Ami Oper hoye boshe achi Lalon Geeti

Close

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 ?

Buddha smiles

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 .

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

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)

Rabindranath

**** The song follows

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

unknown

unknowable."

( 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.)

Diwali

Oh yes

I love Diwali....

Love it with all passion.

I love the show,the display

and over and above I love the sound.

THE BANGS and THE BOOMS.

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!!!

Real Meditation music

Buddha

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.

THE RAIN, THE PIANO

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

meditation

She shuts her heart

and break me to pieces.

Justice

Justice

I waited for you

and finally you came

the absurd night was spread

on my bed

like broken glass

splintered.

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

THY WILL BE DONE."

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.

Wound

Unknown

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.

Sisyphus

Sisyphus

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.

Neha

Neha.....

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.

Man-O-Wara

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 .

Why

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.

Gabriel Fauré - Pavane, op. 50

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,

AND YOU....

Archetype

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.

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

splendorous!!!

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

pilgrimage.

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.

Enlightment

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

romantically

rhythmically.

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

centrifugally

,intellectually masturbating .

Enlightenment at last.

Still

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

spluttering

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.

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".

Eternity....

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

eternally.

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.