So what if I can't blow a whistle when I see you're drying your hair
So what if I can't sing like McCartney out of despair
So what if I can't built a Taj for a memoir
We still can hold each other from the world's be.
So what if we can't feel each other
So what if all we connect is not real
So what if real is not real anymore
Who draws the line, and who decides it there?
So what if I can't carry you in my arms
So what if we can't share sundaes in barns
So what if we can't fight with those alarms
Who rings the bell and who hears it anyway?
So what if there're still work to be done
So what if there're margins to erase
So what if the plum's never tasted..
Who told love had had to be realized?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Synchronicity- POLICE
It's an excerpt from the album Synchronicity by the Police.. the band. Mostly the lyrics are by Sting, and some really hit me hard. Thought of storing them in the webspace.
All our greatest killers were industrious
At least the ones we all know by name
For it's murder by numbers 1 2 3
It's as easy to learn as your ABC.
If we share this nightmare
Then we can dream
Spiritus Mundi
A star fall, a phone call
It joins all, Synchronicity
If we explode the atom bomb
would they say that we were dumb?
They say the meek shall inherit the earth...
We want our tea in the Sahara with you...
All our greatest killers were industrious
At least the ones we all know by name
For it's murder by numbers 1 2 3
It's as easy to learn as your ABC.
If we share this nightmare
Then we can dream
Spiritus Mundi
A star fall, a phone call
It joins all, Synchronicity
If we explode the atom bomb
would they say that we were dumb?
They say the meek shall inherit the earth...
We want our tea in the Sahara with you...
Thursday, June 17, 2010
About Time
When there’s little room to open your wings
No matter how strong the air pushes you up
The wings at most flutter by itself
Knowing well flipping sides won’t help.
And when there’s no room for flexing muscles,
In the closed space of suffocated breathlessness
What’s the use of all the barbells you pump
For the very fabric is unable to bear the stress?
When you feel like you’ve been trimmed off your spirit
Your effervescence, your zeal, your very soul
When you know your waves will go uncaught,
Would you honestly spare a thought?
That is when sparks do fly
Not for the concrete conglomerate, but the humble and shy
For what’s yours, what’s own, is what you conceived,
Like a baby, parenthood succeeds all and sundry.
No matter how strong the air pushes you up
The wings at most flutter by itself
Knowing well flipping sides won’t help.
And when there’s no room for flexing muscles,
In the closed space of suffocated breathlessness
What’s the use of all the barbells you pump
For the very fabric is unable to bear the stress?
When you feel like you’ve been trimmed off your spirit
Your effervescence, your zeal, your very soul
When you know your waves will go uncaught,
Would you honestly spare a thought?
That is when sparks do fly
Not for the concrete conglomerate, but the humble and shy
For what’s yours, what’s own, is what you conceived,
Like a baby, parenthood succeeds all and sundry.
Monday, June 14, 2010
'To My Lovely'
Don’t come so close to me
That I can smell your perfume,
So close that I can see through your anemic skin,
I smell your perfume that has mixed up with the sweat and sunburns.
The tans and the waxed legs that you were ever so proud of,
Don’t come so close so I can’t feel you anymore.
Stay afar, on the other side of the bank.
Sit idle under the grand banyan tree maybe, or by
the stairwell where the village women would come in the evening
over their watery fights. Read, keep reading the book of longing,
and long to belong in the beholder’s arms. Shed a tear for the man
you’ve never seen, but don’t come close that I can touch you.
For there has been too many bloodshed on this side of the river,
Opulence cut the throat of sovereignty long back, where freedom was once
fed, is now the battleground for hostility, and the fear of death. For you,
‘to my lovely’, should stay far, curling strands of your highlighted hair,
for the blood that was lost, and the revenge that was avenged, stand
testimony to the love repossessed.
That I can smell your perfume,
So close that I can see through your anemic skin,
I smell your perfume that has mixed up with the sweat and sunburns.
The tans and the waxed legs that you were ever so proud of,
Don’t come so close so I can’t feel you anymore.
Stay afar, on the other side of the bank.
