Sunday, 17 November 2013


It wouldn’t be a story if I would be in it, it would be forged reality. Well, so let me tell you a story of a long lost tale, about a boy who watched the stars fall through the sky and turn into day. Every night he stayed up looking at the stars, expecting something to happen, expecting someone to appear. His eyes were fixed upon the sky; he blinked his dark brown eyes, ever so rarely, the flutter of his eyelids hardly ever made a sound to disrupt the peace of the night. The boy’s little hands were upon his two rosy cheeks, as he sat with his legs uptight and on his haunches. He had a big forehead that protruded outwards towards the sky and he always sat through the night, bare bodied, as he believed it best synced with the natural environment. So, every night, all alone, the little boy sat on the roof of his house, unattended, unknown to the entire world sleeping below.
What to expect he didn’t know. But he had an inkling that someone would show up and take him away into the stars where he could meet his dead mom and pop. The sense of communion with his dead parents forced the little child to sit through the night, through sweltering summers and shivering nights, the little boy watched the sky, uninhibited, uncared. Ah love!
So was it the love for his parents that drew the child to such extremities or was it the taste for the unknown that enticed the child to give up on sleep? The little boy had no knowledge of such analysis of his little deeds. He just knew that he had to be up on the roof-top every night, after putting his grand-parents to bed. Each night, he tip-toed up the stairs and took off his shirt and pants, and voila, he was ready for his nightly endeavour.
One winter night, as he was sitting past midnight, he heard something roar at the back of his head. He turned his head to look but couldn’t see anything or anyone through the dark pitch-black night. He thought he was imagining but then it happened again and this time, the sound seemed much closer! Again, the little boy turned his head, but couldn’t see anything that could disrupt his nightly job. However, he was getting impatient and the sound did affect his concentration so he harked out,
“Is anybody out there?”
None appeared, and he strained his dark brown eyes to see as far as he could through the foggy night, but nothing. Now, as the boy turned to resume his nightly mission and looked up at the sky, he was immediately shocked to find that not a single star was there to be found upon the vastness of the sky. Suddenly, all the stars had disappeared and vanished from the sky. The little boy stood there scratching his head, his little legs trembling in the shivering winter, but he couldn’t fathom what had happened within a jiffy of a moment. But right at that moment, a small little fire-fly came frolicking through the night and landed upon the right hand of the little boy. The little boy stood with his gaping wide opened mouth, trying to understand what had just happened when that little fire-fly gave a loud roar and belching sound. The boy shrieked in terror and jerked his hand, trying to toss the fire-fly away but immediately the fire-fly shrieked in a loud shrill voice and said,
“Hola, Amigo! What are you trying to do? I come in peace my friend, I have been sent here by your parents with a message.”
The boy disbelieved everything that was happening around him and he shut his eyes tight, repeating in his mind. It’s just a dream. I’m just dreaming.
The little fire-fly went on, ignoring the boy’s reactions.
“My friend, your parents are looking down upon you every night and they had been trying to communicate and contact you ever since they died in that freak accident when they were bringing you home from the hospital, after you were born. But you know they stay far-far away and it is very difficult for anyone to contact Earth, from Heaven.”
The boy somehow gathered courage to open one eye and peeped at the fire-fly. He saw a glowing little fire-fly, too small to be seen with all the light that it emanated from its back. But if looked closely, it could be seen that the fire-fly was wearing an apron and had spectacles with a stout moustache covering most of its face. Its wings were brightly rainbow coloured and were spread out from its red body. The little fire-fly had six tiny legs that had been gripping tightly onto the skin of the boy’s hand and had a very big bottom that was radiating bright sunshine. With its mouth wide open and its antennae swaying, the boy could see that the little fire-fly was speaking to him, as obviously there was no one else out in the dark lonesome winter night.
The little fire-fly swung its head and told the boy that his parents were always looking after the boy from Heaven and that they were very much worried, ever since the boy had started sitting out at night on the roof, trying to contact them. That is the reason why they told one of the stars to come down upon Earth and convince the boy to sleep at night with his grand-parents and go to school in the morning, instead of sleeping throughout the day.
The boy curiously said,
“What do you mean my parents sent a star to me? Where are all the stars? Who are you?”
With utter horror in its eyes and extended swaying of its head, the fire-fly exclaimed,
“I am the star! Oh! Can’t you see? I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Bingo and I’m the head chef and chief communications manager of Heaven. I am the only one who heads two departments at Heaven and I’m the biggest star in the entire sky. In fact, I’m The Superstar!”
“What do you mean you are a star? You are a tiny little fire-fly. How can you be a star?”
The boy was suddenly feeling less threatened. In fact, he was amused by the fire-fly’s tall claims of being a star.
“But I am the star,” the fire-fly did a twirling motion with its feet and did a round-about to showcase its glowing bottom.
“I am Heaven’s most revered and admired star and everyone, from any part of the world can see me glowing in the north sky whenever they look upwards. In fact, I prance about and dance in my northern kitchen while I cook for all the people in Heaven and everyone just loves the way I cook. In fact, they lick their fingers clean after eating my food because I put in a secret ingredient into the food that I cook.”
Suddenly, the fire-fly flew from the right hand of the boy and landed on the little boy’s left ear lobe. With another loud belch, the fire-fly spoke.
“I can tell you the secret in your ears but cross your heart that you will never tell anyone.”
The boy involuntarily crossed his heart with his hands and swore in the name of God that he would never divulge any secret.
“Oh! Why do you take our Boss’s name in vain? He doesn’t know that I’m here. You see, your parents are very nice people and on their request I had to secretly come down upon Earth to meet you,” the little fire-fly spoke in a strained voice, expressing his anguish and fear.
“Do you see any stars in the sky? No. Right! Guess why? Obviously, all of them are out cooking food as their star chef is down on Earth. I tell you my friend, I’m the biggest star and no matter how hard everyone else tries, they can never cook like me. Obviously, because they do not know or have my secret ingredient.”
The little boy stood flabbergasted by everything that he had just heard. It seemed like a far off dream that was playing with his mind and testing his patience. Any moment now, he would open his eyes and the reality would strike him bitterly.
But the firefly stood its ground, balancing itself precariously upon the slippery lobe of the child.
The little boy, with his little thoughts that had braved a thousand lonesome nights, glared mysteriously at the fire-fly and in his mind, he now believed. He believed that there must be someone out there, maybe his parents, but someone definitely was looking down upon him at this instant and watching him confront this poor fire-fly, who had actually been sent down to help him come to terms with the loss of his parents.
Now, suddenly, realizing that he was stark naked in front of a stranger, be how minuscule that stranger’s vision might be, he quickly ran to the attic and wore his clothes. However, all throughout this time, the fire-fly stood its ground upon his feathery earlobe and with a grin on its face it looked at everything unfolding, rather folding in front of it.
To be continued....

Saturday, 16 November 2013

The Disappearing of Uninspired Life!

You can always be on the horizon but never reach the zenith
Worlds falling apart to a never ending saga of love and gore
Your hands outstretched to touch the tip of inspiration
But you fail, you fail!
Repeatedly, constantly, your mind buzzes with thoughts
You visualize dreams in your padded room but they never reach a form
Your asking for pain is not another source of emotion for your disgruntled life
You who lie there, quiet, enclosed, wrapped in your false existence
Wake up, get up, see the positrons flying around you
How can you like Eliot? How can you like Woolf?
They who wrote once are dead, their heaps of pity lay behind
Mind stop this ordeal, you are too young to delve so deeply
Death doesn’t deter, moments flash, zoom, zap, end!

Make the most of what you have, get up, hold the tip, Begin!

Saturday, 26 October 2013


Monisha gazed at the building with wilted eyes. Her eyelids were drooping due to lack of sleep, but she with frequent sips from her coffee flask and cigarettes kept herself going.Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the crumbling three-storey house, its paintwork turned to gray, its windows shuttered: the perfect house. Her head swam when she thought of the possibilities.

Suman, her assistant, said: "Do you want me to stay? This place looks all ruffled and weird."

Monisha ran her tongue over her teeth, and said: "Nope. I like it the way it is. Just get the gas and electricity turned on. I'm staying here tonight."

She smiled to herself and then added as an afterthought. "And get a T.V. in there too."

Monisha sat on the make-shift stool beside her car and lit a menthol ciggy, smoked down to the filter and lit another one. She was a tall, pale skinned woman in a short skirt and killer leather boots. She looked feeble and vulnerable.
Suman was lost in his own thoughts, which most often revolved around Monisha. He was strong, or rather looked strong. He asked “You going to stay in there alone?”

Monisha smiled.

The Barsha house was built on a hill that overlooked the small town of Kulantari. The previous owner had apparently taken his own life after killing his whole family, drowning one after the other in the toilet bowl, and then hanging himself.

"Suman, unpack my canvas, paint, sketchbook, notepads and camera."

Suman hopped to, opening the boot of the car and pulling things out.

"Wait," Monisha said.

Suman stopped; his life was all under the orders of Monisha. She was the one who controlled him and he had no authority of his own."Call the gas, electric and phone companies first. I want this place lit up."
She dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it with her heel.
"I'm going to go check this bitch out."

Suman watched her go, biting his lip. Her footsteps crunched gravel as she moved up the driveway and then climbed the steps. The door creaked like a woman in labour when she pushed it and opened into darkness. She gazed longingly into the gathered must, stared hypnotically at dust motes dancing in the light streaming through the door. Suman was on call making the required arrangements but a sudden scream stopped him mid-way.

The scream was recognizable; as Suman had heard it several times before - it was Monisha. She was strong yet was not unaware of female frailties. A rat as big as a cat standing on its hind legs and staring up at her with yellow eyes and two long yellow teeth provoked her. She realized that Suman was staring at her and to put him off she raised her foot and brought her leather boot down on the enquiring rat with a hollow thud. It exploded in a star of guts and brown-gray fur.

"Ewww," she said as Suman appeared behind her.
"What's wrong?" Suman looked anxious.
"There's rat guts on my boots, Suman.
"Suman looked at her lovingly. "I'll clean them for you, Moni."

This was what Suman called her unofficially. One year back they had been close together but things didn’t work out and now he was just left as her assistant. He got to his knees and fished a pocket-knife from one of his pockets. Monisha lifted her foot for him to scrape away the bits of rat caught in the treads.

"Well why don't you just lick them clean like a good doggie?" Suman and Monisha turned to see an old frazzle beard man with an overhanging belly standing in the driveway. He was looking up at the old house with his eyes squinted.

"Uh, can we help you at all?" Monisha asked.
The man looked startled out of his reverie.
"I'm Subrata Pandit - I'm your nearest neighbour. I live about a mile down the road."
Monsiha shrugged her shoulders. "So?"
"Well, I was just hoping you'd reconsider staying in this place - for you own protection, like…"
Monisha laughed. "Look, Subrata, I'm an artist. I don't do ghosts; I already talked about this at your little town meeting. I deal in vibes. And this place is really strong. Wild horses on anabolic steroids wouldn't keep me away. So kindly take yourself back to your place a mile down the road and leave me alone. Just piss off."
Subrata raised his hands in protest.
"Yeah, this place has strong vibes, Evil vibes. They made Izamail Balil murder his whole family, didn't they? This house should never have been on the market. Besides Izamail was an artist too. Now I realize where the connection lies."

Monisha sighed. "Suman, get rid of this arsehole, would you? Okey thik rastha ta dekhie de."
"Right away, Moni."

Monisha stepped inside and looked around. The wallpaper was a rose pattern; it was yellowing, cracked, and peeling at the edges. An old threadbare sofa stood against one wall. Some stairs led up and out of sight. Monisha could feel the pain, the fear, the anguish; all rushing around in her brain, creatively. A smile spread across her face as she popped another cigarette into her mouth and lit it.

She heard Subrata Pandit shout: "You've been warned, on your head be it!"
And then Suman appeared in the doorway."I got rid of him."
"Good boy." Monisha ignored him, exploring the house instead.

She went up the stairs and into the bathroom, staring momentarily at the bathtub Izamail Balil had used to drown his wife, daughter, and two boys in. She stared at it while she imagined his calm patient face as he kneeled in front of it with his hand on his wife's chest, his eyes patient while she kicked and struggled, her eyes bulging, bubbles escaping her mouth instead of a scream. Then she shivered as she imagined him patiently searching the house for the three children while she lay there with her eyes open and staring.

Next she checked out the three bedrooms, which were nothing special. But the attic was different. The attic was full of thick cobwebs and when Monisha walked along the floor she kicked up piles of dust. One wall bulged out at her. It was full of newspaper clippings, swollen with age and damp, apparently showing miracles from around the world - a Virgin Mary statue in Rio De Janeiro cries tears of blood; image of Krishna and Radha appears on a coin in Balurhat; sheep born with pattern of the Cross on its hide in New South Wales; Allah’s name found inscribed on the arms of seven new born. In the middle of all these clippings was the biggest and most lifelike portrait of Krishna Bhagwan andChrist. It struck Monisha right on her brain and she held her eyes off it. Her head throbbed with pain; somehow she managed to glance again and could swear that it was the most beautiful and unique piece of art she had ever seen.

"Weird," she said, running her fingers over it.

Christ had been made with painstaking beauty. His eyes were turned upwards, tears of blood at the edges. Blood also ran from the crown of thorns on his head and the spear hole in his side, and the nails running through his hands and feet. Krishna Bhagwantoo looked life-like and resembled a lot like Christ. His pale bluish skin had a strange glow, which emanated a sense of fierce pain. Tears of gold seemed to be flowing down his cheeks, and his hand held someone in the background. Was it Allah? And what is He crying at? Questions struck Monisha but she couldn’t ponder long as her head burst in rounds of frenzied thoughts.

Monisha closed her eyes and imagined the scene: Izamail Balil pacing back and forth in this room, paranoid, anxious; sometimes turning to look at the cut-outs, maybe because he was looking for the goodness in himself? Maybe?

A message scratched into the wall told a different story:

The wicked must surely die.

"Well I found my studio," Monisha hushed, lighting another menthol and looking through the porthole shaped window that looked down on Suman unpacking her stuff from her car.

After he had set up her easel, paints and television in the attic, Monisha told Suman to go home.

"Aww, but, Moni, why?"
"I work alone, Suman."
"But in this house?" Suman said, glancing around. "Who's going to keep you safe?"
Monisha rolled her eyes.
"At least let me set up a bed for you."
She shooed him away. "I won't need one, I'm going to pull an all-nighter."

Suman paused, looked at her deeply, and then lunged forward head first. Monisha side-stepped before the kiss landed.
"Suman, don't do that again. Ever!"
She lit another menthol cigarette.
"You'd have more luck trying to shag the pope."

Suman looked wounded. His eyes were red rimmed and watery. "Fine. I'll see you tomorrow." He walked to the door, pausing to say.
"Moni…I'm really sorry about that. I…”
"Just go, Suman."

She heard his footsteps descending the stairs and then the front door slammed. She breathed a sigh of relief and set up her paintbrushes, staring at the blank sheet of paper.
"Izamail Balil, how'd you like to be my muse for the night? Wish I had seen a snap of yours for inspiration."

The house's silence crowded in on her, exerting force on her eardrums. Monisha nodded appreciatively and started to paint. Brush to canvas, stroke, stroke; dab in water, mixing a different colour every time. She believed that art came from the sub-conscious. Like other Greats she believed good artists should "just paint". They didn't think about what they did, they just got on with it.
“Leave symbolism and colour schemes to the college people, those guys needed it,” she mused.

After a while a picture began to emerge in mostly shades of grey, black, brown and blue. Monisha started to hum tunelessly and as the painting took form so did the song. She gave it words:

"Aamar Bhitore Bahire, Ontore Ontore Aacho Tumi, Hridoye Jure…"

Monisha wondered why suddenly was she singing a Bengali song? Old memories fought for space in her brain but she dismissed them, her painting needed her attention right now. Monisha set her brush down and looked at the painting. A normal person would have been disturbed; she though gazed at it with detached wonder. The canvas showed a man in his forties, balding, with a crooked nose. His face was expressionless and full of deep shadows as he crouched over a bathtub with his hands out of sight. A single clawed fist reached up past his head, dripping water.

It was Izamail Balil in the act of murdering one of his children.

"The eyes," Monisha whispered. "Looks like he's watching the Discovery Channel."

