Somnambulist

A gaze upon the layers of life,
excruciating in every molecule
of holding something back
Somnambulist
A long walk after bearing so much
in a weary waiting of
forgiving.

The Bird Who Looked Back

I could not evade the look--
Its eyes red---with a grey beak
On the brink of a desperate consciousness
It defies me--as standing just behind
Not touching, never forcing
The bird looks back, with an outpouring
of not saying words, of flying
into the same vigil. 

Sedatephobia

She remained wide awake at night. The whole night. It was not the fear of darkness or living alone. No haunting episodes from a horror movie. The lamp at the corner of the room diluting the darkness with its halogen shines. it was the perfect place to sleep. Everything was fine only. But she can’t sleep at all.

“Our house was located beside a link road. The horns of different vehicles vibrated like some old accordions. Amidst all the din and bustle of the urban busy roads, for me, the ringing bell of the rickshaw was one of the first things to hear in the morning. Every morning the locality, still in half-asleep, woke up with a sweet K-r-r-ri-n-ng K-r-r-ri-n-ng sound.  I used to think in my childhood that it was kind of fun for the rickshaw pullers to ring bells like this. When I had grown up I knew already that there was no fun part; it was his profession. His survival way. After many years, the bell sound signaled the end of the nights. It was in my semi-rebellious angry adolescent years. That was my insomniac period, along with the scattered piles of the papers, some unfinished drafts of writing, a hopeless way to get rid of all my hazy thoughts. And those nights were long and heavy, pacing with the ticking of a grandfather clock, sneaking away like a rat under the rusty furniture. Even though the whole house fell asleep, it was not completely dead silent. The wobbly ceiling fan, a yawping beagle, or even someone was snoring, breathing heavily, the hushing trees or the rushing of the night buses”

Her thoughts were jumbling up together. But she dared to utter a word of her own. She didn’t mumble either. Those words, images, sounds were coming from the past, making noise in her mind only.  At that moment, the weirdest feeling was to destroy the serenity of the night. As if with her single utterance, the quiet night could be cracked like a thousand shards of the glass. The absolute silence was piercing her ears, penetrating inside her, crushing her consciousness. She could hear the beating of her heart. Yes, she was alive and conscious of her soundless existence. The soundlessness was transformed into a sharp buzzing sound, like some ceaseless mantras of a devoted Sadhu. Alone in her 25th- floor hotel room, she felt that too much noiselessness was too much.

Du bist so Wunderbar Berlin! You are wonderful Berlin!

The sun’s rays arch through the trees beaming under a spell of magic. After four long days of being sulky, the sky, at last, appeared in blue. Berlin was in its hue of summer in the late autumn season. I was walking in a park with a weary heart, not originally planned, but just to get some fresh air and to sit somewhere. Homesick and far away. Not knowing exactly where I was going I followed the road opposite Brandenburg Gate. After a while, I discovered myself in the park Tiergarten. Just at that moment, I heard mumbling; I sprang up! Who was behind me? I felt nervous. looked back. No, no one was there. I stepped forward, one foot, two feet, three or more. The whisperings seemed like a hymn, like a small stream running in the deep rainforest. There is no one else: only the sculpture of the Poet Goethe: he stood in white marble facing upward holding a folded paper in his hand, so moving a statue it was as if it could express emotions. Surely am I deluded amidst the swinging trees that make me hear someone’s voice. And I can see him, the Poet surrounded by lyrics, drama and science, songs of sparrows, the dry whispers of leaves, and by the sobbing of poor grey stones lying just across the road.

How many days had the Poet stood there, pensive? How many people had waved goodbye and diminished, dust and earth? The air got thicker and thicker with nitrogen gas; were not the flowers blooming even after so many tragedies on earth? The stone image could not hold the grief and the ecstasy of life.

Across the field, in spite of the grey winter, the charm of green grass was still sparkling in the sunshine. I yearned for the warmth. The moment was fleeting, so was the sun. While strolling lazily, I saw them. Some rocks were set in a circle. I went closer to them. And then what touched my heart was the word ‘forgiveness’ inscribed on one of the rocks, I touched it; it soothed some pain spinning inside me. The four other rocks also enlivened me with a new meaning of life; ‘hope’ ‘love’ ‘peace’ ‘awakening’......

Kusmi

It was in the middle of France. I was just dozing off in my TVG seat and at that moment Kusmi woke me up. Kusmi--a sweet name, similar to Bengali name "Kusum' which means flower. Kusmi was not a kind person forcing me to open my eyelids to see what I was missing outside. When I looked around, across the dining room of the train, a few people were there. At the corner of one table, three old ladies were talking in their elegant low voices.

And then, Kusmi--a French tea--just emerged from the cook's shelf, put on a white shirt, showed me the greenness spreading across the horizon.  

In the dreams of others, surfing the colors...