Friday, December 3, 2010

Ami Oper hoye boshe achi Lalon Geeti


Half blossomed your lips
came too close to me again
and it smelt as usually like
the ancient Madeira.

We both crossed the pacific
and were close
to our happiness
when we stood with our
dangerous warmth.

I saw many absurd sunset
in many slaughter houses
where I took shelter in your navel.

What song did you sing
what words did you whisper
that day
banishing your stone god ?

Monday, November 29, 2010

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

My pilgrimmage

Once upon a time there was a river. She was young ,playful and she was loving.When I saw her I fell in love with her .She sang for me in the moonlit night and I cried.I embraced her and she cooled my burning passion. She had a beautiful name: PHOLGU...a beautiful name indeed. Like every morning I went to her to take my dip in her heart.

Pholgu was dry.There was no water. A sad, excruciatingly painful sterility
throughout. some one eyed crow was painfully crying on one dry branch of a tree " we have been cursed ....we have been cursed for a little mistake we made". I went down the Ghat ,walked straight to the middle of my beloved , sat down and wept . Suddenly I heard a whisper " Dont cry, my darling dont cry. dig my heart with your bare hands and see what happens." Madly I started to dig and ,THERE...
there ...crystal clear cool water. I Drank, I splashed my beloved pholgu all over me .I cried I laughed.I danced.

Not far away from Pholgu in Gaya there was a tree.People call it Bodhi tree because Siddhartha meditated under that tree and was enlightened.
The enlightenment was about the way people could get away from unhappiness. I sat there in the same place under the tree and soon I was not doing anything. I was not even thinking about myself. Evening came.
Soon I discovered myself surrounded by the mediators ,eyes half closed , palms resting on the lap ,serene face. It was time for me to get back to my place of night halt. Iwent inside the temple.
It seemed Buddha understood my inner turmoil about Pholgu.
Buddha smiled. A smile which means " Impermanence of life and to be non attached '
I understood and my suffering for my cursed beloved who was dry on the surface but so soothing underneath,has gone.I am free from from my unhappiness
Free from the frustration of the ruggedness of gaya's roads, free from the so called poverty, free from the lack of convenience,free from the soliciting thai girls on the street corner .
Someday again I shall visit my Beloved and I believe that day I shall get my pholgu back as playfully young as she was in the ancient times.
I returned from my pilgrimage as a free man .

Monday, November 15, 2010

Akash bhora ( glory to the sky)

Glory to the sky
that is filled with stars
adored with sun,
life throbs in the universe
and my song is so amazed.
That turbulence of time
which swings in the world
makes me wild in my veins,
and my song is so amazed

on my way to the forest
I stepped on to the grass
the jasmine fragrance
overwhelms my soul,
joy is spread all around
and my song is so amazed.

I listen ,I gaze
I pour my heart into the world
looking for the unknown
into the known
and my song is so amazed.

Rabindranath Thakur ( tagore)

( the song is posted )

Aakash Bhara Surya Tara - Sagar Sen

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

My everlasting friend

Oh my everlasting friend
do not desert me
oh please do not,
In this deep forest of worldly life.

give me courage
give me support
stay , stay , with me
my friend.

Be wealth to a beggar
Be the strength to the weak
be a lord to the helpless.

Make me strong
as I lost all my strength
my everlasting friend.

( a poem of love and spiritualism)

**** The song follows

Monday, November 8, 2010

Chirosakha he........ rabindra sangeet

In a dark night

In a deep dark night
One lonely beggar
rambles and
mumbles saying
" please,Oh please
let me understand.
I am your son of light,
yet you spread the dark blanket
in front of me
and hide your own face behind.
Here I bang my head mournfully.

In a sunset darkness
you keep writing letters.
Teach me ,
oh teach me ,what they mean.
The flute of your soul
plays so many tunes
for so many days.....
and today is that day
you play your final song

( this is a song written originally in Bengali
By the famous poet Rabindranath Thakur ( tagore)
I consider myself a hopeless translator
but possibly to my hearts content I have recreated.)