Izamail Balil’s eyes were dull, bored even as he glanced down at his out of sight victim. The fact that a man could do something so insane and look so logical was a paradox that turned Monisha on. She lit another menthol and hummed "Aamar Bhitore Bahire, Ontore Ontore Aacho Tumi, Hridoye Jure…"

That's the song he sang when he killed his family.

Monisha stopped humming as the smoke from her cigarette drifted up. In her mind’s eye she saw Izamail calmly singing that song as he held his oldest son (Murtaza) under the water. Murtaza was kicking water all over the place. The floor was drenched. But Izamail Balil kept on singing that song and looking bored. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was true.

She went to the life-size portrait and drew her fingers over the figures’ body. "I can feel the vibes," she said to herself.

She felt a low thrumming coming from the walls, like standing under electricity pylons. It buzzed gently against her fingertips. An idea struck her and she went to the easel, setting the canvas down carefully - she intended to sell her works to the Manzil Market for a six figure sum - and set a new canvas on the easel. Within minutes she was painting again, wielding the brush like a sabre, slashing at the canvas.

An unknown time later she stopped and giggled madly. Her hair was covered in paint, streaks of black and gray among red. She was grinning wildly but her eyes were dull and lethargic.

The canvas showed Izamail Balil with that same expression of bored indifference standing on a chair in front of the new-clippings and the life-size portrait. He was calmly tying a noose to the attic's rafters.

Monisha looked up and could swear she saw a frayed line in the rafter above her.

She set the canvas next to the bathtub drowning and started on the next. She painted like a madwoman, rushing, sometimes giggling or humming, "Aamar Bhitore Bahire, Ontore Ontore Aacho Tumi, Hridoye Jure…" She used a lot of red paint and had to switch on the small over head bulb because the sun was going down.

It was midnight by the time she finished.

She stepped back and studied it, her face paling. The canvas showed her own mad frenzied face labouring over a canvas; her hair was covered in streaks of black and gray; her face covered in shadows. Izamail Balil loomed behind her, his eyes bored, his lips puffed as he whistled.

The hairs on Monisha’s neck rose as she heard the whistling. It was - Aamar Bhitore Bahire, Ontore Ontore Aacho Tumi, Hridoye Jure.

She turned her head and screamed.

Wednesday, 4 September 2013

Long Lost Insurance

i don't know if you would cry...for all those moments of anguish and pain...for the love that i never expressed...your tears won't waste in love for you is sincere

but how do i put shackles on my listless heart? when it loves travelling over the mountains and endless kingdoms...when it dwells amongst fairies and princesses...counting stars and distorting clouds to create faces

love was what i felt for you then...sympathy is all that i have for you now...

i've grown old with memory ain't that strong anymore...the promises i made i hope i'll keep...unless something imminent overtakes me...

your beauty and power still strikes a chord...but this broken harp ain't melodious anymore...

there are no more goodbyes left to be said...this world is too small for us to refute the idea of meeting again...until then it's the songs and memories that remain...

Sunday, 25 August 2013

Ramblings of an Insane Mind

Welcome to my world. The world that knows how to think and how to speak but not how to feel, the world that’s caught between the spaces of time trying to figure out the idea of life.
Do you realize that life is there beyond your imagination? Do you recognize yourself when you are in a group? Do you stand out as any different from all of them, any one of them?

Every time I look at you I know what beauty means.
I wanna touch you but fear if I’d spoil your skin.
Where are the angels tonight that always guarded you for me?
Today I’m the traitor so they must have deserted you
Why do your lips tremble when I kiss you?
Are you scared of loving me?
I’m not just anyone my love…
I’m the one who makes you feel like a sweet melody…
So come my love it’s just you and me
Let us sleep tonight and create Love’s Rhapsody!

There are no pictures on the wall tonight. We are all captured within this one shot that reveals our inner side. We are just waiting for our conscience to come alive. Then we will all run and switch sides.

I can’t cry for you baby. You invoke the deepest feelings within me but not hatred or sadness. I’m here to love. Be my muse and watch me soar. I love you. Yeah it’s you and you and you. You are all by my side. I won’t let go of anyone of you. You are my desire, my love my booty my passion my world. No one comes between you and me. I’m all yours. Come let’s devour each other in love and hatred.

Sixteen hundred years ago there lived a man who looked at you and smiled and held his collars up so that your beauty won’t leave its mark on his neck and shoulders. He feared you watched over him late nights when he slept without his clothes on. He feared you’d wake up the neighbours and make them have a look at him. But now he doesn't fear about all those stories anymore. He wants to just lie naked with you. Under the sun and under the moon he just wants to have fun with you.

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Alteration Writes A Note!

Lightness soul, mistaken in every mould
Where people tread your thoughts and call them their own
Tomorrow would be just another day or a night
In your battered and bruised castle, you are still fighting for your rights
Trumpets calling, fanfare harking their existence
Girls, soulmates, hermaphrodites seeking abeyance
When did you think that love is important?
Why did you lie to make it so blatant?
Cold feet calling every night with every drop of domain
It’s not your fault cause you did love them for moments
The steps to their hearts were backwardly climbed
Orchestrated in years of evolution through time
Now you stand there, knocking every door
Some let you in & some let you out
While others just have a little smile or a frown
The girl of your dreams, the bosom of your needs
They have lit your mind, your body and succumbed to your greed
Some have come and some have multiplied
Some said it lasted but just for a while
Few too had outlasted in boats and trams
Others forming union under night lit lamps
Knocked up, bruised up, heated and stirred
Some say they wanted only to win your love
From the girls in upstairs markets
To the ones you picked in high-end hotels
They all had something that you sought to contain
But now they end up frowning in complaints
Judging you to ideas created by sense
Sized up, smothered, gambled and conquered
They have used you all, they who now complain of betrayal!

Tuesday, 11 June 2013


This wait is never ending

For someone I’m a moron
For others I’m unstable
For myself I’m in limbo
But then this wait doesn’t care

Waiting for the others
Waiting for love
Waiting for acceptance
Waiting for their questions
Waiting for you, for her
Waiting for an answer
To this diminishing existence of me

Who told you I’m a spirit?
Who told you I’m your lover?
Who told you I’d be your son?
When you know I don’t care.

Listen to the bugle now
The angels have alighted upon me
There is music, there is nostalgia
The swan song too is here

You can whack me for all this bullshit
You can crack me open if you’d like
I don’t mind ‘cause I’m the guy
Who just randomly unwinds!

Monday, 6 May 2013

New Beginning

I could have been anything but you
the one eyed gesture of a never forgiving moon
that carries its heart out on its sleeve
following love wherever it shows

2013, the year of love and settlement. that’s what life is for, isn’t it. finally a reason not to delve in the forests alone, not to carry on with the task of writing alone. insanely impulsive, repulsive, collectively mad. there’s no reason not to be none. 2012 welcomed me with tears and rain. i’ll remember the sad part but lack the reasoning. no more promises made to be broken, no more hearts left to be broken. the listless heart that couldn’t carry its weight, dropped dead somewhere or is it just rest. rain washes away the bane of tomorrow. it’s a new year, a new beginning and you wonder where i have been all these years. tomorrow and tomorrow i’ll breathe once again, remembering what once I had and now forgotten. the pages of dreams don’t die so soon. i’ll dream a different dream again when the memories become full. applaud the gesture of loved ones. the acceptance, the rejection, the penance, the evolution. now, you ask me the ending already. i say give me some peace and i’ll forever remain.

here i am under the moon
so far away yet so near
i will not look for reasons again
happiness beckons why complain?

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

Wake me when we’re dead
Let me sleep till this clash between trivial days has ended
When the young lovers have frolicked their last field
And the gates to the caves of inability have been sealed!

Saturday, 2 March 2013

Ail For Ale

if only i understood the value of ale
then i would have forgotten your dreams and tale
lived life in woods like a forlorn hermit
sowed seeds of imperfection in distant pits
never to awake, never to shake
my sodden woes, my souless make!

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

There are no pictures on the wall tonight. We are all captured within this one shot that reveals our inner side. We are just waiting for our conscience to come alive. Then we will all run and switch sides.

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

Random Inklings

He always flung his hands at the closest approach!

Feeling fine is just fine, but feeling ecstatic is a feeling divine!

run not in front of me, beside me, behind me or around me! I will always reach out and grab you! walk away slowly and maybe then I will spare you!