Text message wala love :)

I do not attempt to find out how I feel about you. It floats in the universe, it makes and it breaks. We are crossing all the distances without even speaking a single word. The Gods look down at us and smile; two bruised have sung the song which no exquisite instrument managed to strum.

This just gives me all hope to share this journey, which I had turned away from a few years back. And you stood there at that juncture and sent a prayer heavenwards for me. It just took me a while to come, immerse myself in the boundless joy of your love.

Now the heaven is happy and the world has found all its missing colors. Even the black and white share your vision. That, my dear, is your love.

They...

Tara looked out of the window. Her fingers wandered aimlessly through the long, listless strands of her hair, that caressed her hips. The husband had set sail for new profitable shores. She would not set sight on him for the next six weeks. The hollow hunger was already on its way up in her belly.

Surya thought he saw the curtain flip and a shadow dissolve behind the darkness. It was probable it was she. The merchant had left at the crack of dawn. He had paid Surya's step father a hefty fees to take one of his giant boats and ten of his best sailors. It could only be termed a divine intervention that the wound on his back disqualified him from joining the group. 

The brass door knob felt ominous. Tara halted for a moment. Another step and she would smell the freshly cut grass, the air and soil. "No this is far too dangerous." She looked away from her moment of emancipation and curled down near the door. She has forgotten how it felt to step out. She just lay there, feeling the rude intrusion of cold marble on her face. The woman within her had died several deaths each time the trader husband chose to look the other way, copulated with her sans passion; bought her sarees and bangles but never cared to touch the drops of water on her shoulder remnant from her baths. Now she was accustomed to crispy crackle of currency notes taking over the melody of her languishing heart.

"Biwi Ji, I got you a water lily." Jolted from her reverie, Tara sprung to her feet. She had heard this voice before. She recognized the shudder it sent through her body and into her soul. This was him. What was he doing at her door step at such an hour? Did he not sail with the rest of them? Did it allow her to be anxious?

Surya was there waiting for the door to open and those tiny feet to appear. And soon enough they did. He could not look at the face, the dainty little pink feet preoccupied his gaze. He was besotted since he first saw them walk up the cobbled steps of the bathing ghat one morning. Now it was a daily ritual.He would be there humming some meaningless song, cleaning his boat each morning, waiting for the duo to appear and disappear slowly in the water. That was his opium, he survived each day and skipped through his dreams each night to be there at the ghat as the Sun nodded to the million salutation.

The silver bells looked bigger today. Yes their music was familiar, yet hesitant. How he craved for a touch of those feet, that he he knew would destroy the last thread of salvation. He wanted to reach out and lay his hands on the alabaster  like creation. But the awareness of another's sight stinging him was too strong too ignore. His heels dug further into the soil.

"What is your name?" Tara quietly asked. "Surya". The young man continued to look towards the earth. Her eyes panned the broad expanses of his shoulders. She knew where she had heard his voice. It was at the ghat  each morning in the rendition of lonesome sailor songs. There he was, eyes shy, sun beaten skin. The ebony chest lay bare like an empty sheet to be a witness of a tale of the unknown. The legs that revealed themselves from underneath the crumpled dhoti had witnessed many a severe storm, frantic sprint through the dusty lanes, submerged secrets of the river that flowed out of their village. He was blocking her sight and his shadow engulfed her. The eyelashes were like palm leaves. They fell like a cover over the promises his eyes held. The jaw was taut and almost perfect, save the dip in his chin. Why did she want to run her finger across the jawline, circle the dimple and move all the way up? Dark and quiet, he loomed large like a sculptor's rustic creation. Rough around the edges, smooth like slate all the way, she saw the muscles of his torso clench under her shameless gaze. 

He lay the flower on the red verandah. Her feet were brushing against one another. He let out a sigh. The warm breath bathed her feet in sensations she had tucked away in the crevices of her broken memory. The lehenga revealed nothing beyond her ankles. The mirrors on the skirt could not distract him from following the length of her legs. "She has a tiny clinched waist," he marveled as his eyes lingered on the gold chain that spun lazily around her. The hands that rowed the boat and set the tattered sail each day, agonized at the thought of tip-toeing through the doll like figurine that stood there twisting an unknown desire inside him. Only if she could be reached out to.

Tara noticed the jagged an bruised hands. The palms were like a map of the journeys he had made and the mementos the wind and water gave back. She ached to be under their touch, to be imprinted by the roughness of them. What patterns would they draw on her back? Would they release her hair from the usual braid? Could they cover the contour of her heart shaped face and resuscitate the forgotten couplets? She wanted to know, she wanted to hold, she wanted to proffer. He had washed up at her shore. She wanted to celebrate in gay abandon. "It would be short lived, but this shall last me a lifetime." Tara knew it was the end.