Friday, November 5, 2010


Oh yes
I love Diwali....
Love it with all passion.
I love the show,the display
and over and above I love the sound.
In our building complex
some rich men spend lakhs for the firecrackers.
I just love it
I envy them
For one night delight they do not hesitate to
kill little jasmines,little tender poppies in the
balcony gardens .
They do not hesitate to frighten the little domestic animals
they do not hesitate to damage the general health
of their old and infirm neighbours ,little babies.
Well ,They have money .Who is going to stop them
burning their money.
Who ?????? The law enforcement agency???
Having bribed they retire scratching their backside
with a bottle of best Phoren whisky.
They Government agencies would rather BAN books or art films
than banning Explosives or crackers harmful for the whole society.
I am apathetic. I am delighted at my apathy. I know I have nothing to do
I know I cannot do anything.
So I am happy.
I fucked the famous film actress last night
who said in a news channel" Bom potka na holay dewali bolay monei hoina" ( Without explosives and crackkers Dewali is Meaningless)
I am delighted and contented now!!!

Monday, September 20, 2010

Sunday, September 19, 2010


To tell her " Dont want you'
Not to tell her " Dont want you".....
We love
we are peaceful for two minute,
and then ...
For two days
or two months
or for years
stay like a burnt log.
With a dis-ease we stay
half way through ,
half closed eyes
night and day
almost like the stone Buddha.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Friday, September 3, 2010

A guest

Clean hygienic hands and feet,
face pale white like aspirin,
Her memories
straight like clothes line.
She used to have dinner with me,
and then
she used to cover my nakedness
stealing my own shirt.

Like the nomadic birds
she used to cast shadow on my
bleeding lips.
when the coffee got cold
she used to shiver in her heart.

I shut my door to sit for
She shuts her heart
and break me to pieces.

Saturday, August 28, 2010



I waited for you
and finally you came
the absurd night was spread
on my bed
like broken glass

The distant lights of stars
were absurd too,
You had the flowers from
mortuary in your hands,
That night
the unforgivable savagery
was the witness
of our Union.

You said" I did what I had to do,
but I never knew
who you were,
who I was,
In this absurd night
we fumbled for an existence.
But remember :
This night will come to an end
one day,
The flower from mortuary
WILL forgive us
that day and

Sunday, August 22, 2010

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The Third person

Some wild hyacinth there is
where fire rains,
some limitless pond there is
where only your shadow swims,
some journey there is
where we never see the end,
some bed there is
where the third person
is undefinable,
some word there is
which echoes silently,
some storm there is
which turmoils the mind,
some love there is
which makes you beggar
drops of blood in his bowl.

Friday, August 20, 2010

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I burnt my hand,
and some night a liquid
oozes from my wound.
Very ancient vermilion juice like.

You joy fully stick a knife there
sometimes, hoping to see a rainbow,
then fix your gaze on mine and say
" Tell me what are you going to do with me,
Say it .....say ....Say it"

The socket of my eyes are
a little bit more Royal blue,
my left hand trembles more,
My feet unaware of the earth,
The burning bed
grasps the insomniac man
and runs to that mountain
in search of two empty coffee cup
in vain.



Your so called some one
is going to give you something
which you hoped
I would give you,
and six hundred million cells
inside you waited and waited.
To day you are a beggar,
a begging bowl in hand
you reach the other
for a SEED broken or rotten.
He would glaze for the gift
he gives you.
And I?
I hide my animal whimper
underneath the stone.