Sit idle under the grand banyan tree maybe, or by
the stairwell where the village women would come in the evening
over their watery fights. Read, keep reading the book of longing,
and long to belong in the beholder’s arms. Shed a tear for the man
you’ve never seen, but don’t come close that I can touch you.
For there has been too many bloodshed on this side of the river,
Opulence cut the throat of sovereignty long back, where freedom was once
fed, is now the battleground for hostility, and the fear of death. For you,
‘to my lovely’, should stay far, curling strands of your highlighted hair,
for the blood that was lost, and the revenge that was avenged, stand
testimony to the love repossessed.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Distant Dreams
The birds that flew across the bridge
and swans who swam across the sea
Never knew what they were doing unknown
To make the unseen harbours see.
There were trees who drank the same water
and breathed around the same moist air
and grew on the same land, same oxidants
fed same robins to sing the same prayer.
Still they never met, never they knew
How the other wipes their tears off
How the other makes faces when angry
and throws tantrums when in grief or shock.
For who lends the shoulder when one cries
and who pats the back when achieves one
and who is scared of which demons
and who soothes their sleepy morn's.
Because what matters in a shiny day
is maybe the joke that's played along
But one who gives a lift in a rainy night
is the one for whom the feeling's strong.
The harbours had the same ships running,
and the same songs of the kayak-drives
But in order to come to real terms,
they had to do more than daily rhymes.
For they both dreamt of a day ahead
when the sun will shine and children play
and swear on the tears that they might shed
that together they'll make, what they say.
and swans who swam across the sea
Never knew what they were doing unknown
To make the unseen harbours see.
There were trees who drank the same water
and breathed around the same moist air
and grew on the same land, same oxidants
fed same robins to sing the same prayer.
Still they never met, never they knew
How the other wipes their tears off
How the other makes faces when angry
and throws tantrums when in grief or shock.
For who lends the shoulder when one cries
and who pats the back when achieves one
and who is scared of which demons
and who soothes their sleepy morn's.
Because what matters in a shiny day
is maybe the joke that's played along
But one who gives a lift in a rainy night
is the one for whom the feeling's strong.
The harbours had the same ships running,
and the same songs of the kayak-drives
But in order to come to real terms,
they had to do more than daily rhymes.
For they both dreamt of a day ahead
when the sun will shine and children play
and swear on the tears that they might shed
that together they'll make, what they say.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Madly Bangalee
There were dreams in the world we used to live in,
there were green mangoes to steal
There were hidden books of rotten literature,
under the big fat Daniel Steel.
We heard Pink Floyd where we got high
and Scorpions when we laid low,
We heard John Denver on our way back home,
and read Shelly when we missed home.
We had Tagore's lines rote in mind
to use when a friend was cheated
We had Sukumar Ray to make people laugh
when trysts of life were met.
We knew enough chords for a rainy day
and more jazz music to dance
We knew poems of Nazrul when blood fumed
after a Rand De Basati trance.
We knew and defined the meaning of friendship
and never left the hand we held,
My Bangalee roots stemmed myself
to become this perfect blend.
there were green mangoes to steal
There were hidden books of rotten literature,
under the big fat Daniel Steel.
We heard Pink Floyd where we got high
and Scorpions when we laid low,
We heard John Denver on our way back home,
and read Shelly when we missed home.
We had Tagore's lines rote in mind
to use when a friend was cheated
We had Sukumar Ray to make people laugh
when trysts of life were met.
We knew enough chords for a rainy day
and more jazz music to dance
We knew poems of Nazrul when blood fumed
after a Rand De Basati trance.
We knew and defined the meaning of friendship
and never left the hand we held,
My Bangalee roots stemmed myself
to become this perfect blend.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Passing Phase
He was alone when she walked by
silent breeze on the passer by
Like it blows him off his feet
from where he stood on the street.
The wonderland awaits, or so he thought
For the umpteen romances he has sought
Taught him to dream and not loose hope
and reach a high can take no dope.
They held hands, they took showers
they talked about buds blooming to flowers.
They lied beneath the martian sky
where only angels are allowed to fly.
She thought the time was way too fine
The knight is here and his armour to shine
He thought if not the mermaid be
Together they can make a perfect We.
If they only knew the rules of the Saturn
Permanent at best, can only be a pattern
For change is the new law of life
It touches like a feather, but cuts like a knife.
silent breeze on the passer by
Like it blows him off his feet
from where he stood on the street.
The wonderland awaits, or so he thought
For the umpteen romances he has sought
Taught him to dream and not loose hope
and reach a high can take no dope.
They held hands, they took showers
they talked about buds blooming to flowers.
They lied beneath the martian sky
where only angels are allowed to fly.
She thought the time was way too fine
The knight is here and his armour to shine
He thought if not the mermaid be
Together they can make a perfect We.
If they only knew the rules of the Saturn
Permanent at best, can only be a pattern
For change is the new law of life
It touches like a feather, but cuts like a knife.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Footsie
It was a known ground
and the rules acknowledged
It was a known battle,
the enemy only changed.
We were both trying hard
to fit the shoes we didn't try
The shoes maybe worn before
maybe strewn, sworn by.
We didn't know what to do,
but we knew what to not
We traded along on the line
of letting in and letting out.
The message was loud and clear,
The tone had to be delicate, though
For there's no fun in playing
footsie with stockings on.
Apprehensions were part-life
rest were.. hope and pray
To play the known game with new opponents
is always a grass- tad bit gray.
and the rules acknowledged
It was a known battle,
the enemy only changed.
We were both trying hard
to fit the shoes we didn't try
The shoes maybe worn before
maybe strewn, sworn by.
We didn't know what to do,
but we knew what to not
We traded along on the line
of letting in and letting out.
The message was loud and clear,
The tone had to be delicate, though
For there's no fun in playing
footsie with stockings on.
Apprehensions were part-life
rest were.. hope and pray
To play the known game with new opponents
is always a grass- tad bit gray.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Snow Pastel
Chunks of snow pelting from the top
But humbly wets the roads when touching the earth
Flurries hurrying like running out on schedule
Slippery sidewalks prepare for the slush.
Thirty minutes of pure ecstasy,
White pieces of joy pasted on us
High-rises look hazy through the rain
Horizon seems to a Grey hairline.
We could smell it, it marked us with chalks
Caught us off the guard after the eighteen degree mark
Parting kisses that the winter blew us
Only the romantic will know the reason why.
No sunshine today, no windchill to hide from.
No ear-cups are around so the wind touches the skull.
I've got warmth in my pocket from last night
Will walk through the ice and alabaster light.
But humbly wets the roads when touching the earth
Flurries hurrying like running out on schedule
Slippery sidewalks prepare for the slush.
Thirty minutes of pure ecstasy,
White pieces of joy pasted on us
High-rises look hazy through the rain
Horizon seems to a Grey hairline.
We could smell it, it marked us with chalks
Caught us off the guard after the eighteen degree mark
Parting kisses that the winter blew us
Only the romantic will know the reason why.
No sunshine today, no windchill to hide from.
No ear-cups are around so the wind touches the skull.
I've got warmth in my pocket from last night
Will walk through the ice and alabaster light.
Monday, March 22, 2010
My sunshine.
Wrap me around like a warm towel, like kid out of bathtub.
Warm me like the hot-water pipe that runs in the chilly downtown.
Like a mother's hug, like a brother's pat,
Like a yellow spread-out cricket field in some northern county..
(When the ball came looping from high in the sky,
the fielder closed eyes because the Sun was too bright.)
Like a quilt you get in stale air conditioned hotel,
Saturate, warmify or sepia our lives.
Like a father's hug when the son scores a mark,
Warm me like the hot-water pipe that runs in the chilly downtown.
Like a mother's hug, like a brother's pat,
Like a yellow spread-out cricket field in some northern county..
(When the ball came looping from high in the sky,
the fielder closed eyes because the Sun was too bright.)
Like a quilt you get in stale air conditioned hotel,
Saturate, warmify or sepia our lives.
Like a father's hug when the son scores a mark,
Shine on you crazy diamond... light up thy spark.
End of War.
You shoot me. I shoot you.
Our bullets stick to each other,
though we hardly do.
I curse you. You curse me.
Our street-fights are welcome home
though seldom are we.
You smack me. I smack you.
Our egos throttle homes rattle
though (the) battles continue.
I kill you. You kill me.
But there're no flowers or Shiva's to go
(as) the demon is set free.
We all wanted sunshine. We all needed rain.
We all were living just as Franco saved Spain.
Truth were nude but nudity was legal
Food was the cause to fight, life was frugal.
We spelt it wrong. We didn't get the takes.
Some call it an end when the brake breaks.
My bullet will end you pal, your bullet mine
If both of us press the button, ain't be any spine.
Our bullets stick to each other,
though we hardly do.
I curse you. You curse me.
Our street-fights are welcome home
though seldom are we.
You smack me. I smack you.
Our egos throttle homes rattle
though (the) battles continue.
I kill you. You kill me.
But there're no flowers or Shiva's to go
(as) the demon is set free.
We all wanted sunshine. We all needed rain.
We all were living just as Franco saved Spain.
Truth were nude but nudity was legal
Food was the cause to fight, life was frugal.
We spelt it wrong. We didn't get the takes.
Some call it an end when the brake breaks.
My bullet will end you pal, your bullet mine
If both of us press the button, ain't be any spine.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Weekend
It's a wonderful wonderful evening.
Breeze wiping the last of week's toll off my face,
Unsettling hairs that was parted to perfection for the drama
that unfolds every toiling day in varied ways.
I feel fresh, I taste the last sweat before it evaporates.
The last of the facade that was worn everyday with utmost care
is shelved back, waiting to be washed and dried.
It can rest a day or two, so can I.
The smell that runs through my nose doesn't originate here
but is somewhere in the old country, back home.
Where they still feel the fire's spark,
when the meat chops are fried and cakes baked.
The sound is abstract, largely dominated by the basketball bumps
and friendly banters. A few cars start off for their downtown destination.
Families meet over dinner, mom gets to see her daughter studying in high school
where a few oldies regurgitate their memories of a soccer game.
It's the day we waited for. It's the start of dream that we dreamt for forty hours.
The planned sleep goes for a toss and we catch up with loved ones staying afar.
Plans roll for the coming days with rejuvenated zeal.
A few beds are cleaned, others, get ready to be messed up.
There's a lovely hug I see, I see holding hands.
I sense dad's getting me the special coffee.
For today has been dreamt too many times,
for even a moment be missed.
Breeze wiping the last of week's toll off my face,
Unsettling hairs that was parted to perfection for the drama
that unfolds every toiling day in varied ways.
I feel fresh, I taste the last sweat before it evaporates.
The last of the facade that was worn everyday with utmost care
is shelved back, waiting to be washed and dried.
It can rest a day or two, so can I.
The smell that runs through my nose doesn't originate here
but is somewhere in the old country, back home.
Where they still feel the fire's spark,
when the meat chops are fried and cakes baked.
The sound is abstract, largely dominated by the basketball bumps
and friendly banters. A few cars start off for their downtown destination.
Families meet over dinner, mom gets to see her daughter studying in high school
where a few oldies regurgitate their memories of a soccer game.
It's the day we waited for. It's the start of dream that we dreamt for forty hours.
The planned sleep goes for a toss and we catch up with loved ones staying afar.
Plans roll for the coming days with rejuvenated zeal.
A few beds are cleaned, others, get ready to be messed up.
There's a lovely hug I see, I see holding hands.
I sense dad's getting me the special coffee.
For today has been dreamt too many times,
for even a moment be missed.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Unspoken words of fear, angst and disgust.
On the wake another terror attack in my home country, I stand speechless like millions of others. Not that I am incapable of doing something, not that I don’t want to. But somehow I don’t know what to do. I am, just like everybody else, is too flabbergasted and bereaved to think straight and clear; I am shit scared. There was a movie a couple of years back in hindi, names A Wednesday. The theme of the movie was what might happen if a common man decided to take the plunge himself, of putting all his frustration and disgust into action with the aide of modern information-quipped world. He scares the police and at the end, lets them know if a common man can catch the guards off a guard with élan, what might those with money, power and vicious intentions do.
I feel same today. To give a small wrap-up of my digested part of the story: NINE people died in a for-nothing blast in German Bakery at Pune, which I am told is akin to Coffee House of Kolkata. Three of them were a boy, his girlfriend and his sister. I happened to know the guy by name and probably met him on one or two occasions. An IIT-grad, he was working at JP Morgan and was having a valentino-dinner with his sweetheart and also his sister, whom he arranged to meet his girl. They noticed a bag, suspected something and asked a super-excited 15-year old Nepali boy, who worked at the place, to look for its owner. Like 90% of 15-years old would do, he opened it… to make it the couples last dinner together, the siblings last meet and the lad’s last jump of excitement. They died, all on-the-spot.
That’s my digest, because I knew the guy, because the sister was my friend’s sister’s classmate and the boy used to serve my friends regularly. Not that they were so close that it shattered my world, not even that a very close school friend is alive by chance today has woke me up from a sleep… I am just told by someone to wait for the day when he does not pick my call to say he is well, and the tone in which my ever-so-jubilant friend told me that, told me something. It made me weak in my knees. I understood we are alive by chance. Not that it was different yesterday. The death has just come closer to me, Arya Banerjee, no matter where I stay at this point of time. I can just sense it, though neither me nor any of my beloved is unwell or fighting a war, but they are just out and about… a reason enough for them to die. Yes, death. The darkness which apparently is so romantic that people fantasize about it, about heaven and hell and the deep-frying pans, and there are so many philosophy, theology and principles around it; can just engulf me or anyone without any rhyme or reason, and also not because a drunk celebrity was driving his land-rover over speed. It got a reason, which is the most unreasonable of all.
So what changes? We are still insecure as we were yesterday, we still walk with fear, board the bus with care so that we aren’t ran over, check our wallets every minutes we’re in a crowded train and bribe doctors to lawyers to policemen to let us live. There is just another added superpower which can do all of these. The problem is we don’t see them. It’s omnipotent and omnipresent. It’s not revered but is fearfully respected. It’s not preferred but in constantly evolving. It’s scary, it scared the hell outta me.
Leaves me wondering what are we waiting for? Not in the positive sense, but in the most powerless way of terms. Not the Rahman’s inspiring song, but just a plain ask: how long we are left to live? Why am I thinking of a Masters, why is X thinking of starting her company and why is Y so happy that Z texted him good morning with a heart-smiley at the end? Why do we love, why do we listen to Pete Seeger, why do we read Rumi? I know I am being the worst pessimist I could be, but my optimism is not leading me anywhere. I am loved but not powerful enough to shelter my beloveds, I love but not enlightened enough to see the light at the end of this tunnel. What if there is no end to this tunnel? What if the world turns into a fight club which fights for the sake of fighting alone? What if reasons fade thick and fast and we are derided to the lumps of masses Ray predicted in his books that may only live and die but can’t think? I will probably not live that long, I might see a brilliant innovation or two, a few more solar and lunar eclipses and a closer look at the mars, one more Google and few more Aamir Khan and Denzel Washington movies, but nothing makes me happier than I am sad today.
I kind of understood what differentiates a common man and a government or ruling body today. Rulers worry about what killed their men and how were they killed. We, the people, only care about, how long we live and when we die. It’s not conflict of interest, but just watching where the puck stops.
Because love is known to heal all wounds, I pray, in my cocoon, ashamed of my race.
Today, the hardest! Take care, and never meant more so.
My flowers have died an honest death, because they couldn’t withstand the cold
My emotions have soothed away, because it has read in black and bold
That my fortune, or anyone else's for that matter, is held ransom
for reason that I, and everyone else is unable to fathom.
Who goes for a toss and no matter where it lands,
Who calls the heads or who bats first,
Who was present or who missed the match
Cause the match is closed if those guys catch.
I am insecure, scared and brittle.
I knew enough to stay in my hole
I am awake till I keep my eyes open,
I am dead before I actually died.
Promise to be more optimistic in my next post. As for now, let me mourn, in peace.
I feel same today. To give a small wrap-up of my digested part of the story: NINE people died in a for-nothing blast in German Bakery at Pune, which I am told is akin to Coffee House of Kolkata. Three of them were a boy, his girlfriend and his sister. I happened to know the guy by name and probably met him on one or two occasions. An IIT-grad, he was working at JP Morgan and was having a valentino-dinner with his sweetheart and also his sister, whom he arranged to meet his girl. They noticed a bag, suspected something and asked a super-excited 15-year old Nepali boy, who worked at the place, to look for its owner. Like 90% of 15-years old would do, he opened it… to make it the couples last dinner together, the siblings last meet and the lad’s last jump of excitement. They died, all on-the-spot.
That’s my digest, because I knew the guy, because the sister was my friend’s sister’s classmate and the boy used to serve my friends regularly. Not that they were so close that it shattered my world, not even that a very close school friend is alive by chance today has woke me up from a sleep… I am just told by someone to wait for the day when he does not pick my call to say he is well, and the tone in which my ever-so-jubilant friend told me that, told me something. It made me weak in my knees. I understood we are alive by chance. Not that it was different yesterday. The death has just come closer to me, Arya Banerjee, no matter where I stay at this point of time. I can just sense it, though neither me nor any of my beloved is unwell or fighting a war, but they are just out and about… a reason enough for them to die. Yes, death. The darkness which apparently is so romantic that people fantasize about it, about heaven and hell and the deep-frying pans, and there are so many philosophy, theology and principles around it; can just engulf me or anyone without any rhyme or reason, and also not because a drunk celebrity was driving his land-rover over speed. It got a reason, which is the most unreasonable of all.
So what changes? We are still insecure as we were yesterday, we still walk with fear, board the bus with care so that we aren’t ran over, check our wallets every minutes we’re in a crowded train and bribe doctors to lawyers to policemen to let us live. There is just another added superpower which can do all of these. The problem is we don’t see them. It’s omnipotent and omnipresent. It’s not revered but is fearfully respected. It’s not preferred but in constantly evolving. It’s scary, it scared the hell outta me.
Leaves me wondering what are we waiting for? Not in the positive sense, but in the most powerless way of terms. Not the Rahman’s inspiring song, but just a plain ask: how long we are left to live? Why am I thinking of a Masters, why is X thinking of starting her company and why is Y so happy that Z texted him good morning with a heart-smiley at the end? Why do we love, why do we listen to Pete Seeger, why do we read Rumi? I know I am being the worst pessimist I could be, but my optimism is not leading me anywhere. I am loved but not powerful enough to shelter my beloveds, I love but not enlightened enough to see the light at the end of this tunnel. What if there is no end to this tunnel? What if the world turns into a fight club which fights for the sake of fighting alone? What if reasons fade thick and fast and we are derided to the lumps of masses Ray predicted in his books that may only live and die but can’t think? I will probably not live that long, I might see a brilliant innovation or two, a few more solar and lunar eclipses and a closer look at the mars, one more Google and few more Aamir Khan and Denzel Washington movies, but nothing makes me happier than I am sad today.
I kind of understood what differentiates a common man and a government or ruling body today. Rulers worry about what killed their men and how were they killed. We, the people, only care about, how long we live and when we die. It’s not conflict of interest, but just watching where the puck stops.
Because love is known to heal all wounds, I pray, in my cocoon, ashamed of my race.
Today, the hardest! Take care, and never meant more so.
My flowers have died an honest death, because they couldn’t withstand the cold
My emotions have soothed away, because it has read in black and bold
That my fortune, or anyone else's for that matter, is held ransom
for reason that I, and everyone else is unable to fathom.
Who goes for a toss and no matter where it lands,
Who calls the heads or who bats first,
Who was present or who missed the match
Cause the match is closed if those guys catch.
I am insecure, scared and brittle.
I knew enough to stay in my hole
I am awake till I keep my eyes open,
I am dead before I actually died.
Promise to be more optimistic in my next post. As for now, let me mourn, in peace.
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