Identity 4 : Marks

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Marks

You have seen so many lands
And trod on many stars --
Always bitten, forever shy;
The road has left its marks.

Your father's cuff-links, stained with ink;
Your mother's burning heart
Have made you, destiny's own child,
Your people's work of art.

Marbled glass in dreamlike hues
Hit the ground and squeal;
But, in the cloud of holy smoke,
The Chosen One is still.
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Not Again

Back in 2012 the then Class 10B of Carmel Convent High School lost Roll no. 24, Medha Ray, whose absence became conspicuous by how we called no. 25 after 23, thereafter. Many of us, including said no. 23, shifted schools to Hem Sheela in Class 11, and no. 23 went on to begin a promising career in medicine in a reputed Kolkata college, until fate or nature or whatever the hell decides these things decided to play a game of cruel coincidence and take away our Malini, Malini Banerjee, roll no. 23 of 2012-13 Class 10B, and eventual student of 11 and 12B in Hem Sheela, away from all who loved her.

Meanwhile in Hem Sheela, within a day of our losing Malini to dengue, Anwesha of Class 9 succumbed to her injuries from a prior car accident.

I think I'm too old or too numb to react the way I did when Medha passed away; or maybe I'm just too dumb to realize the truth in it's full extent yet. I do not, I repeat, I do not, still believe that Malini is gone. I believe close friends of Anwesha feel the same way.

My thoughts are with the families and friends of Malini and Anwesha. R.I.P., kiddos.

I HAVE FUCKING NOTHING MORE TO SAY

Safe Landing

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In Transit

People, places,
And the politics of tears
Clans, founded
In valleys of fears

Names, faces
Chained with silver rings
Armours, receiving
Undercover chinks

Volumes, varying
Up, down, sideways too
Knowing, long ago,
Would you still be you?
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Tell Me That You'll Wait For Me

Bourn Vita, Choco Pie, cold coffee, and noodles. Shots fired, because nothing else would do. Bring my books to the balcony: the wind here is nice. Free the cords from the week-old tangle -- it's high time we cleaned this place up a little. The white board is skewed, the nails will need fixing. Father Of The Nation smiles weirdly while elves emulate his fashion sense. An elf sat with me at breakfast today morning. He was a late pagan monstrosity, but I liked him. Rings of fire surround the wooden wheels and the butterflies shed crocodile tears and a dull pain rises from the wicker chairs and toilet seats. Entire families of cats and dogs prowl the lower eyelids of giants. Clocks. Socks. Wallets. Phones. Keys, pins, holes, cracks, nets, bogs, bugs. Locked doors, knocked doors, burnt windows. Lights, cameras, fractions. Hills climbed, races run, sails set. I will miss you. I will miss you. I will miss you.

Devolution

Bring on the idiocy, bring on the unspecified monsters, bring on the demands of the unworthy. Don't mind me, I'm just floating through stardust on my way to someone who's not you, somewhere that's not here, sometime that's not now. My eyes are mint green from taking in sights that I'm supposed to hold precious. My hair is sticky from wallowing in the nauseous depths of self-soothing. I know I said I like edges, but I think I prefer corners.

Someday that's not today, you'll get used to it all: you'll get used to being mistaken for someone else and being showered with gifts meant for that other person; you'll get used to reducing your heart to pulp before even thinking of trying something new; you'll get used to this way of life that I've been leading since I was five.

So bring it on, challenge me, try to convince yourself of the world's goodness by resisting the inevitable truths residing at the end of the battle that you now fight -- one which I have made it out of, with my heart of gold intact and well complemented: by a silver tongue and rosy fingers, and by mint green hair and sticky eyes ... or was it the other way around?

Fantasy 8 : Balance

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Balance

I am a soldier on winter's edge:
The sniper: chest pocket
Fluttering with memory,
Burning in the heat of my resolve
To be a soldier

On the blizzard ledge
Nostalgia only serves
To slacken my jaws
And embolden clouds
To rain on my camouflage
But the largesse of nature will never be enough --
I am a soldier,

There is blood on my hands:
Their blood, the world's blood --
My lifeblood;
Always a soldier.
Caked blood, dried blood
In my hair (sweat, maybe);
Silent deathly melting snow
In my eyelashes (tears, maybe);

Regiments guard my inward eye,
Promises hold my floodgates fast;
I am a soldier --
May the winter last.
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The Sky Company and The Circle Of Error

Nights become days, and days the nights that came before them, until time goes back an exact cycle to where it was. Only, this time, the mistakes are being repeated on purpose. Music tells us about triumph of good over evil, but we lie here thinking of all the evil that befalls those that sincerely wish to do good. The regular rhythms of procedural living bring trials variegated -- normalcy is painful. Sounds that have been altered by mistakes of cleansing have resulted in apprehension and hurt pride. The speech of homeland becomes sweeter than ever, and so do the images of the unidentifiable past. Identity varies much, until the mirror back at home no longer recognizes you when you smile at it -- or so you fear. Meanwhile, well-intentioned saints continue their good work, oblivious to your growing malice towards nothing in particular. You want to understand the new map of the familiar sky, but you cannot... next year, perhaps?

