"Aami eka--tai ei shongeetey aamar shoreer kawntokito hoilo. Ei bohujawnaakeerno nawgoreemodhye, ei aanondomoy, awnonto jawnosrotomodhye, aami eka. Aamio kyano oi awnonto jawnosrotomodhye mishiya, ei bishaal aanondotawrongo-taarito jawlbudbudshomuher modhye aarekti budbud naa hoi? Bindu bindu baari loiyaa shomudra; aami baaribindu ey shomudrey mishai naa kyano?

Taaha jaanina--kebol ihaa jaani je, aami eka. Keho eka thaakiyo naa."

Modhyodiney awndhokaarey brishti pawre mawner maatite, chaarer dawshoker upaantey likhechhilen ek baangali kobi.

Prothom duti shawbder awbodhaarito protitulona ei-muhurtey baashontee rawnger roddur bideerno korey aamar paataalchhayay nihito. Shawmosto krodh ebong doshaarop-er aaraaley dhushor koutuk-er chawr jegey uthchhey; sthirnishchit protikriyaa--nirghaat!

Awnityer daaybhaag rojoneegandhar shoundorjey lipto, emonki mawrottwer bibheeshika-o muhurter aasleshey-ey kaaljoyee. Awtoeb, birombonaa ke bhaagyer knaadhey chaapiye awnishchitey aatmoshomorponer rojnaamcha ekhaney protyoho lekha hoy. Nirnimesh proteekhkhaar ghawnoghor udjaapon ki preme, ki jontranaay, roktey bhasha rekhe jaay nijobhumi pawrobaashey.

Aar, tawkhon, shawngey tumi nei bolei toh brishti aamaay shawngo dichchhey........

Lines.....

It's been a while.

Sad thoughts embrace sadder ones. Even the sadder ones melt into the whiteness of rustling newspapers. Life is a Zimmerman.

I abhor the idea of words.

"Because I do not hope to turn;

Because I do not hope,

Because I do not hope to turn."

Suffer me not to be separated, and let my cry come into thee.

I try to save my soul with psalms of discontent!

What should I write?

And, why must I keep this blog alive?

Sleepy towns fancy big cities. What do big cities do when their eyelids droop?

I don't know.

Thus, we grasp the immeasurable ignorance of this planet, suddenly, with a vast unwelcome.

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.