SILKY

Are threads of silk deceptive?
I am struck by a wand of curiosity!
Deception is an art,
illusions are large-
a shot of poison can
be less lucrative
than a thread of silk
only the cocoon is
what is decisive
or perhaps...
skilfully deceptive!

The night has her own 
spools of silky intentions-
beds are luxury,
minds are stupid;
a handful of spider's web
can roll the world down 
into hopeless apocalypse:
a hand long silky piece
of night wear can be
so tempting, indulging...

Had hearts been silky,
we could have stitched
the voids of threads
but it's unfortunate
no heart is silky,
no silk owns a soul,
because only the nights
know of the coils of silk,
and you must know,
nights are deceptive!

WHERE'S THE GHOST?

The outside was frightening. He never feared a ghost, but he had heard his friends speak of the one black shadow that roamed at the fifth turn of the street beside the pond. Ghosts occupied those who harnessed feeble minds, in whom fears cloud obvious truths, and he very well believed that. He kept on walking. "Ah! The street lamps are never repaired, adding to the fantasy of the horror that rests just in tongues", he thought. He crossed the third turn at the street, and felt more relaxed than ever. Splashes of ripples in the pond often alerted him, but, he knew of the falling twigs of the trees beside the pond. There were fishes too. He was satisfied at how his reasoning was impenetrable. He reached the fifth turn at the street. The width of the street reduced to almost half. He encountered no invisible who became visible to him, and threatened his soul. He tried not to cross the part too quickly: he knew he didn't believe in spirits. He walked steadily, often watching his phone's chat windows and smiling at the messages that kept flowing in. There was a hustle among the bushes. He paid no heed to the jungle alerts. Suddenly, he faced an attack from a being. He fell down. It looked like a man, lean and thin like the midrib of a leaf, and restless. The man crossed the street towards the pond leaving him wounded. And then, he heard his footsteps again in the dark. He rose immediately, and as soon as he felt someone near him, he pushed with his might. There was no sound of a splash in the pond. He was terrified. Ghosts are lighter than air; they carry no weight, and hence there was no sound of a fall. He started running as quickly as he could. Had he been in a different situation as in sports, that run would have been his all-time best. He reached his quarters safely. Tired and weak, he chose to sleep early...with the lights on. The next morning, he woke up early. He could not reason if that incident was real, or was he hallucinating. He kept aside his thoughts and readied himself for the day's work. He started his journey through the same street that had compromised his life the previous night. He reached the fifth turn, and saw around 10 men with fishing nets discussing things. As he neared, he heard one of them," Poor fellow. God has his means of pulling out lives. He died because of the curse that haunted him- his in born dumbness. We could have shouted if we fell, how could he? Pity."

He increased the pace of his walks. How could a sensible man who never believed in ghosts could commit such a tedious error that could be counted as a federal crime? He realized the ghost had rested in him, how suppressed fears clouded the obvious truths in front. He was the ghost that night. No ghost ever resides, it is men who breathe blood into fiction!

Man is a ghost...only if he retires from being a man with a mind!

THE LAST UMBRELLA

She now adorns the museum
of antiques and mammoth bones...
Aah! Those are what museums hold:
leftovers that suddenly grow precious
but she rests silently, frozen perfectly...
Wait! How do you know she's a she?
Her colours suggest her of being girlish
like pink satins are always flooding
the stores even when there's no bonus
wired to a common man's accounts...

She lies behind the glass,
of her kind she's the last-
a treasure is she titled
away from the smoky rains
that once drowned metros
and paddies, blind was mercy.
Her colour has weakened
as she longs for freedom
below the skies,
on the muds
out where air flies
be it a day or a night!

Her steel still shines,
a mistress of life,
respect kisses the glass
of the old but painted museum.
And she glitters in silvery
spine, robust and pretty
and....

Hey! Come again...
How do you know she's a she?
Please explain!

THE SINGING ROTARY

POEM NO. 2 

(As a part of the friendly poetry challenge, nominated by Pijush Kanti Deb​)

Honks of horns,
clothes what worn
conclude priorities,
status and destiny!
Sirens are useless,
death is evident,
jobs aren't permanent
seconds are important!