Trouble Meets The Sky Company

My world, viewed through different eyes, seems both sweeter and harder to believe. Old arcs that few of us predate tell stories of unavoidable trust -- perhaps misguided, but nonetheless comforting in the ability to simplify.

The blueprints of today's morning sky were drawn behind the scenes of an altogether different theatre -- one of confused consternation pitted against indignant defiance. On the new stage, however, the roles are often reversed -- nature is laughably stubborn in its love for symmetry.

Poetry born of a head comfortably cradled in warmth will never have the fire that can light the poet's path for the hard times to come; and hence the sun begets a need for itself -- cleverly played!

Sitting atop an unfinished column of brick and mortar, one cannot but think of unfinished stories that, despite incompletion, make great vantages for other tales yet to come -- one looks with cautious anticipation upon the ever expanding sphere of possibility surrounding every sheltered corner and every burning forehead and every sleeping friend...

...tomorrow, then!

The Adventures of The Sky Company

Five fifty-nine is my favourite time -- especially when the trees glow red in the blackened sky. For the first time, a star was more rebellious than I was.

Bottle caps on the ground don't matter as much as the waste that I need to get rid of; careless laundry in the sand can seek attention elsewhere. The filth is now a part of me, but there remain tiny hopes that the sun can disinfect.

Fine lines divide the said and the unsaid, but I listen intently -- lie to me. The tears that the concrete has tried and failed to absorb have left behind stains of disappointment on cheeks that cannot decide how old they are; a divergent mental age can be a severe impediment to a judicious rebel.

Today's sunrise has been a bad Photoshop job -- even the crows found it disgusting. In conclusion, sunrises mean shit if you share them with the wrong people: clever folks just want to watch things burn.

6 am thoughts

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Rebirth/Revival

Far away from home
No place to call my own
The ravens carry names and faces
From here to where you are.

The sun we see, the warmth we feel
Were never ours alone;
What is irreplaceable
Is what we used to be.

You found your dreams after you left
And once I left, I mine.
But mornings never begin without
Our ancient sunshine.

Sunshine! That bone of contention
That fails not to unite
And the rain that falls and falls
In spite of you and me.

The olden trees bear golden pods
That burst, and seeds fly far.
I wish that one lands on your yard
And the rain there gives it life

Then we'd gaze at mother and child
And realize how, new bonds despite
It's impossible to ever forget
What friends forever are.
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To the past and present Durgapur guys and gals, specifically Shriyank and Nihal.

Twisting words for the sake of it

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Since You Mentioned Freedom

When the time is right
I'll call to let you know.
However, for tonight,
You are free to go.

The wind will tell the stars
And they'll knock on your door;
But until that moment comes
Don't stay anymore.

Embers will fall swiftly
Upon your window sill --
Then you'll know. But for now,
Why be here still?
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I decided to take a break from the Childhood series. The series will be continued soon.

Childhood 3 : Make-believe

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Make-believe

I like to leave before a party ends

Because then I can pretend it never did;

Or, that it ended because

I was the life of the party.

I like to believe that, in sunsets,

There are strange writings and coloured skulls --

And that, when it's dark,

They let loose and dance.

I like to think of my food and drink

As a bond between me and the earth

And of my friends as my link
To all human flesh.

I like to believe that all my people
Are real, and exactly how I want them,

And not as they are, because
That would be way too sad.

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Childhood 2 : Amma

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Amma

One does not require a child
To become a mother.
As the saying goes, a mother
Is one whose soul lives
Outside her body;
Or even, I dare say, his.

A mother of one is a mother
To all Creation --
Because the sacrifice learned
Cannot be unlearned,
And because motherhood
Is a state of being
And a constant choice.

Who worries enough about you
Is your mother --
Who asks if you had enough
Of milk, curd, tea;
Or worries if your friends
Are treating you well
Becomes your mother.

So here's to those mothers who toil
To mother differently;
To those fathers who toil double
To be a mother as well;
And to that mother in Chennai who
Was quick to adopt
Her child's new friend.
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Inspiration credit: Mothers of UG2015 CMI-ites, especially Malavika's mother.

