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