He retraced his steps on the red soil. He knew the flower now lay in her hand. He need not look back for a promise. There were none. The eyes followed him as far as they could see. She knew the doors would soon shield him from her, once again.

A distant melody breezed in on that autumn afternoon. Tara knew Surya's song, she did not read his eyes.

The lotus feet reappeared from beneath the water. They slipped past him yet again. Surya did not see the river mirror Tara's face. 

They did not need to know. They were aware.

"A dream has power to poison sleep." - P.B Shelley

One afternoon...

The sweat drips down his back,

He had lots to finish in the woods,

She stood at the corner of the pebbled river bank.

The hour-glass weighed down with the frivolities of introduction;

The air was warm and it was starching itself still,

For it knew there was a collision impending.

The sun dress hung languidly to her tensed body,

The curves accentuated by the thin fabric;

She knew there was threat lurking close,

As her dark eyes turned a shade darker. 

The gazel knew the panther was around.

The brown in him whiffed of musk and grime;

He stood behind her taking in her sight.

The Sun glistened through strands of her boyish hair,

The corner of her mouth quivered.

He felt cruel as he sensed the chase was about to begin.

He knew she would struggle and steal and sigh,

She would resist and oh how much he reveled the image!

The hand around the waist tightened.

The hair bristled her soft skin,

The unkempt beard brushed at the nape of her neck.

It stung, it bruised, it caressed;

The guards were shattered.

Slowly they turn to look at each other,

Their gaze unbroken by the mountain river that gurgled.

The fire burns up the heat that consumes their mind, body and soul.

It blazes through their eyes and parches their throat.

In one passionate embrace he pulls her to himself.

The breath is all lost, there is no ground left uncovered.

He deepens his reach in her mouth,

She swallows the fire that fills her mouth and burn her lips.

The kiss breaks into a stare and a stare leaps back to a kiss.

The game is on, the sparks fly all around.

He reaches up for her chin n bites it,

She tilts back to let her body blend into his warmth and strength.

The hardness between them is seeking attention,

She goes down on her knees and runs her hand round the waist band of his denim.

Her touch promises the unknown, the thrill,

He looks heavenwards, a sigh escapes his lips.

There she is, loving and biting n sucking his passion in.

The lips, the tongue engage in a fierce eruption of senses he was till then unaware of,

The force increases and engulf him as if it shall burn his soul.

He slides down a hollow he knew not could be consumed.

The birds are busy with their usual task,

Unmindful of the mangled duo.

His voice breaks in a rough murmur 

As she sucks him in one last time.

He has let the dress out of her shoulders

It has revealed the swell of her cream mounds.

His mouth find one while his hands caress the other.

They tighten at the sudden thrilling onslaught.

Her legs shake under the force of the impending drama.

She knows she is trapped,

He smiles wickedly as the last sense wall of defense has been broken.

He stares back in her eyes as she tries not to blink nor shy away.

The eyes are naked, the bodies aint.

He goes for her hips and pulls them to his hardness.

She may just break at the throb of his pulses there.

It pierces through the threads of the fabric which is just like a defeated excuse now.

The male hands go searching,

They know their direction

The shadow between her legs is where they head

As he softly strums at it.

With one swift motion he glides his fingers into her;

The moan is swamped by the sweetness of his lips.

The touch burns through her as he bends her over his thigh

There she lies all helpless and barren,

He sinks his finger further and beyond,

The wetness oozes through her crevices.

He plays on and bends his mouth inside her

The tongue digs deep and tastes her bud

The air has not been so warm in a long time now.

Her mind has shattered into a bright sparkling dance,

It sings it hums, it wants to go beyond the stars.

Her legs have now crossed behind his neck 

As he sucks out the last bit of dew she has there.

It is now a matter of time before they shed their clothes

His fingers undress her slowly as he takes in the sight of what emerges.

He is cruel, he denies her the pace

His eyes burn her skin and she knows no more.

With one move they glide down onto the pebbled bank.

He is now between her legs and his hardness presses onto her belly.

She moves her hand onto his waist and pulls at his pants

He knows now she cannot wait anymore.

As he sinks into her,

His mouth finds the hollow of her neck,

He tastes her neck, while she digs her fingers on his back.

The movements fasten, their bodies glisten,

Their sweat inter mingle.

Its his turn to lie on the pebble and she climbs onto her mate,

Slowly she licks the sweat from his steely chest and the from the dark above his legs.

She massages the fatigue out of his shoulders and looks longingly at his feet

She knows she wants to feel them on her skin

They tease, they tingle as he nuzzles up her breasts.

The hands are busy parting her legs as his on her body feasts.

There she is, there he is on the bank of the pebbled river

The water hums and breeze blows

As he enters her and the passion flows.

One small stroke in the opening which unnerves her tension,

And then with massive force he thrusts himself into her

The chains have broken, she quivers under his weight.