She played her broken flute
in the rotary's garden;
her brother tried to tune
into what he last sang!
Her friends hit the dhols
the air kissed its freedom;
the rotary seemed true
like stars falling from the blue!
Sick fumes of the city
seriously looms over the rotary,
yet the blinds ceased not playing
their best songs in the rotary!

But, honks of horns
and business measured in clocks
design their deafness
wherein lies tomorrow's deaths!
Life may run in a circle
like pride calmed in shackles;
the cars just have to carry
flesh that shall melt in agony
so, should anyone pay heed
to the city's only singing rotary?

THE LAST OF MOCKING BIRDS

POEM NO. 1

(As a part of friendly poetry challenge on Facebook; 

nominated by poet and friend, Pijush Kanti Deb)

If a life could grow in mists,
she was the finest hypothesis;
the noon brought its guests:
leather shoes, nylon nets,
poachers arrived and camped,
voices strengthened the plans-
she waited, silent in shrubs,
one slip of beak...death at dusk!

Freedom isn't a free country.
Life isn't a colleague's theory.
A blazer hides a hesitant heart,
can a watch buy one's fragile past?
Love stays in bookmarks of novels,
romance is a mere metric of progress-
maturity is filing a divorce,
confidence is marrying twice,
who cares for the sons?
They shall soon be grown-ups
just like our neighbours',
a divorce isn't that much!

She waited...silent in shrubs,
one slip of beak...death at dusk!
A man aimed his slingshot
at a sparrow's nest at spot;
the eggs were new,
she was sorry, she knew!
Suddenly, she chirped
the sparrow's best part;
the man just turned half
released the rubber.
...
She felt no wings,
but she would die in peace
for the sparrow
wasn't hurt
all because of
her, the last mocking bird!

HAFNIUM, MY LOVE

[Dedicated to people and scholars working on semiconductor devices and electronics]

I haven't seen the barber

since the last one year,

because I am in love

with a lady named Hafnium!

She had called me a fool

when I didn't know the rule

that a day is enough not

to please a Mistress hot!

She would react often

on seeing ice cream silly cones,

and I would sincerely calculate

permittivity of her vocal tones!

The morning rains turned me lazy,

zero jogs affect health's kinks,

she pleases me with her constant 22;

love is a current, there's only a you!

Noiseless neighbourhood

and candle-light Indian food-

there's a power cut

how can life conduct?

Hafnium, my love,

pleasant winds out

can never kill my warmth

you shall be mine, 
my simulated bride!

                                                          ***

[NOTE: For anyone not so familiar with transistors or electronics, the following one-liner on italicised words in the poem may basically help!

1. Hafnium is a metal, and its oxide is used as gate dielectric in modern day transistors.

2. silly cones: refers to Silicon- a semiconductor used in transistors

3. permittivity: the property of a material to hold electrical charge

4. kinks: undesirable shoots in a plot, especially in current.

5. constant 22: relative permittivity of Hafnium Oxide is 22, also known as dielectric constant

6. noise: unwanted fluctuation in electrical circuits

7. conduct: to transfer electrons (current) from one point to another

8. simulated: transistors and circuits are often tested on real-time softwares before manufacture]

LOVE THAT SHALL ALWAYS STAY...

Dear Miss M, 

I never keep diaries. I keep memories, because they add to the extra weight of my soul. Those doings and wrongdoings- all are still a part of my self! Time plays sport of nostalgia, and it is Time that has teased me to write another piece. Time changes...

A few keystrokes on a blog are not sufficient to express the inexplicable. But I am trying, at least for you who is so far away, yet always nearby. Days were good as today six years ago. There was that vibrant youth, and admiration for you so wonderful. Waiting for phone calls was included in schedule. There was love despite the fact that there were no meetings. Three times we met, and I wonder even today how a complete year could be everyday! Beside talks of life, there were Kirchoff's Laws and Schrodinger's Cat, and math of course. And before all those, there was a proposal. There was love!

Wait was sweet for me; I never did the best to fetch an answer. I am a poor runner- 70+ weight always keeps me lazy. I never meant to do anything wrong. And then, suddenly that long gap of silence in the year weakened me.

The curtains were already wrapping up. But there was this love that has always stayed, and shall stay even in the deadliest of times, if not death. In the last conversation, you had asked me not to talk to you again. I found it easier...easy enough to hide within the silence that you asked for. But I tried to be there, as long as I could in silence...during the on air show, and during your favourite photo shoots. But silence is only a weak thread. Your joys still mean the most!

