To Angelina

This happens to be my last post. Pandora's box will be locked hereafter.

I'll miss Ginnybabu, Amritarupa, Rai, Rajarshi, Titir, Raka and Avishek. I'll miss them for what they are to this space. And, more. I'll miss the fables and the ribbons I used to weave here. Terribly so.

I thank everybody for indulging me this bad.

So long.

Remember, we'll always have Paris. :-)

Bastards all. From Calcutta to Bombay, from Bombay to Calcutta.

Cleverness clouds the face of broken mirrors.

And, there is no country for old men.

Doshyu hoye kaarbo jaama-khani

Bipul begey jhorna debo khule

Aandhar-snaato ghono srabon-mohey

Aamar mukh tomar upokuley

"রূপনারানের কূলে
জেগে উঠিলাম,
জানিলাম এ জগৎ
স্বপ্ন নয়।
রক্তের অক্ষরে দেখিলাম
আপনার রূপ,
চিনিলাম আপনারে
আঘাতে আঘাতে
বেদনায় বেদনায়;
সত্য যে কঠিন,
কঠিনেরে ভালোবাসিলাম,
সে কখনো করে না বঞ্চনা।
আমৃত্যুর দুঃখের তপস্যা এ জীবন,
সত্যের দারুণ মূল্য লাভ করিবারে,
মৃত্যুতে সকল দেনা শোধ করে দিতে।"

It whistled past me. And, I stood there, all alone, and a little confounded by it all.

Let me die in my own footsteps. 

I have been gathering my hemlock, drop by drop. One day, when flowers would scream into the ears of a frosty winter, I shall drink it to thee.

Feverish

It's quiet here.

I feel the warmth of overwhelming death on my forehead. To hate it, is impossible. To love it, is improbable.

Nothingness gleams over the cliff of barren thoughts. Sleep, I need some sleep, to sap the blinding thoughtlessness of consumptive dreams ..

And there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.

How does death begin?

Holding hands to the end of eternity, till the next eternity arrives on your doorstep. That's how.

The fingers, once mine, are brown with yesteryears' stains. Whirling years go past the hubbub of distant cascades.

Silence erupts inside my head. It runs through my vanity.

I dig trenches inside my words and stare vacantly at the whiteness of new sheets. The edge of the blue starts bleeding, as slowly the rover vessel of darkness takes the rising tide.

Nights pile up on her lips. I try hard to fathom the darkness within them.

I dream with my eyes open, and see the serpent nibbling at the seam of an old cricket ball.

Kichhui shawhoj noy, Kichhui shawhoj nei aar....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqq_Z6tJGsg&feature=related

A tale of two

Let Calcutta in oblivion melt.

The abode of nightingale is bare, and flowered frost congeals in the gelid air. Effulgence of a solitary ray is coming in through the shutters; surely, the winter has not made a comeback? Moths and shadows stick to the East. Perhaps, its time for the Western hemisphere to absorb the warmth of the pink fireball. Mine is not the kingdom.

When the city surrenders its soul to dust, and its voice drowns into the recess of memory, must the remembered perished be? Years, piling up on years, make mountains. The horizon, trembling with visions of Johanna, glares at my incompetence. I only avert my eyes, to recall a moment lost in torment.

Ah, its too late to be November. You, the phantom spring of paradise, notice, how twilight invades the humming sun-empire, secretly, almost with a touch of ambition.

From the moving wonder of two cities, my slumber turns its strength to impotence. Winter evenings cast shadows on my cold, cold face. I stand here, half-hoping, that you'd let me in.

At the edge of all the ages, I will come knocking at your wee, small door, if only to be a stirring in your still night.