I know I have to carry that stone
over Olympia
like cursed Sisyphus
over and over again.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Tuesday, August 3, 2010



A grave digger's hand
rough ....very rough,underneath
the grave
there lies the vermilion soul
of a mistaken poet.
on a glamorous afternoon
the poet held her hand,
the hand was rough, very rough,
but upon the touch
she reached very slowly an ecstatic
unknowable destiny.
She whirled in a fiery flare around
the bleeding heart,
her rose petalled lips parted glistening
eyes closed ,
and she danced and danced
like the distant stars
with geometric predictability.
Now she held his hand
as " Jahanara did,
there ,here , and eternally.
She whispered the song of this
intoxicating earth and the river,
She sighed
" Dont think so much my darling,
Whatever will happen ,will happen"
I shall be with you in the grave
That I shall dig for you.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Thursday, July 29, 2010


Her name was Man-o-ara,
She used to come to my house almost every morning
when i was painting or reading.
she used to sit watching me mixing colours or
selecting brushes or washing the brushes in
the liquid. i could see her head moving with every movement i made while painting . when i stopped
and looked at my painting from distance
she followed me and followed my deep contemplation
When she sat down again , she sat exactly the way she was sitting before.....her small chin resting on her palm and the small body resting on another hand.its always the same style used to remind me of JaminiRoy's painting. Her eyes were always slightly watery but wide, the eyebrows like the bow. She used to cover her face partly with the veil,mostly dark coloured. Sometimes i used to say ' why do you cover your face like that?. She never answered but simply smiled and she knew her smile used to say more than few words.Some day I Insisted her to sit for me for painting and with much reluctance she did sit and i painted a portrait of her.When I finished that painting
she looked at it for a long time with wondering large eyes,then looked at me and then suddenly she hugged me and rested her small head on my chest and whispered "Thank you,I shall keep it with me all my life. can I take it home and show it to my mum ?" Its a kind of request artists always face and they are always in a dilemma. But for man-o-ara it was different.When I said she could she danced and danced around holding the painting in front of her as if she was holding a mirror. Then in a few minutes she left ,through the backdoor of my house ,started to run towards her home across the garden .When she reached her door ,she turned around and looked and waved and smiled ,her veil surprisingly vanished , her lyrical body stood still for a few minute ,stared at me and then the door closed.
For next few weeks i didn't see her and I got worried. I asked everyone and at last my caretaker said " babuji,
Man-o-ara will not come any more. She is getting married.Man-o-ara got married indeed with a businessman and left .

Monday, July 26, 2010


When we embraced
day after day
night after night
we thought
our love will last .
We thought
our kisses would
sanctify our soul.

Then life was responsibility
Life was duty
life was apathetic bed sheet...

The embrace appeared shameful
kisses appeared venomous,
Love staggered away.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Thursday, May 20, 2010

And You

Impersonal Windscreen,
Applauding raindrops
and inside...
In my hand
The tender pigeon shudders.

And you I burnt and burnt
with intoxicating smell of caustic grapes,
I too with you burnt
our bed roared in delight,
I loved you so much
with Bach at the far end of night.

Truth sang for the whole night
with lies whimpering ,
The lonely star's rejection
made me roll inside.

Inside the dusky blue vase
molested dreams and
absurd tears
stay awake all night,