But in this world of emotions being framed as sentimental freaking objects of attention, I do not ask you to forgive nor believe this letter! No...not at all! Forgiveness is often a devil's excuse.

There are things perhaps, which I feel so empty to type! That's why I don't keep diaries! I carry memories, because they add to the extra grief of nostalgia when I remember you...and smile! Perhaps we may never meet...and if there is a birth waiting on the other side of the river, I shall pray that your memory be rebooted! Next time shall be the last time, and there shall be no errors! Stay blessed! May my life be yours!

From,

Mr. N.

[NOTE: This letter is only fiction. Fiction is true in dreams. And Mr. N loves dreams. So, this letter may be true fiction.]

AND WHEN THE RIVER DIES

(Dedicated to World Elder Abuse Awareness Day, June 15) 

She would grind some betel nuts, and then settle herself under the moonlight! We would surround her with expectation of another tale best enough to put us to a wonderful slumber. A night was incomplete without her chats! We preferred her narration to the television, because we could have voluntary recap of our favourite episodes of Grandma's Tales. Sometimes mothers would sit behind us to have a taste of Bezbaruah's tales flavoured with Grandma's recipe of sweet narration. Stories of camouflaged snakes, greedy brahmins and cursed princes were the best gifts. Interestingly there were intermissions too. She would take a two-minute break two times, once during the middle of the 30 minute tale and the other just at the climax. The last break was her strategy perhaps, to allow us to expand our imagination as to what would happen next. I feel our silly questions on why the prince disappeared, how the frog could have powers and why the stepmother hurt her daughter, amused her the most. She derived the best entertainment out of those innocent FAQs, and would feel pleased.

She once told the tale of a river that was cared upon by the people of the village. The river was the people's hope and they did their best not to disturb or pollute it. One summer, there were no rains, and the river died due to lack of water. This saddened the villagers; they could not bear the death of their Mother, and so decided to fill the river by bringing water from the nearest village. They worked hard: men and women equally carried gallons on their backs and filled the little river. The River Goddess then appeared, and told them that She was happy at the love of the people even when She hadn't been there. 

Today, when I recall the tale, I sometimes feel, and am quite amazed to realize that in the tale, our Grandma is the river herself, and we all her little audience, the villagers. She meant that even when the river would die, love and respect should remain in the hearts of us. 

And so, when the river dies, there should be a fairy tale of good deeds in everyone's life... 

[NOTE: Bezbaruah in this piece refers to the legendary Assamese poet and author, Lakshminath Bezbaruah whose writings are contemporary even today, and without whom, we would not have grown.]

MARTYRS

[Dedicated to the demise of Indian Army soldiers in Manipur ambush] 

a breath equals a thousand souls
a thousand fires could break not
souls of bravery planted long ago
long before terror was born

they fought, they died but surely won
those who lost are coward foes
war is an art, anything stays fair
victory is fair, goes to soldiers

ON MEETING MR. GANGULY

[Dedicated to World Elder Abuse Awareness Day, 15 June]

He sat like an owl- wise and alert! His retro-like reading glasses reflected his intellect with a blaze of glamour! And who says the 1940s gave birth to old schools? He was stylish but not arrogant, talkative but intelligent, and carefree but caring. A fine personality he carried, and spoke, breaking the last crumb of his cigarette on the black bowel of his ash-tray: There is a sense of poetry in youth today. You must be pretty interested to watch my library!

I could not disagree at any chance; more than what books he had, I was more into thinking of how his reading room would be like! And then, the 74+ cowboy unlocked a door, and led me in. The room was a treat to the eye. Posters and newspaper cuttings on the walls were newer than his new beard. The room bore the scent of a bachelor, and he silently cracked open a secret to me in whispers: When I newly married, I used to romance with your grandma in this room. I sang many poems to her here. The table here bears the evidence of many postage stamps stuck on letters to the Editors of dailies and magazines. The thick and black spots of gum suggest that. That guitar you see...it is my passion. I still tune into this piece when your grandma gets angry at my act of stealing samosas, or when I skip sitting with her on the verandah due to a thriller movie. I do forget the notes sometimes, but these hands are skilled enough not to play the worst of music. Days are still pretty exciting, aren't they?