Childhood 1 : Apparitions

So, once again the idea for one poem has gone haywire in my head with enough intensity to make me consider a series. Tentatively the series is called 'Childhood', and may contain prose pieces as well. We shall see. For now, here's the first one, inspired by life at CMI and specifically my first friend there, Subhayan.

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Apparitions

Two friends chatting on the ledge
Living life on concrete edge
Too many lights, and sounds too few,
And ghosts, and trees, and Scooby Dooby-Doo.

Precious possessions behind the door
Left unlocked 'cause the locks are a bore --
Watch it for me, please, will you?
Scooby Dooby-Doo, where are you?

Scooby Dooby-Doo, what do you find
In spaces ten times multiplied,
In water glasses measuring time,
And darkened stories missing rhyme?

Mystery Machine whirs on alright;
(Words, Cradle, Starry Night...!)
When one day Fred will drop the wheel,
Scooby Doo, how will you feel?

When Daphne becomes someone else's,
Velma drops her patent lenses,
Shaggy ceases to believe --
Scooby Doo, will you still live?

When all the questions have been asked,
Mysteries solved, and ghouls unmasked,
When all that you said becomes true,
Scooby, will they still love you?
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A Short Poem

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Because History Repeats

The words were old,
But the voices new.
They were already bought,
'Cause the sound was true.

Make this a day
Of truths untold!
Between the lilts,
The tales unfold

Of lives lived few
And far between,
Lives meant to be loved,
Loves meant to be seen.
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To The Place I Belong

Beneath the yellow flowers, the footprints of the greats make a second bedrock. By force of habit, the trees that were once green saplings continue to give seeds that grow into more trees, even as powerful ideas are sowed in the minds that shall perhaps be great someday.

The clouds are red in the western sky and the buzz of the afternoon mundane pervades. The office drones are flocking home, and so are the birds, but they won't find me travelling today. I'm not going home, because I already am home -- the ant I just stepped on agrees.

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First post from CMI campus, via the CMI-Hostel wifi. Title credit: Country Roads

A Short Ode To A Special Friend

CBSE East Zone Swimming Championship, hosted by Hem Sheela Model School, in the autumn of 2013. More than sixty schools from all over eastern India gathered in the J.N. Avenue campus. As the Class XI Coordinator in charge of the hosts' Student Volunteers, I was assigned a crew of Class IX and XI Students Council members and a ragtag group of additional volunteers from Class XI. Among these volunteers was a moderately troublesome rodent-like fellow who, one afternoon, seemed like a suitable person to take charge in the joint absence of me and my regular deputy.

Following my deputation of this kid, circumstances best forgotten dictated an unfavourable turn of events; but eventually, to myself and to the world, my initial instincts were proved right. This kid later volunteered laudably for the Council during the end-year personnel crisis; and when, in Class XII, I was to become Head Girl, taking oath beside me as Head Boy, in the torrential rain on 1st July 2014, was to be the same kid -- a crucial friend and colleague in the months to come, someone difficult to forget, a kid I have high hopes for.

As I write this annotation to my timeline nearly two years in the future from aforesaid events, on the verge of my leaving Durgapur, all I can say to Nihal is this: thanks, buddy, and wish you well.

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( +NIHAL SINGH )

Of CMI and VYOM

So! As my Facebook followers already know, I thought I didn't get into Chennai Mathematical Institute, but then I did... whew! I'll be leaving for Chennai soon to pursue my undergraduate studies there. Meanwhile I also flew for the first time. In the excitement of CMI and everything else, however, I forgot to write about VYOM 2015, so here goes.

For the uninitiated, VYOM is an annual felicitation programme organised by the Delhi-based coaching institute Aakash for its students who perform well in Engineering and Medical entrance exams. VYOM 2015 was held at Science City Auditorium, Kolkata, on 5th July 2015.

My fellow Aakashians Navonil, Souvik​ and others have already mentioned at length the scintillating Drumscape by Bikram Ghosh and team (too awesome), the medals and 'Proud to be an Aakashian' tees given to the awardees (also great), the massive photo op (not sure if I can be seen in it), and the excitement over the presence of boxing queen Mary Kom to give away cash awards to the top achievers (not-so-exciting for not-so-top achievers). The one important thing that I felt they missed, and on which I would like to elaborate, was the speech by the Managing Director of Aakash, Mr. J.C. Chaudhry.