They know all is one, their blood sweat and fate.

He thrusts and pulls and she lifts her eager hips.

He glides in deeper, he pushes in further, she is about to tip.

And their movement seems endless, their two bodies dance at once,

They are almost there, where reality mixes with trance.

For one last time she pulls outside of her,

Their eyes meet and lips murmur,

Her legs entwine on his back,

He lustily smiles and smirks

And thrusts with all his masculine force into where her passion lurks.

They call out the others name, their embraces tighten

A thousand splendid suns between her legs awaken

He releases within her as she clenches herself waist below

Oh their passions have ignited the hot summer afternoon, 

She knows she has been touched in a new way.

Slowly as he lifts himself from her tired, warm body

He looks back into the dark eyes.

She turns her gaze into his.

Their smiles meet, their needs answered.

As she rolls to her side, he cannot let there be any space between them

He pulls her close as he spoons her from behind.

There they lie, sharing a quiet moment 

In each others embrace, with the river breeze wafting their scent.

Well, the kingfisher glides down to catch its prey,

The two set of eyes look on,

The space beckons new promises, a new tale,

They turn to look at each other.

The trees know, the lovers are back in the throes of passion yet again......

Its a long summer afternoon I guess. NEVER MIND :)

,

Birth...

He mixed the water in the clay,
The mould ready to take shape.
The days and nights of endeavour
Come to life one fine day.

Does he like what he made?
Is it a far cry from the image he carried?
One can never know the joy or dejection;
Would she inspire a song or let a dream fade?

That night he dreams a strange dream.
From within a veil she speaks.
"You are my creator, you infuse life,
But can you, for a price, my soul redeem?"

H broke into a sweat, he lay awake.
"I give her limbs, I paint her face,
I lend her poise, I grant her grace.
She entrusts her being with me.
Her person, her conflicts,
Is it for me to usurp or take?"

You like to garland her, or flower her feet,
Yet you see not the wound that has sunk its teeth.
She may be your idol for morning worships
Looks like a tear there, but quivers not her lips.

Kolkata

What is this place all about? How does it stay alive even as the stench of redundancy and neglect rise from its unfathomable depths?

It was wedding time in the family and Kolkata was the base camp. The family tree spread wide and swayed on the music of celebration. Yet, as I stepped out of the house to run a few errands around the City of Joy, the air filled my lungs and a heady experience drenched me. It stuck to me like the salt from a bath in the sea.

Wherever my eyes went, I saw scores of people, mostly moving, pushing and shoving. The sooty fumes from taxis and rickety buses ashened the nostrils, hair and face. As I tried to roll up the wind shields and asked the driver to turn on the air-conditioning, he remarked "Yeh shahar doosron se 20 saal peechey hai", (This city is 20 years behind in the rat race of development of the cities in India). Behind my dark glasses, a grey shade of gloom descended. Does this bother the Kolkata-zens that much? Is this what matters in the last balance sheet of quality of life?

My last decade was about Delhi. I have been too careless to even dare to venture into comparing the two cities. Yet whenever I am in Kolkata, an almost sickening urge to write an ode to the old, grandmotherly, choppy, sappy city squabbles in the pit of my tummy. May be it is because I have read many such pieces describing, criticising, deitifying the place. The heritage, historical background, political turmoil and several such elements make this an obvious choice to base one's literature, art or film. The obvious tendency is to speak about the city. As I tried to fight this puppet-like reaction, I stopped. It is a task almost impossible to de-Kolkata-fy the self if one has stepped on that soil. Once there, it shall nest in the memory part of the brain forever. I have grudgingly accepted this fact and let the venom flow through my blood stream. I am more restless, yet at peace now. 

What is Kolkata sans heritage, culture, politics, protests and Hoogly? Why does it appear to be shrouded in nostalgia and lost glory while the rest of the nation marches on?  But if not this, then how would one separate Kolkata from the rest? It is easy to get drowned in this whirlpool of debatable oxymoron.

It is humid, it is crowded, it is dingy, and it is Gothic. People love to debate and discuss. The tube train makes enormous amount of noise as it traverses the length and width of the city. It is a gastronomy paradise. The suburbs are succumbing to the realty expansion. The ponds are now high-rises, over bridges are now painted blue and white. The taxi fares have rocketed. Has the constant criticism of it lagging forced the city to ape the rest of urban India? Has this child lost her panache in order to fit in with the mundane, the ordinary? Has it paid the price already? I silently pray in negation.

As a child, Kolkata was unattractive. The colours, sounds, taste failed to impress. It was a strange reaction I had for the place. I would avoid making any stopovers in this seemingly rude sea of faces. Was I the quintessential “shrew” who avoided any eye contact with her lover, because she feared she would lose her being at his altar of love? Perhaps, or perhaps it was just another juvenile tantrum.

