It rained last night (first draft)

like two lovers
last night
finally the earth met the rain again.
it was almost midnight
the moon was away,
the stars, asleep

if you ask me,
that by itself is enough gossip
but let me tell you some more

it rained and rained and rained
for a very brief moment
for a brief moment, the earth smelled so pleasant
for a brief moment, the sky looked full of delight
for a brief moment, my heart was full of light

lovers meet behind closed windows.
as it started pouring heavily
i knew it's time to close my curtains

outside,
i could hear the sound of thunderclaps
i wonder,
if actually
it was the sound of rain kissing the earth

it is a clandestine affair
the rain belongs to the world of clouds
the earth belongs to the world of grass
both are from different caste!
yet they meet,
often secretly
love has no religion after all
it just strives on hopes and dreams


yesterday too, it was a bout of unseasonal rain
out of turn, sudden
like the rain could no more bear not meeting the earth
like they agreed to meet for a brief moment
like they agreed to keep it a secret

but like all affairs,
like all lovers
they too got caught

some captured them in Facebook statuses​,
some shot them into videos and posted on Instagram
and some morons even wrote poems about them

troubled,
the rain left in a hurry

(first rain of the season, Mumbai. It rained on 12 may, 2017. Normally Mumbai rain starts only after the first week of june)
                               

After Reading the new Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

Harry Potter and the cursed child is not a novel, it's the script of a play. A novel is ultimate in itself, a script is bought to life only when the actors breathe life to the dialogues. I had to remind myself this every time I felt disappointed by the script. Because I found the script dry; they were just shadows of what was created in the earlier seven books. This said, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child is a must read for all Harry Potter fans. I needed to read about 20 pages or so to get used to the new writing style and soon I was hooked. By the time I had read about 50 pages, I was jumping with joy (actually READING with joy). But as I read further, Harry Potter and the cursed child really failed to add up to the earlier seven books, and this I say with a broken heart!

Harry, as a child was always given to self-doubts. As an adult too, he seems full of it. Infact, there is not much else to see of Harry Potter in this eighth book, which is surprising because the Harry we know was much more interesting. Albus, Harry's youngest son, has a difficult relationship with Harry; the book is mostly about the reconciliation between father and son. Ron is just a frivolous character who does not take himself seriously, which I found very surprising as earlier, among the three of them, it was Ron who took himself the most seriously! Earlier he would be often hurt, he would often sulk; now it seems like he is continuously on weeds, either oblivious or else not much bothered about what is happening around him. Hermione and her dialogues have lost the edge and the sharpness. If you ask me, it really didnot feel like it was JK Rowling who wrote any of this eighth book because she would have known better about the trio. The lesser said about Ginny, the better. Throughout the reading of the novel, I felt that now the characters are written by someone who has got the facts rights but totally missed the essence.


There are new characters. But we get to get familiar only with Albus and Scorpius, and Delphi. James, Lily, Rose and Hugo are not much to be seen. Harry's youngest son, Albus and Draco Malfoy's only son, Scorpius, strike up a friendship on their first train to Hogwarts ( just like Harry and Ron did,) and lead by Albus, they try to set things right. The adventure is great, there are alternate realities, there are time turners, there is deceit and there is victory. For any other book, it would have been enough. But for a Harry Potter book (and for me, as a reader) it was not enough because I really felt that the magic was missing.

And what happened to Hagrid? I understand that this book happens 20 years after the seventh book and it's understandable that the plot has moved on and many prime characters of the earlier books can now only be mentioned in passing. So I try not to mind when there is no mention of Mrs. Weasley or even George. But atleast Hagrid, of all people deserved some mention, some tit bits.

I would rate the book 3.5/5. I would rate all the other Harry Potter books 5/5.

Harry Potter is a world. The world of Harry Potter is an alternate reality for the fans. We know everything is just make believe fiction but we also know that if we say it exactly right and point the right way at the TV remote, when we say Wingardium Leviosa, the remote would float up in air. This faith has been instilled by the first Harry Potter book and further strengthened by the following six. Simply put, the eighth book fails to reinstate that faith on magic. I mean, I donot actually ever believed that the remote would float up, but I hope you know what I mean.

Though the Harry Potter's books started as fiction for children, they soon became favourites of adult readers. The novels were multi-layered, well-equipped to hold on the fantasy of adults. The eighth book is plainly single-layered and just juvenile, a mere child's play.

The hard bound cover of the book is great. We see a young child inside a snitch. I saw the cover and the first thing that came to my mind is the famous riddle from the seventh book: "I open at the close", thus immediately bringing back all the memories of  the last book. If you remove the outer jacket, you can only see a golden snitch on the black hardcover, which look so great that you just want to hug the book one more time. Later, I can understand that the young child inside the snitch is probably Albus, fighting his inner turmoil. Why snitch though, it still baffles me.


