When darkness meets darkness in a dark room-- light happens.

Words swirl, like in a mad dream, as the crooked half-turns become wonderfully crooked half-turns. Reason goes west for a spot of moonbeam.

In Defence of Decadence

The times they are-a-changing; really?

A recent exhibition of Pablo Bartholomew provoked me into thinking along these lines, where the present progressive gets smudged with the blood-red hue of a glorious sunset. Dazzling, yet bereft of the undecided fate of a flipping coin, these black-and-white photographs seem too self-contained to be true.

The photos, taken together, evoke a kind of fragmented reality, alien to people who have actually managed survive the century. There is a hint of charming sadness in Pablo's oeuvre, bordering on the lyrical. For Pablo, it must be said, he had been brutally honest with his immediate surroundings; he never even tried to cross the border of familiar resolves. There lies his greatest strength, and shall we say, a quasi-romantic lure of what could have been, a derision not unknown to a large section of our committed dilettante. A paanjaabi-clad Dhritiman Chattapadhay, frowning, while holding a cigarette, perhaps, is the best example of it.

Pablo's work, as shown in the exhibition, captures the history of a process, where the spark of rebellion dims in a bout of drunken fancy.

After all, forgoing privilege is also a privilege for the privileged.

The times, however, never change for the man harrowing clods, or even for the maid and her wight walking home. They will survive another century, though.

When darkness meets darkness in a dark room, light happens.

Words swirl in a mad dream, crooked half-turns become wonderfully crooked half-turns, and reason itself goes for a spot of moonbeam.

November

Hear,

the sound of fire

by the hour

your face melts

into mine;

And I pine

for my rose,

love, stay close,

for the kingdom

is at hand,

or is it

a nonsense flick

on a hazy screen,

I wonder, girl,

if at all,

I had touched the tip

of what lies beneath

the barren stars

and I wonder,

what colour are your lips

Deathly hallows

Tonight the stars are all gray.

Sorry, I never thought about the end;

That wide waters may drown my stone,

I would rather not see in my dreams.

My colours merge into your dull eyes,

And the curtain silently moves along

my hatred for you. I break free of my guilt,

in a moment of immense solitude.

The words turn into hyacinths, all white,

They cling together throughout the torrent of silence,

I almost smile, when the rain stops in the afternoon.

Your words, they die in your blazing chariot, like the wish of light.

Tonight I'll get to see the stars.

Long before the solace of life merged with the solace of death, healing benevolence used to be the privilege of the Gods......

Brishtir tirondaaji pawrokh korini bohukaal, computer'r pawrda roman-hawrophey aar miliye newao durlawbh. Modhye aabar daana melechhey ekraash awnichhey bhawr korey thaka aaloshyo; shawb miliye mostishko-kawndor nawrok naa hoke, guljaar toh bawtei! Chopin theke Suman chhnuye bhaabtey chawaar ichchhey ghurpaak kheye chhnuye aashchhey naa-bhabnaar shom aar tawkhkhuni mawne hochchhey, mawhoniyo awpekhkhaar praantey roddur ketey ei bujhi bidhyuter ushkaani dekhbo! Aasha kuhokinee ebong duraasha kawshtopachcho naa holeo dhnok giltey gawlaar kaachhey shomudro-mawnthoner smritituku knatar mawto bnidhey thaakey. Awgotyaa, paanshi ghaat-bondee aar belghoriao dur-awsto!

Blood is red.

Teardrops have no colour.

When our experience glistens with collective sadness and long afternoons become a matter of life in death for a thousand Dorian Grays, it could be safely assumed that a faction of eternity, indeed, is indebted to Pablo Neruda.

Like a casual sketch or a swift swig of nothingness, here I waste my words, apparently without any rhyme or reason. My words, they go into the crevice of oblivion without me and what pain it is to  accept the feeling of being left out! The stars look too bright and too distant from where I stand and afar a leaden echo reflects the little spot of bother that is getting red-hot inside my hidden treasure box. It's been a ride. Not exactly a joyous one—a ride nonetheless.

This blog has become rather a ruin of could have beens. I'd better breed Lilacs out of the dead land with this wonderful piece of writing......

http://www.artconcerns.com/article.php?n=1

Thank you, Riu.

Haajar aalok-borsho periye ekti bikel ghawno hoy shouro-jawgoter awkinchitkawr ek grohey. Vivekananda park'r modhye laal-ronga cherry chumu khaay shawtaan willow tey. Shoru pawth enke-bneke roddur egoy gaachher nichey jekhaaney chhaya'r shenaanee ghaapti merey boshey nijhjhum awpekhkhaay. Beybaak dikshunyo chhele taakiye dyakhe park'r mawg-daaley mihi baatash kemon gaan hoye jaachchey aan-mawne! Tokhkhuni, thik tokhkhuni, ki bheeshon kaangalpona peye boshey hooshhoosh beriye jawa bus guloke dekhte dekhte, godhuli'r lukono pocket ey awporaajita-phul shukiye kaath shey muhurtey!

Bhalo laagey. Bhalo laagey naa-o. Ekishongey, shawmosto shawhor jawgojhompo beje othey kemon! phirti raastay bhalobasha-udyoto bondhuder dongol pelican hoy maajh-kolkatay. Railing'r chhaya tirjoktawro elaay footpath-joraa phul'r shawbmichhil ey, bhikhiri raa phokotey pawa swapno shoriye kawlai kawra baati egiye dhawrey . Ekti mukh knepey othey smritir aaloshye. Korun jawl'r bhit ey dhil porey jyano. Chai baa naa chai shawmosto aakash jurey neon-hawllat ey shei knaapuni'r daag laagey nitanto awnobokaashey.

Raajkonye shupti-shoyaan ey. Awthoba jaagoron aamaro prokrito obhiruchi noy swapno-kolaahawley.

Resolution!

Keeping in mind the snobbery and discomfiture of lesser mortals, I must say pain is a rum thing. As I can’t pride myself on being particularly soused, the choice of this expression might not make it to the top drawer. Nevertheless, I’ll stick to my expression; it smells better than fetid intellectual oeuvre.

Now, of all my blasted sensations, why do I keep rambling on being pained? And, of course, why so much fuss on its being a rum thing? The first question is actually an extension to my queer character. I have always been someone who rather easily succumbs to pain, or so I have been told. It only fits most convincingly into the puzzle that is me. I eat, drink [only water] and make merry to enjoy paroxysms of pang. I agree, it’s convenient and useless and mostly self-inflicted.

I said 'rum thing' with no intention of weaving a clever pun. It has just been an expression that loosely describes the inner dichotomy of the fact of me being pained. Shoving a certain Thomas Jefferson of the previous sentence, the dichotomy actually touches the nerve-centre of this slightly eccentric piece. The happiness of distress is something that is quite akin to my nature, I am told. It’s a perverse pleasure, my friends constantly remind me. However, this pleasure is not without an obvious affliction. The feeling of being in the deepest pit for some silly reasons, and may be for some great ones, is of paramount significance to a withering soul. Withering, I say, because it survives on small things, fickle promises and devil knows what! It is unreasonable and taxing to the ones I love, I understand perfectly. Yet, the bouts of severe depression, even the easy solutions of anti-depressants fail to revive the dying bits of my soul. My fault, entirely.

This paragraph intends to dole out a little apology to the wrong notions I may have conveyed in my insecure moments. By nature, I am not a despot. I prefer not to change my friends and foes; I love them or hate them as they are. Perhaps in some corner of my subconscious there lives a pampered little brat, who makes fuss over trivial things like having a drink or smacking a goodfellow. I have decided not to give indulgence to this pestilential little devil. If there is any sort of agony from now on, I shall stomach it. It’ll save the day, err, the night of my loved ones.

Taking a cue from the epitaph of a poet who wrote the most boring epic in the history of mankind, I am going to sing of shepherds, fields and heroes from now on. At least, they don’t manipulate the contour of thoughts in fruitless agony.

Je Lekhara lekha hoyni

This is just an imitation of soul-searching, not quite in the most erudite way, a la the best minds public places have ever seen. Just a timid and tedious effort this is going to be, clumsy in its proposition and uncertain in its presentation. However, I can always claim this to be a perfect representation of my rather untidy thoughts. Without a thousand glittering words, or irrefutable brickbats of a logical kind, I seek to state my confusion about something that has been bothering me for quite some time.

It's about having the last word. Now, what's a last word? I must keep out the possibility of a Godmouth here, as I do not intend to take a course in religion. In mundane reality, a last word is supposed be the final statement in an argument. It might be some expression of a hegemonic intellect, or, more likely, it may be described as the cry of a lone raven when everybody is asleep or dead in their nest.

..................................................................

what is it that always haunts me at times of distress, like little pin-pricks all over your glowing skin? I don't know the answer, perhaps I never will. Yes, not to be under the shadow of great minds can make you a little shaky, especially if you are a loser, more so if you remain the same. What is greatness, but a word full of pompous intentions! People think otherwise, though. They nurture their intent, keep it warm and feed it with their ideas and lo! What happened to be a word even just a little while ago, has become something like a palpable piece of make-believe! Ideas are dangerous, they breed what we do not ever intend to feel.

If not for dispersing ideas with liberal ease, why do I keep scribbling on like this? I often ask myself. After a casual fling of orgulous introspection, I arrived at a simple solution.

I write. Because, I just might.

Knaadina tomaar jonye, tumi bheshey jao paachhey....

Unrest. Just a strange itch in the eyes. Silly, silly moments of rumination. Bland and brown moments of uncertainty with a touch of green. Seconds melting into minutes, minutes into hours. Voices telling me- "Thine is not the Kingdom".

The weak spirit quickens to rebel against probability. For the tea-flavoured paradise and the lost lilacs. A crowd flows over the neon-sucking pavements. Rickshaws glide by.

I stay awake. And wait for rains.

Bujheo bujhini mawroner shawmokaaley
Thnot bhijey-jaawa Beethoven-rawng aalo
Thawmkaano chokhey thir bijurir aanch
Rawktopukurey tokhkhuni jhawlkaalo...

Muhurto jaay jonmer mawto, awndho jaatishmor!

Reincarnation happens to be the word for Us.

Period.