Friday, September 18, 2009

Probhu, nawshto hoye jai

Every sound of this decaying phrase is like a futile couplet. I try and try to make it intense like a black hole. I so want it to suck in my laughter my pain my nothingness my faculty my frailty. Yet, I fail. Not a glorious failure. It’s more like the death of a street rat, unnoticed by all. Time is, time was and time shall be no more for its ignoble existence. His two-penny worth in eternity, that is.

It’s easy to be good. There are so many flagstones on the footpath of that street and so many streets in that city and so many cities in the world. You can afford to be good without knowing the cause of being good. At times you even cower beneath the shadow of everlasting goodness and the tormented something inside your head calls for a rebellion. Eventually, this deviation from the holy equilibrium hits home through the dynamics of a natural cobweb. And the listlessness of noble intentions reigns supreme.

As the day drags along the path of an uninhibited eternity, a mimsy touch of her ivory- fingers haunts me to the absurdity of being alive. O, how I beseech thee, our merciful lady of the harbour , how I want thee to touch my lips with your pale fingers and guide me to the dark niche of oblivion. But that is not to be.

I grow old and I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. That says everything. I’ll live till my soul turns into a dead man’s skin. I’ll live to haunt myself to life. Some people have it this way.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

In every sign of the sun, in everything you do, or intend to do, there falls the shadow. Beneath every charming lightpost, upon every cobblestone, there falls the shadow. I go my way, and you go thine. The shadow hangs in between. Sticky and stubborn.