This books seems to be written in a hurry, like a task that has to be completed within a deadline. There was no respite, no space to pause and marvel at the wonders and tragedy of Harry's world. Yet, I will cherish this book. Because, after all, I am a Harry Potter fan and I will gobble up almost anything that has Harry's name smeared on it. But I seriously doubt if this book will earn Harry any new fan or Albus many fans.

the clock struck midnight

the sky…

it dies a yellow death every evening

every evening, the bougainvillea fades a little more

little by little the leaves close

till all that remains is just the night.

everyone else is gone

i light a candle

the night sits by me

we talk fables, we drink our wine,

our shadows dance on the yellow wall.

we whisper

our tales are darker than our shadows

we dig into the night

shreds of the midnight cling to our fingers

we dig deeper, deeper

blue

you touched me blue
.

you held my hand in your silken grasp
and you touched me blue.
look at my fingers.
blue still lingers there
a shimmering and fading trail of your warmth
they ebb and rise with each breath of mine

.

in this grey world
i follow your footsteps
tiny blotches of blue
in a barren landscape.
as my shadow falls there
flowers bloom -
blue flowers, blue flowers everywhere.

.

tiny birds
bring your news
in blue parchments.
i read your words in the evening sun.
slowly
a song arises from the blue flowers

.
slowly
stars rise up in the sky,
each straining to hear our song
.

slowly
the stars turn blue
.

and slowly
the night turns blue

flower girls, flower boys

It must have happened at all time of the year, but somehow now that I think of it, to me it seems like it always happened in winter. I remember the happy faces. My schoolmates' happy faces. Bobbing up and down with innocent excitement as they make their ways through the school  buses and corridors, holding flowers in their hands. The flower holders are the centre of attraction. We try to coax them into giving us the flower. They refuse. We coax more, we flatter more. And we speculate more - who is the lucky one? A teacher? A senior? A best friend?

Boys and girls of all classes would bring flowers from their gardens. A nursery kid holding a flower is such a pretty sight. Sometime it would be Rashmi Bhaiiya from Class 10 holding a flower. A big burly guy, a juniors' favourite. He would often give the flower to a kid in the school. Sanjukta would most often give the roses to a teacher. Sometime she would give it to Niyor or me. Vijay Lakshmi Madam has long hair, which she always fashions in the traditional South Indian way - two slim braids from either side tied up at the centre of her otherwise free flowing hair. Sanjukta would bring beautiful red roses and Vijay Lakshmi Madam would wear it in her hair the whole day long. So would Das Madam. Those days, Sanjukta would be beaming with pride. 

 Some days, a friend would relent to my coaxing. That day, I would be the prized owner of a beautiful flower. As the day comes to a close, I would take out my heaviest book and put the flower in between the pages. At home in Assam, I still have a dried up rose in between the pages of a novel. Earlier, it was in between the pages of a Maths book. Its dried up into a shrivelled brown now. It must have been a yellow or a white rose.  I wish I could remember who gave me that rose bud.

Sometimes flower reminds me of school mornings, of angelic kids in tidy school uniforms with a flower in hand, of prayer assemblies, of teachers and friends.

On retrospect, I know it is unwise to pluck flowers. They should be left alone to bloom in the garden. But those were such innocent days!

redlight

এজাক
ধুমুহাই যেতিয়া
বুকুখন খচমচাই, গচকি থৈ যায়
মই
নিস্থৰ হৈ চাওঁ নিজকে
আহল বহল আয়নাখনত,
দেখো - চাই থাকো
চকুলোবোৰ কেনেকে এলানি এলানি বৈ থাকে নোৰোৱাকৈ।

হাঁহি উঠে।

ৰাস্তাৰ ট্ৰাফিকো যদি এনেকৈ
যাব পাৰিলে হৈ নোৰোৱাকৈ।

চকুলোবোৰ বৈ থাকে, গৈ থাকে
ৰাস্তাৰ গাড়ি, ঘৰ
তোমাৰ মোৰ উৰণিয়া জীৱন
আৰু
আশা, হেপাঁহ
ৰৈ থাকে
চাৰিআলিৰ ৰেডলাইটত!

down the memory lane

at first glance, this road looks lonely, alone
if you look again, you can see
so many memories hanging by the leaves, the petals...
pick them up
and they will take you wherever you want to go
but once you set foot on this path, there's no turning back
you just go rolling down the memory lane

INTO THE OBLIVION

if i could jus glide away tonite
like the steam of a coffee.
black, sugarless and comforting

by the river

hello
said the evening sun
to him

he is sitting by the river
watching his reflection
pulsating in the waves
as they dance up in the flames of the setting sun.
narcissist by the fire river

the bird 
cooing from the coconut tree on the other bank
sings to him a thousand songs

he sits besides the songs
motionless
till the songs and he,
they become one...
an entwined tendril of beings
rising up the river
like an evening rainbow

violet
indigo
blue
green
orange
red
yellow


("it was all yellow")


one by one
the river picks up all colours
and goes away, to a far off bank

on this bank,
he sits
his reflection rising up in the flames of the rainbow river.
narcissist by the rainbow river

a tale of lost cities

a thousand tale
several thousand words,
and so many people!
you and me,
we are lost

the sky is vast
the sea, too deep
the earth, a labyrinth of right and wrong
and so many people!
you and me,
we are lost

lost in this labyrinth of time and space, right and wrong
sometime we try to find ourselves
sometime we find each other

sometime, those days,
the dawn is sweet,
the evening, sweeter

sometime, those days,
the sky, the earth, the sea
all crumble up like dried up fragrant flowers
and crawl into our veins and blood

a thousand tale
several thousand words

evening

evening comes and goes
what remain etched forever
are the whispers of the mad wind in my ear

icicles

not anymore

the birds sing

they watch, muted

as spring remains frozen, icicles clinging the leaf tips,

icicles of spring

cold, hard, unmelting, rock solid

a lump of water, forgotten, dried

like tears, forgotten

like someone had been sad long time back

but forgot to cry

like someone had that lump in the throat

a lump, swallowed and not mentioned

and inside, it lumped into ice, into icicles

cold, hard, unmelting, rock solid

not anymore

the birds sing

they keep watching, in mute!

fairytale

my world is a beautiful place

people stab each other in this world too

but they do not follow it up with a fake friendship

enemies are enemies here

we hate our enemies fully, but we wish them well

we do not call them friends and burn down their houses in secret.

in our hatred here, there is a beauty, and no cunning

and you should see

how we love each other in my world

when i tell you i love you

you should know that i mean it

i will stop reading my favourite book

to listen to you

i know, you do it in other worlds too

but in my world, i do it

because i love doing it for you

because i love you

and not because i need to prove to you and ten more people

that i love you

in my world

a purple flower blooms every morning

and as the day turns to night

the flower blooms into full moon

and sings lullaby after lullaby

till all are sleeping

each night

little by little

how

we

drift into a beautiful dream

in my world

in the vast sky

but you know
how we wander

an astray ray
of sunlight
glimmers a bit more may be
as my shadow crosses its path
and in light, in delight
a part of me shimmers like moonlight

in one hand i have the sun, 
in another, the moon
and i wander in the vast endless sky
like a bird
on its way home
on a roundabout path,
on a journey that happens
when it is neither day nor night.
when it matters not
whether i am blindfolded
by the sun, or the moonlight

half a window

through my window
i can see
only half the moon

how i wish my window could have a little more sky!
my window, a little broader!

i smell it, the half moon
and wonder
how the other half smells.
does it smell as stiff?

as stiff the whisky in my hand now?

i live my life
within this half moon
and i wonder
how my smile would glimmer in the other half
would i drown in my tears in the other half

but in this life
through this window
i can see only half the moon

an it's a beautiful half moon!

bas yuhi nikal chale zingedi
bas yuhi nikal chale raat din

raat ko subah ka intezar
subah ko raat ka intezar
na unmeedo ki unmeed
ki kahi ek pal mile sukoon ka

darkness

stray
abandoned
thoughts
line up
like a trail of ants
and enter the mind, again and again

the doors are close
but they seep in through the bottom
like darkness, entering a closed room.
the old man tells me to turn on the light
but in my nightmare, i am blind
i wake up in darkness!

rumours

others are speaking
so silently
that everyone hears them.
rumours!

a silence
that waits, motionless, alert, ready to jump
to pounce, the moment you turn your back.
the silence of rumours

you look at their eyes
trying to hear
what they are not saying to you.
rumours
about you

you leave the room.
in the washroom
you laugh,
laugh hard
(everyone thinks you are crying!)

everyone knows the details
except you,
you laugh because the rumours are about you
and yet, you are the only one who do not know the details
you only know that the rumours are true!

D for?

The lady Deepika Padukone is trending after her famous interview with Barkha Dutt where she announced her victory over depression. I did an internet search and discovered so many successful people who have battled and won over depression ( I already knew about J. K.  Rowling & Lincoln). Also, I read up some very easily doable stuff which can help win over depression; they should help - but even if they do not; they are harmless.

1. enjoy the sun
2. eat banana ( yes :D )
3. exercise
4. meditate
5. consciously fight back the doom
6. sleep and eat healthy - may not be easy, but remember; you are your own master
7. sleep on clean, tidy bed ( stop being that lazy bum :D )
8. go to a doctor; you went for a doc when you had fever, this is no different
9. you do not like what he says, take a second opinion. Remember; you are your own master!
10. rise & shine :)  Get up from your bed, go for a walk in the park.

p.s. Some of these are equally good as weight loss tips too :)

36% people in India have depression and that's only a reported number. The fear is that the actual number is far higher. You may not have depression; your friend might have it. Help your friend - you do not laugh or ignore when your friend complains of a broken arm or a high temperature. Do not make light if your friend complains of depression - help him rise and shine!

ode to sputnik sweetheart

murakami words
they slip off
from the pages,
whisper by whisper

i tell them to be quiet
i am awake now
let them speak in my dream

reality is best encountered
when asleep