Childhood is long gone; youth has been replaced by adulthood and its tussles. The struggle got tougher each breathing moment. The escapism of excuses, fear and death are like constant companions. As sleep evades my bed on many nights, I remember Kolkata. I remember the biography of human life Calcutta unfurls each day. It is a failure, its love story is debris now, more like a long-forgotten nautch girl relegated. It is a song, seldom sung and mostly hummed because the words cannot be recalled. It is a clumsy child, who has smeared his face, hands and clothes with the ice-cream he thought he relished. It is the street smart girl who shall crack your nuts if you dare rest your eyes on her for a fraction more. It is the first pay check which one cherishes too long. It is dope, it is sugar, it is a void, it is plague. Kolkata is life and yet again it is a way of life and death.

People spend wisely almost miserly. Words are sugar-laced acid. It is a mad rush. Expect nudges and pushes. Laziness dots the pavements and street corners. Cigarette fumes shall burn into your soul. The narrow roads lead to mysterious lanes of poverty. It has embraced the ugly.

For ever, I have been deaf to the pleadings of beggars in Delhi. I seldom pay one. I am biased. I am cold. Then why did I share my gummy bear candies with a street urchin in Calcutta? What was different about him? Or was it the place, the devil force of the city? As I turned one last time to look at him, the candies were fast disappearing in the crevice of his orange mouth.

“Kya hua Madam, kuch mazedar dekha kya? Aap muskura rahi hai”, the driver quips in. The veil has lifted from my heart. Kolkata is a reason for numerous clichés, it inspires copy-cat behavior. Perhaps, what I say here is just another such obvious. May be this is how the city manages to keep all prying eyes from unraveling its mysteries. The façade is impenetrable. The faces are anonymous. The clichés abound in the head. The heart, however, knows. It is awake, the awareness heightened by the array of emotions and experiences offered. May be the reverence and fascination of so many is what defines Kolkata; Clichés employed to understand this prodigal land. I cannot help but use another such phrase, “Love to hate it and hate to love it.”

The driver may be right. But I know I am not wrong. 

Angst

Every breath I take, every move I make, anything I do, I am constantly reminded that even today I am no better than a residual part of this world. I am not the mainstream, the core, the Man. I am a woman and made to feel the misfortune of being the Y chromosome each second. The society, the family, the religion, the school, the law, all tell me that I am meant to be possessed, exchanged, brutalised, sympathised, deitified, but never regarded equal. This is not my world, this is not my country. Everything belongs to them, the MEN. Then why should I respect and love them as fellow human beings? As per their rules, I should not. But I dont resent them or their freedom or their privileges. Because the pain runs too deep and too strong to indulge in thinking about that section of the population who can only sympathise while secretly they bask and gloat being our masters still. They want to protect us. We are not weaklings who need protection. What we need is for them to realise and accept that sex is just a natural phenomenon and not a mode of segregation. And women, for once, just once, stop treating men as your crutch. You are not a marketable commodity, who is owned first by your father, then your husband and then your son. You are a human being. Wake up and stop revelling in the fake sense of being the deity or goddess. You are not. You do not have special powers. You are made of flesh and blood and to survive, your battle shall be way tougher than that of your male counterpart. Its not feminine to be docile and coy. Its inhuman to subjugate yourself and the whole society to an unjust system just because you decide to look away. Stop living in a fool's paradise. Stop being at the receiving end from a society so lopsided, that all it could manage to describe our kind was a 'wo' prefixed before MEN.

A Wish

If wishes had a will of their own, I would be teaching English in my Alma Mater, Carmel School, Digboi, to a likely bunch of eager girls and bored boys, discussing a poem like Walt Whitman's "O Captain, My Captain" and what does the poet signify when he addresses the Captain as "My Father". Then, I would ask if anyone was aware of the meaning of "Elegy" and I am certain, someone resembling the young me or the many literature loving batch mates I was fortunate to have (mostly girls and few boys, a mystery still), would spring from her seat and with a glint of pride and sense of achievement, explain to the class what it means. Some of the boys, in the meantime, would have sketched a fascinating pirate ship, just in an attempt to evade questions on the poet's reference to the misery and pain during the American Civil War.

The English literature and language classes were perhaps the brightest part of a regular school day for me. The discussions, the teachers, the enthusiasm to discover a new word, the essays that allowed us to go on flights of fantasy, those ominous workbooks which I would diligently fill without any care for meals and sleep, all those and more ignited that never to be satiated desire to devour books, reading anything that has semblance to the written form and feel a mental orgasm each time I walk into a bookstore, library or even get near a shelf lined with books.

The desire to go back to those classrooms and share what I learnt in my time always lurks in a bright corner of the heart. Maybe some day this one from my bucket list shall be fulfilled. Till then, I shall be picking up the old text books to read those scribblings in lead adorning the pages and as was always advised, "read between the lines".