Orange Evenings

The fire burning in the tiny angiti,
Tiny hands stretching out to the warmth,
Sitting hunched on end
Like children around a tale-granny
Warming oranges, glowing oranges in the fire.

The warm sweet juice bursting forth
In one’s mouth, the seed cast aside
And the home was such a warm, sweet place
And warm, sweet was the cold
And the heat.

Haunting Sniper on the Edge

A plane flies overhead, flies like a fiery dream…
A ghost stands behind my back, shadowy eyes poring into my scream.
He feels so close behind, yet distant like the plane.
He is my brother from an erstwhile age, and takes away my pain,
I wonder what it would be like…to be him and to be free!
So I look into those shadows…now which am I and which is he??

A Day’s Worth of Thoughts

I hate see-offs at railway stations. The feeling of standing immovable as the train ambles out. Your friends wave, leaning out of the door. Plastic smiles on everyones’ faces. Then they are far away, ever shrinking. Then you watch the others, the strangers, stare with indistinguishable expressions at you and then the thing next to you. And then they’re gone and someone else is there. Coach after coach of grumbling, creaking, complaining metal and life pass you by. And then, suddenly, it’s gone. And you’re facing the semi-naked man enjoying a bath on the rail lines on the other side. Two puppies crawl in under the leaking pipes meant to replenish trains to have their own share. The man shoos them away. You look around. Life moves on. The train has left. The coolies shift base to another platform where yet another train is to leave. You look behind your back. Your friends are nowhere in sight.

I give my head a shake and try to get used to the idea. I walk. It’s a long way. People push and shove me here and there. I assume my vulture mode, head buried in chest. Long face. Maroon 5 is on today’s menu. I wish I could wear my jacket. I like hiding behind its high neck. Alas! I never thought November could be hot… anywhere.

“How I wish… How I wish, you were here/ we’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl…”

I take a bus. Not the one at the front of the queue. The one behind. It’s empty. I get a window seat of my choice. It takes its time to get filled and then grumbles across the Bridge like a wounded tiger on the Hooghly.

Cardiology

“I open my eyes, I try to see/ But I’m blinded by the white light/ I can’t remember how, I can’t remember why/ I am hee..re tonight!”

So sang Simple Plan half a decade ago. You must be thinking what’s with me and punk lyrics. I wonder too. It’s a wonderful feeling when you think that an artist has composed something especially for you: when you turn the last page of a novel and go “Hey, that sounded familiar!” or when a stanza from the latest national chart-buster resembles your oh-so-modest life. It’s a wonderful feeling. All through high school, I thought I had a secret deal with Green Day to write songs for me. And when the vagaries of love showed its face in subsequent years, Good Charlotte seemed to fit the bill. I found it uncanny – the regularity with which their songs came to mean something more than just a collection of emo lyrics to me.

But then came college, and life was good and busy. Intellectual even! Punk took a backseat as Floyd, Nirvana and GN’R took centrestage. I was expected to appreciate the ‘good’ music. Not that I didn’t like it. But then, the lyrics always spoke of somebody else. It wasn’t too difficult listening to Denver to imagine golden countries and brilliant sunsets. Or to listen to Floyd and dream of smoky Sherlock-Holmesque living rooms and a life bordering on the surreal. Or to sing along with Axl Rose and feel a wonderful high. Or to listen to the songs of a Bengali bard and feel the rustic tension in the air. But somehow, they were never about me.