Friday, May 14, 2010

Monday, May 3, 2010


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My Room

May be it is time i should write few words about my room. One may say , well whats so special about a room !Every body has a room!
Yes every one doesnt live in a south facing large eight by six windowed desert like room . I have all the facilities that a desert has . A vast expanse of yellow sand coloured bedsheet on a four and half by seven and a half bed which is only eighteen inches high. The Bed takes care of my paintingsby hiding them in its hollow. On that desert I sleep alone and I love to sleep alone dreaming , talking to myself , whimper etc . No , No women ever slept with me on that desert ( Interesting ?)
next to the window I have a rocking chair, I rock hard when I am happy, when I am sad ( !) when I love to sit there to show the vast southern sky that I am reading . Reading what ? Nonsense mostly like Sartre, or Kafka, Le Rezio ( my recent addition to my reading list) or Metamorphosis, Particle physics and its relationship with Buddhism , all rubbish. I came to know ( ! ) so many things without knowing ANYTHING about myself.
On one side of my room I have three book shelves packed with books , books filled with millions of words , screaming , applauding , crying , laughing , clapping dancing, singing except THERE IS NO SILENCE IN THERE !! At night I stretch myself on the desert with a noisy book and some memories . A little girl who loves to dream with me ( some hallucination) and who lives far away in an Island surrounded by Pacific ocean some times dances with me , cries with me in this room virtually. On the third corner of the room I have my music system and hundreds of audio CD s . Hundreds of hours of experience of meditation helps me with my existence and the moments of escape from hating myself.
Someone tells me ( who is genuinely concerned about my mental health and least concerned about physical virility or if I have erections at all) wishes to suggest I must consult a psychiatrist because I believe in the regressive yarning when I am in this room. Its like my mothers womb.
I hide here , I feel security here, I travel miles and miles with my memory,without moving an inch. My archetypical subconscious gives me an orgasmic satisfaction in my room specially on this yellow mass of sand which they call BEDSHEET. I have inherited this subconscious mind from hundreds and thousands of my ancient fathers who lived in this room before me.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

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The Night

This might just so happen,
so happen,
who,you might have been searching
for all your life
might just tumble down in your
palms like a cluster of jasmine.

This might just so happen
so happen
whose eyes carry the shadow
of an ancient maple tree
with slumberous peace
and the pearls of trust.

In that shadow
you fall asleep

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Thursday, April 1, 2010

The Next morning

Last night we threw
all our life long wastes on the street
down below!
The crystal glass wine set,
the summertime snapshots
by the river Rhine,
the inexhaustible evenings
sitting next to Debussy,
and all the simple promises
that we made
on the bed all night !
We threw all of them as if
they were just the pebbles
on the pond.

Then we floated on the
turmoiled oceans
clutching our separate beds.

Our " Happy home"this morning
just disengaged the hands
and headed to some unknowable

But even now
if we stretch our wet hands
with a feeble hope to clasp
Things would change.
But , No we didn't.
We condensed our world
in lonely cries.

Monday, March 29, 2010

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I grab your heart
through my digital lens,
my nocturnal eyes
gets watery,and
your slanted glance
was captured by the NRI flash.

Over your shadowy eyes
turmoiled words danced

They applauded
and auctioned prices over you
in the theatres ,
in the musicals
and the poetry circles!

The sweaty foolish animal
went round and round
,intellectually masturbating .
Enlightenment at last.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Wednesday, March 24, 2010


I am now still,
Still like the dead body in the morgue,
still in meditation.
I have nothing else to do now,
The sun too has nothing to do
but just Incarnated tired rays
for all our tomorrows.

Come my darling
once again ,
Let us after our ineffectual penetration
bow down our heads in supplication
to the resurrected sun in the morgue
and meditate.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Monday, March 8, 2010

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Writing style

This morning I happen to remember a very amusing
incident of my school days.
Our head master was rather old fashioned and grumpy
looking man. No one ever saw him smiling, not even our teachers. He had a room upstairs which was curtained and mostly suffocatingly obscure. He had a voice like thunder , and we know many incidents when younger lads would soil their pants if ever they were addressed by him for any inconsequential undisciplined behaviour.
The head master had a funny habit to use long and difficult words. I remember one such incident. A little un happened to be waiting for his elder brother upstairs in front of his class room.
The head master came out from his room and upon seeing this lad shouted , " Hey who are you ? and would you make it known why are you perambulating
on the vicinity of this corridor at this god forsaken hour " ? Obviously the little lad was not familiar with English language and all he could do is to perspire profusely and about to run.
It happens so with me even these days when I read some writings in any forum, and I too perspire profusely and curse my incompetence in understanding English usage which many of our poets
feel proud to use.
There is a general tendency among our poets to show their pedants like the old headmaster. They make their presentation unnecessarily complicated as there is a misconception among many off them that harder the words they use to express their ideas more appreciation would be forthcoming.
I personally think , the old headmaster could have said
" who are you and what do you want here"?
But for some of us it is difficult to express the most impressive ideas in the simplest possible language. Using the old phrase which sounds like a cliche may express the fact. " Simplicity is the highest form of sophistication in all expression".Even if we have to use metaphors, similes, images. symbols where the tools available may be insufficient,perhaps we can remember the objectivity of the writings and remember the target population for whom the writings have been presented. In my view we should consider that unencumbered ideas are joyfully enjoyed and can create the desired impact among the " Clients".
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Saturday, March 6, 2010


The sun moves
everyday ,inch by inch
we too move away everyday
inch by inch.

The daylight plays hide and seek
inside my brain,
the known world melts
until the dusk,
the wind shivers
the rainbow words runabout
incessantly like the drunken saint,

I can see you here and there eternally
pine leaves tumble spirally,
pigeons circle in the sky,
insistent laughter of the distant boy,
shimmering pages of the copy book ,
all leave memories behind and
the sun moves still inch by inch

Sunday, February 21, 2010

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Culture of Medicine

Last night I went to my GP with a terrible sore throat.

looked at me scrutinizing and he said Hmmm.
Well I have heard that sound so many times , on so many occasions with so many emotions and feelings and wisdom
implied into that sound that I refused to be terrified by that
noise. He pulled up his writing pad and with random emphatic scratches wrote down five medicines ! Five medicines with some valuable adv. at the end "X ray, Blood test ,uric cid test, and blood sugar test.
So for A simple sore throat a hassle of spending nearly 1000 rs.
Of course the doctor needed the fees from me and the commission from the chemists and pathologist. That's how it goes.
This is what the culture of medical ethics and the profession in our city. \
Now if I suffered from this same symptom, Sore throat, would a doctor in uganda, or lima , or a an isolated village in Cambodia suggest the same remedy , curative or therapeutic ?Would the villagers firstly bother to visit a doctor for a sore throat ? Would the medicine that works for a Delhi boy ,work for a Tasmania village boy? The answer to al the above questions are an Emphatic NO.
We all have different cultures ,our faith , our values, our sense of valid knowledge , our logic and reasoning are our culture based.
We grow up with our culture and what we believe will be good for us changes according to our cultural context. In a village
of Mongolia a simple shaman , or village medicine man takes care of all the illnesses of the community. It is believed in most part of the agrarian culture tha Dis-ease is a community illness
( surprisingly, Medical science of most advanced countries now have started to subscribe to this view )
Many stress related illness, madness,heart diseases , etc originate from the dysfunction of the society at large.An ancient Shaman used to believe that cure of an illness of an individual depends squarely on the cure of the society at large.
So in order to cure the patient questions must be asked why does one suffer from a particular illness . Who or what is to be blamed and what can we do about it.
Shall we require our doctors to prescribe toxic cughsyrup to our children or shall we see that the air my child breathes is pure which obviously needs attention of our culture. Medicine is linked to our anthropology.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

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Banalata Sen

For a thousand years have I paced to and fro
over the earth,
from the seas of sri lanka
to the dark night of Malay seas,
Long have I wandered
in the twilight world of Bimbisa king *
Have I been ,in a land of more distant darkness;
I am a tired soul alone
while around me foams and froths
the ocean of life,
Didn't then Banalata Sen of Natore *
offered me two drops of serenity ?

Her hair the slumberous night in the
ancient darkness of Bidsha *
Her face the carving sculpture of Sravasti *
beyond the endless sea,
The captain of the wrecked and battered ship who
before he loses all,
sees the emerald grass blowing on the far
distant sanctuary
sees with the same vision that I saw
when I beheld her in darkness.
And she said,
Where have you been so long ?