Aami chini go chini tomare

My take on Rabi Thakur's song. (An Assamese inspired to translate a Bengali poem):

I know you, oh yes, I know you,

Maiden from a far off land;

You live beyond the oceans,

O maiden far away.

I’ve seen you in the autumn mornings,

Seen you in the summer evenings,

I’ve seen you, within my heart,

O maiden far away.

I've lent my ear to the skies

And I have heard your songs;

And I've offered to you my soul,

O maiden far away.

My travels have come to an end,

I've arrived in this new land,

A guest standing at your door,

O maiden far away.

I know you, oh yes, I know you,

Maiden of a foreign land;

You live beyond the oceans,

O maiden far away.

Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To Kya Hai?

This world of palaces, thrones and crowns
This world, the enemy of humanity
This world which hungers for riches
So what if I were to win this world?

Each body maimed, each soul thirsty
Confused eyes, sorrowful hearts
Is this a world or is it chaos?
So what if I were to win this world?

Here we are nothing but toys
This is a world of dead idols
Here even death is cheaper than life
So what if I were to win this world?

Youth wanders like a sinner
Young bodies dress up for sale
Here love is nothing but a business
So what if I were to win this world?

This world where man is nothing,
Love is nothing, friendship nothing
Where love means nothing at all
So what if I were to win this world?

Burn it, burn it
Burn it to ashes. 
It's your world. 
Keep it for yourself. 
Do whatever you want with it. 
Take it away,
Take it out of my sight.
I don't want it. 
It's your world. 
I don't want it. 
How would it matter? 
If I were to win the world?

Have you been writing?

You ask me

If I've been writing.

Well, kind of.

What do you do

When something is, so to say,

At the tip of your pen?

You write.

You write everything but that.

You search for it

In every line,

Every gap, every curve,

Every comma, every period.

They say,

Life is what happens

When you plan other things.

If that is true,

Then yes, I am writing.

Well, kind of.

Traces

It was lying there.
Hiding among the pages
Of an old xerox copy,
A dusty yellow envelope.

How is it possible?
Hadn't I rummaged every corner
Of every trunk, every drawer?
Box of gifts
Gloriously flung into the garbage dump;
Green coffee mug
Deliberately smashed to smithereens
On my hostel floor;
Black pullover
Deliciously cut up into pieces
So no one would have to wear it again;
Every tiny little trinket
Hunted down, mutilated, destroyed.
And now this.

Remove every trace.
That's what she said.
Remove every trace
And all will be well again.

So I set it on fire.
One page at a time.
I watched it burn
Till the red embers turned black.
Like they do in the movies.
A proper ceremony.
A trace removing ceremony,
With maudlin violins
As background music.

One more trace removed.
So how many more to go
Till all is well again?

Taking a Stand

One of my favourite expressions is "l'esprit d'escalier" or "staircase wit", obviously because I happen to be an excellent example of this kind of wit. Except that in my case, that wonderful comeback doesn't always come at the bottom of the stairs, but waits till years have passed by and everyone is on the verge of forgetting that conversation. The good thing is that it often comes to me in the form of poetry. So here is another instance of my absolutely sparkling staircase wit! Or rather, the-decade-after wit.


You tell me
That I'm weak
And so I can't be yours.
I've never learned
To take a stand
And so I can't be yours.
A ready-made feminist:
That's what you want.
Ready-made and fitted
To suit your demands.

I know I'm not the one
You are looking for.
Not quite a feminist,
And far from ready-made
Or well-fitted
To take ready-made stands
On your behalf.
No, no, that's not me.
A bit unsure and lost,
Groping around,
Forever searching
For a firm footing,
And forever digging
At its very foundations.
That's more like me.
Yes, I know I can't be yours.

You tell me
That I'm weak
And I can't take a stand.
You tell me
That I'll learn, but for now,
I just don't make the cut.
But what would you do
If I finally learnt
How to throw it all away,
And took a stand
Pointing my finger at you?

Procrastination

I know.
At the core
Of all this commotion
There is silence.
Silence that soothes
As soft as moonlight
Silence that scorches
As hard as the desert sun.
It scares me.
So I skim at the surface,
Splashing around with the waves
Adding to the clamour,
Crowding my brain
With a cacophony of voices.
But how long?

Like a dewdrop

Falling soft and silent

As someone drifts

Into the world of dreams,

I whisper

Into the dark night

Unseen, unheard.