Words from the old man were young still. Inspiration rests in the attitude of living a life. The conversation reminded me of my college days, when friends narrated their fantasies of life. He drove me into a sweet past. He made me believe that nostalgia is not the ultimate penance of the joyful past. Time flies, but it is up to me if I should let it go. Ageing is evident- that's life, but enjoying is a choice! Waiting to see the end of life is a boring pastime! I was happy to see him. And that was Mr. Ganguly's most coveted victory of his life!

A WORD OF WAR

[Dedicated to the innocent people who lose lives in wars]

The sudden bombardment at the border cautioned everyone. Panic and wails resonated with deaths. The air was polluted by gunpowder, and hearts by fear! She waited in despair. Her child was among the few who were playing on the school ground. It was vacation and who thought of cross-border attacks. She cried like being punished. He found it difficult to hold her; he did not wish to see his woman die! She almost collapsed on the floor, rested her head on the muddy walls! The neighbours found their boy, but Akram was missing. She went running to the boy before he could speak.

Did you see Akram? Please tell me. Oh my God! What happened to my boy?

She started slapping herself! 

The little boy was already frightened. He spoke not. She asked again, but he stayed silent and drooped his head!

She hugged him, and shouted: Please tell me, son. I would give you anything you wish to have.

Gathering some courage, he tried to speak. There were no words- he started to narrate but there was no voice......

A LIE OF DEATH

The tires shrieked on the slippery Shillong Road, and Mr. Shrivastava heaved a sigh of relief: an inch more, and he would have met his most unfortunate death! He tried not to think much, and restarted the engine of his vehicle. The North-Eastern rain was Nature's guest that summer. It was his daughter's thirteenth birthday, and he was happy that his meeting at the Administrative Tribunal got postponed. He drove for almost an hour. The rains could not entertain him much. He switched on the radio, and listened to the music. It was soothing. Just then, an announcement on the radio diverted his attention: 

Here comes the traffic announcement on the Shillong Road. Fifty six minutes ago, a car crashed at the Fourth Corner area. The car which had only its driver inside instantly burnt to ashes. The driver has been identified as one Ankush Shrivastava. The road shall stay closed until.......

Mr. Shrivastava kept on driving. He felt his false veins circulating vacuum- there was no blood. He understood why his blood did not turn warmer. He dared not stop his car...he dared not realize the truth!

WAR OF DARWINS

The Sandy Battlefield is prepared to accept more lives on its deathbed. The H2O Corporation which controls world water supply at the moment, comes face to face with the Rebels. Time changes, and so do economies. Water is the new currency in the New World. Time changes and so do weapons. Nukes are outdated- mechanically advanced bows with ironic arrows triggered by brain waves are what they use now. What else could they do? Using nukes can erase the cause of the war itself- water. So can bullets and grenades. They use gunpowder now only for blasts in wells. The Future Gunpowder Act signed by all the countries is obeyed strictly; fear of death ensures order. And the most hilarious of all is that there's no need of a dictator to keep the Act intact.

The first bells of dawn have been rung. Symbols of Cactus on flags depict devotion of the soldiers towards the War. The H2O Corporation has been accused of creating differences among people based on Water Balance. Men who possess water wells are kept at higher levels of priority than men who do not. No one fights for gold and platinum now, as they used to in the Old World. One glass of water buys a life.

The Rebels now charge towards the platoon of the H2O Corp.. Arrows and shields seem more than heads. Water seems more lively than lives instead!

THE LAST RAINBOW

My calendar moves faster 
than my thoughts!
I am eighty, and I am far,
far away from roads
that lead to a rainbow,
or colours of hope!

"Do you sell rainbows
that look like rainbows?"

"Oh! Little Miss, yes, I do,
a last rainbow still left for you!" 

I sell rainbows...
I saw one last in 2104
when today was born
on the edge of carbon!

I sell rainbows today,
The Third of June, 2174:
old photographs of the bows
I frame in borders, yellow
for school projects on History
for the walls of fake nurseries!

The gods are happy:
their duties are starting to end.
I am a foolish octogenarian
who sold today his last rainbow
but none remains to know
all that my last wish is,
is to watch the lost rainbow
one last time
before the rains!