When MD Sir took the stage, we were all expecting him to congratulate the awardees of 2015, encourage the 2016 batch, thank the faculty and management... all of which he did. But then came the unexpected. This man, who is at the very top of a premier educational institution that churns out so many brilliant students, stood there at the felicitation programme before those very students, and coolly told the achievers that all their achievements meant nothing if they did not become good people who held the hands of the unfortunate!

In today's world that is so driven by career, money, and showing off, I have often felt that academics has lost its true meaning, which is to enlighten people and make them better human beings who contribute towards society. In this line of thought, I have always felt unsupported and alone. But when the very MD of the institution which has goaded me for academic success for two years, speaks of the importance of humanity alongside academics... well, let it suffice to say that I salute this man; that I will remember his words forever; and that for once, I am not ashamed to admit that, despite the ensuing semi-religious rhetoric that would have ordinarily made me cringe, his words drove me to tears.

More importantly, however, I hope that his words humbled those people in the hall, if any, who had let their success go to their heads -- something that is far too undesirably common among humans, especially the young. I also hope that everyone present took his words seriously. I, for one, had always felt that something was different about Aakash's approach to education, and now I know what that is -- it is the pervading spirit of this man, who has his priorities in exactly the right place. Therefore, cheers to you, MD Sir. You da real MVP.

Not Another One About Rain

People have too many passive thoughts about rain. No, I do not speak of those in love: I'm done with that lot's interpretation of the rain -- we all are, if the relevant (single people's?) wisecracks plastered all over social media are any indication. However, I myself am prone, like many others, to react to the rain with as much mushiness as the wet monsoon ground beneath one's shoes -- as is evident from my recent post about my high school and the rain. Then again, there are those who immerse themselves in dark and gloomy thoughts whenever it rains, and manage to enjoy or even crave that process, which (more often than not?) gives rise to anti-sunshine literary ventures that deserve a second look -- at the least from psychologists, if not from literary critics. Whatever the form may be, I find that the general mode of processing rain seems to involve sitting down, pensiveness, passivity -- and that bothers me. Yes, the rain is beautiful, refreshing, brings back memories, etcetera -- been there, felt that -- but what about the rain that is more truthful than beautiful, more warlike than romantic, more hopeful than reminiscent? What about the rain that slaps you awake and tells you, akin to a certain Mr. LaBeouf but in a less amusing manner, to 'Do It'?

Now that rain is the kind I wouldn't mind having every day. Because, while I enjoy rain in all forms, this one is forever going to be my kind of rain. It shows no Grey World, but reveals the exact true colours hidden under layers of dust. It reminds me of no one but myself, and of my dreams and what I stand for. It removes false associations and presents everything at face value -- it removes the identities of Success and Failure and reclassifies them simply as Milestones; it melds Friends and Foes and makes them People; it takes Love and Hate and makes them Attachment. This rain falls on me but does not seep through because it is content to just be. This rain is confident in its silent potency, and cares not for provoking a reaction to itself. This rain connects me with all souls, but binds me to none. It asks me not to raise my face to it, but to drive my shoulders and my limbs across its path.

I like rains the most when they come with thunderstorms -- because each thunderclap is like a fresh start that whacks my self-doubt over the head and yells at it to buzz off; each bolt of lightning is like an epiphany, like a shocking bout of clarity from some inaccessible dimension, made available to me for a split-second. The rumble of a dying thunder across the sky is like the laughter of an eternally victorious spirit, beating a false retreat merely to amuse itself with the premature jubilations of the enemy, and announcing to all allies that it will return doubly enthused; and when the entire sky lights up in a flash of lighting, I feel the spirit throw me a mischievous, knowing wink, right before it disappears.

So, while the rest of you are looking at the rain, or dancing in the rain, or sitting or walking or laughing or crying in the rain, you'll find me standing alone and motionless, somewhere far out in the open, with the wind and the spray in my face -- my shoulders squared, my feet ready to spring, and my damn stupid mouth smirking itself silly.

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Title Credit: Mousam Roy, via Paint Me With You, specifically this.

Inspired by Stephen Chbosky

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Song Of A Shut-In

Outside, it's far too lovely,
Too many pretty folk --
But the good and the strong are ugly
And don't deserve a second look;
So within these walls I've been
To look out, but never be seen.

Outside, it's too noisy,
With people, beasts and birds:
They're crowded far too closely.
It's too loud for thoughts to be heard --
So here in my home I stay
And think my time away.

Outside, it's always buzzing
With far too many lights.
The days are far too long
And there isn't enough night --
So here in my room I'll keep
And sing myself to sleep.
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Asleep by The Smiths, via The Perks Of Being A Wallflower: