 5 cell battery r torch er moto,
Ujjol taar chauni.
Mediterranean er neel ke phyakashe kora
Tomar kurti.
Janalay phnoot e otha protichhobite dekhte pawa,
Kobita lekhaar jonye nishpish korte thaaka
Aanguler taal dewa.
Tumi amaay konodin chinbe naa
Na hoye tomakei chinuk
Kobi shommelone Amontrito Chatok kobir jhaak.
Bus we janalay ekbar dekha,
Bonolota Sen er chhayai.

Through the Train Window

Frosted glass-- dirty glass...glass like human heart
My nose pasted heavily on it
looking out, seeing in..roads rush by,
Silent roads...fictive and real
Measured steps of animals..Two legged mostly
Fighting solitary worlds, as I envy them.
Maybe one day i would farm like them
Tilling land with fertile hearts
Irony indeed...
My source of jealosy may also envy me.
Come to my world you naked child
Price tagged clothes hide the emptiness within
And you are decorated by your nakedness
How i yearn for your ignorance
Waiting to unlearn life's lessons
Kings and Queens reign in my card pack
You are your own king
And I, enslaved by my freedom
Maybe one day i will come home happy
Sleep...dream
Now i crave the first and dread the second
Could I dream the dreams i want to dream?
The cold gnaws at my skin
Better than my life gnawing away
I want more..so much more
All i want is to want nothing........

SHALLOW

A darkened room, a cloistered soul..
Solitude clad by clothes...
As hands and fingers start talking
Lips do not move
What moves are two shapes...and one and a half empty soul
They try to conquer each other...love has become war...
Its a game of the vanquisher and the vanquished
My shadow in the moonlight wins..smiles and says
You forever will be but a shadow....

Adieu

Is this how goodbyes are meant to be?
Silent, unassuming, ignoring
A wave receding from the shore.
The frothy sound of bubbles bursting
Feet hardly wet
And before you know, it is forever gone.

Is this what goodbyes have come to?
A silent memory, a mine worker, toiling in the deep
And a roaring flash-flood in the heart
Desert eyes-- hotel receptionist smiles
And the sudden remembrance of times spent
Time stopping-- like an elevator mid descent
Panic stricken at having not forgotten.

Goodbye to you then-- Adieu for another time
Like we silently wish when we see each other
Goodbyes have ceased to be painful
I have come to know
How an absence of pain hurts.
We have floated light years apart
Like selfish storm clouds
At the sight of the desert.

We follow different traffic lights
Clouds in the sky- torn from heaven
Never to find each other
Never to miss.
Somewhere i will be dark, You white
I'll rain sometime- or hold myself back.
Droplets and thunder
You may hear me rumble far away
See me kiss the ground- or wrapping my arms
Around a girl's first rain dance
And whisper "ADIEU".

Shopping Mall Lives

Windows they say are windows to the world

What windows were you staring at?

Grilled, stratified, sunlight creeping in

Your silence...creeping, crying out

Smothered by my betrayal.

You missed me- and i chose not to miss you.

Missed calls...so many blank messages later\

You still stared out.

Nonsensical dreams

Distorted visions...

World decorated by bonsais and Japanese dolls

Puppets ourselves- strings pulled and snapped.

Moments captured in mega-pixels

Memories deleted by a single click

Six and a half years in recycle bins.

Maybe even i stared out,

Wish i had looked in..And saw YOU

Faces had merged- Lives separated.

Singled out.

Tortured, Burnt and Yet restored

Brought back from the life in between.

Our world- lived on the borders

Tight fitting garments- New, glossy, uncomfortable.

Be with me again.

Old bodies, souls bought from shops.

Weekly visits to mall decorated lives

Separated by glass windows.

Once beggars in our riches

Now richer in Nothingness.

At least we have each other.

AAKASH CHHOAN

Aakash Chhoanr iche onekdiner
Onek raater shopner khorak
Megher opor Neel er Chaador
Taar abohawa doptorer khoborakhobor
Proshner brishti bhejato maati kamrano mon
Shei Aakash chhoanr icche Onekdiner.

Koto Chhotoi na laagbe amaar ochena shohor
Shoru Shutor moto Biborno nodi
Refugee Camp er dike Haththe thaaka
Khudartho Manusher moto
Megher Tukro..Aakasher Paathorkuchi.

Brishti Shuru Hobe Paaer Tolaay
Mathar opor tokhono bidyuter Choaan
Oshobdhanotai khuje pawa surjer aalo
Hotath kore haarie jawaar bhoi
Shei haariye jaawar ichchei je onekdiner.

Aakaasher nodi cheere jaawa ek bindoo srot
Desher ghum e bideshi shopno dekhbaar jor
Chaa er cup e Foucault, Balisher pashe Beckett,
Aaj meeshe aache aakash chhoanr muhurte
Chhad er opor theke Akash dekhto je mon
Shei mon je Aaj Akash chhoaar o baaire

WHAT IF I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN?

 What if I never see you again…
Nothing much is it?
Nothing much;
Just that the streets we walked so often would be empty
Lined with trees unstirred.
With slum urchins
Suddenly discovering their nakedness
And along with it shame, guilt and desire.
Living to exist by the side of the streets
Where we walked so lately
Now- where only our vacant steps resound
So…
What if I never see you again?


What if I never see you again?
Nothing much is it?
Nothing much;
Just that the diner where we dined would be empty
Deafened by the silence of our absence.
The owner may reserve our favorite cabin for a week
Maybe a bit more…maybe not.
Till he is exhausted re-counting the dimes we paid
To sit for those extra hours
Having had enough coffee-But not of ourselves.
So…
What if I never see you again?

What if I never see you again?
Nothing much is it?
Nothing much;
Just that there will be two less voices in the bus stand
The vacant window seat of the 5o’ clock bus glaring stupefied
The arguments have ceased….the bickering over.
Romances have been muted
The courtship silenced.
Plenty of stories were told
Ask the window…it knows.
But even I know…
Stories unfinished are plenty
So…
What if I never see you again?


What if I never see you again?
Nothing much is it?
Nothing much;
The evening matches in the university will have two less watchers
Two less careless hands tearing the grasses
Two less careful hands etching their names on the rocks.
Creating and destructing.
Now…
Maybe things will be difficult…maybe even different.
Maybe no phone calls at midnight
That means more sleep
With less peace
Fag ends of a foggy life dimly lit
So…
What if I never see you again?

THE FINAL GOODBYE

SOME GOODBYES ARE MEANT TO LAST FOREVER
OTHERS A FLICKER IN THE MIDNIGHT SKY
A FLASH IN THE MILKY WAY
SOME SWEET AUTUMN WINDS
HERALDING AN INTER-PERSONAL WINTER
HOW DO I DESCRIBE OURS?
CLUTCHING ONTO OUR PAST
FINGERS, HANDSHAKES AND PHONE-CALLS
SEVEN MEETINGS IN TEN YEARS
AND A LIFE LONG FRIENDSHIP
AN UNKNOWN JOURNEY...A BIG BAD WORLD
AND THE FEAR OF NEVER SEEING YOU AGAIN.
THE FEAR GNAWED AWAY..A TIRELESS WOODPECKER
INCESSANT RAIN ON ASBESTOS
THE WORLD BUSY AROUND US..
US..STANDING IN MOTION
A VIOLIN CONCERTO IN AN EMPTY THEATRE
MEMORIES FLASHING BY US
CARS ON A HIGHWAY
GUITAR STRUMMING FOR A MOON-DANCE
PEARLS IN YOUR EYES..LUMP IN OUR THROATS
ARTIST'S SUDDEN DISCOVERY OF NAKEDNESS
THE NEW FOUND COURAGE TO BID FAREWELL
AND A LONG LOST AFFINITY FOR SILENCE..

BARTER

You want me to earn you? - You precious lady
What do I have to win you over?
You create poetry with words...Carry the fiction of a happy family
Time values you.
You smell of Keats, Shelley and the lines of Browning.
Your sweat carries the efforts of a warrior
Your pale pink lips paint colorful words
adding life to our sepia toned lives
and You want Me to win you over?
Let me rather lose to you
Lose my arrogance of youth
The audacity of Freedom
Let me give you my poetry..To better your Reality
My darkened skin and brightened wit..All for YOU tonight.
My Yanni for your noise.
My history for your past...My Atlas for your spaceless-ness.
My library visits for your family squabbles.
My book-fair visit for your 5 by 4 single bedded room.
All that i have learnt...For all that you will Learn.
All that i have remembered...For all that you have Forgotten.
My surrender for your escape..
My dreams for your aborted vision.
Now that you have all that was mine,
Precious lady...Will you lose to me tonight?
And let us earn each other??

KALEIDOSCOPE

[I] STRANGERS

We were once strangers..what followed was stranger still
Walking out of boring classrooms into coffee shops
Favorite songs on the Jukebox..Cappuccino on our tables
Nervous calculations over money...Miserly finances
Conversations Gambled on Russian Roulette
The sudden found luxury..Naked appetite of a refugee camp
The glass doors remain..only the mirrors are painted black
Our old selves mocking and sneering from the other side
We, strangers, laughing at the strangeness of what preceded

[II]
CITADEL

It was strange when you walked into my life
Stranger it was when we walked together
The long winding road of posh buildings and poor dwellers
Squeezing our dreams between bricks and stones
Destroying their houses...Creating our home.
Beginning our "After twenty years lives"...Suspending the NOW
Young misfits in a speculative world of comfort
Forever possessing the lease of that plot of land
Our assured Citadel amidst the Waste land reality.

[III]
THE 25th of DECEMBER

25th December, Park Street..JESUS just a few hours old
The magi got him gifts..don't know what he did with them
HIS birthday another pretense to meet
Candlesticks lighting up our lives..and HIS altar
The bleeding body pitying our injured souls
We both have carried our crosses
And yet, a church is anyplace with you by me
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA...so did you
Born..tortured...Crucified...Resurrected...

[IV]
KALEIDOSCOPE

The four rupee fantasy of Twenty years ago
Five Olympics, few friends and many gifts later
Your hunt for my dreams
Hitch Hiking...Shop combing...empty home-coming
Colored flint..spy-glass shape..worth a million
You found it...outshining others' expensive fantasies
Wish i hunted for your SEVEN Years' old dreams
And Prevented some of your nightmares...

IMPROMPTU

Blurred dreams, choked laughter
Lonely crowd walks
Friends Galore, Friendships few
Music in veins, Noise in the house
Whiskey thirst- Thirst for Love
Lonely Cyber-world nights
Spacious rooms
Stale Dinners...Late morning Breakfast
Coffee brewing Sleepless Nights
Red Fingers, Green Skin....Grey heart
Keep it safe...Locked...Treasured
Words Measured and Spirits unfettered
Champagne Dreams and Strawberry kisses
Prince Catches but Family misses.

Organisation of disorganised thoughts

Putting a thinking heart to work,
Staring at the dull ceiling of my room, imagining worlds and cartographies beyond
Thinking of battles won and wars lost
In the battlefields of Crimea, or that of Nuremberg,
The wind hits my face through the bedroom window,
Carrying messages of love, war, final goodbyes and first meetings
The letter of a dying soldier to his mother in America
The painting of a young father for his daughter in France
The final text of goodbye from inside the W.T.C
And the random key-hits of a lost soul
Pleading for a reader..

The Prelude

For readers who expect the prelude to 'be the swelling act to the imperial theme',....well, you may be disappointed. Its just some random key hits on my keyboard and definitely the 'spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings', But i had to start 'someday, somewhere', and i guess after wasting 'world enough and time', this is how my blog would start, 'not with a bang' but neither with a 'whimper'. Try and read between the 'words words words' and you will find the influence of the author who wrote about wasting one's days in the land of dreams after having awakened from a 'hundred years of solitude'....