Pens and Pages

Falling sick leads to resting so long in bed that you can't help but to take a trip down the memory lane. I am out of living-in-the-now moments. My now is the bed and the pillow and the blanket while my Dad turns on the AC in his room. It's summer for them and winter for me. We are in Guwahati. And I am weak after my once-in-a-lifetime 103.6 degree fever.  (P.S. I didn't take any medicine until the fever subsided to 102.6 and then to 101.4 and finally to 101.2. Since I never get fever easily, and even in covid the maximum fever I got was 101.2, I let my body's natural healing capacity get to work in the unusually high fever. Either that or I would go straight to the hospital to find out the cause. No gulping paracetamol mindlessly to subside the fever when it's something so unusual. Finally I took the paracetamol only when it was the usual 101.2 and to relax the body pains. Don't try this at home alone though. I did this with complete faith in my body and my alt...

There's a thing about firsts. Your first friend at school, your first job, your first kiss, your first relationship, your first heartbreak, every first matters in life, except when it comes to writing. I was some 6 years old when I wrote my first script for a movie and submitted it to Dad, asking him to make a movie out of it (Dad was working on an Assamese film at that time), only to be utterly dejected to find out I was just a child with a far-from-perfect film script demanding that it be produced. I was upset for days and forgot about it soon until I wrote my next short-story at the age of 7 and gifted it to him, in the hope that he would get the hint that I wanted a film out of this one too. None of the works ever got converted to movies (well, of course), but I learned over time that our first work of writing, no matter how special they are to us, would always be horribly imperfect. My first poem was fine though. It was an assignment for the class to write a poem in Hindi wher...

Image Source: Huffpost I wouldn’t think of it much If the tea I so love to drink Wouldn’t have found a genius way To trickle down my white t-shirt Leaving a stubborn brown stain. She would then find her way down Every time I wear a white top. If what I wear is already stained, She doesn’t bother to leave her mark again; Maybe she knows to not knock the same door twice, Maybe she identifies her own marks. There are seasons when I love to wear white But I can never wear the ones I own, not again Because her scars don’t leave And I can never give up on a cup of tea, So I let her spill and stay where she wants to be. If the top’s not white, she doesn’t bother to drain Maybe she knows to not hurt the ones that don’t feel pain. I never spill her on my black cardigan- She is picky that way, not to fall for anyone. Every white t-shirt I have ever owned Screams of her taste, of her skin tone, I wouldn’t mind losing so many clothes If it weren...

Your thoughts, your feelings, The emotions you’re perceiving- What are they, if not fragments of beauty? Epitome of beauty be that mind of yours, That heart that loves simplicity, The beauty you see around- Invisible to busy eyes, Incomprehensible to worried minds. How do you pen a poem then Of the beauty you see From that heart of yours? Do you break sentences? Do you rhyme words? Or do you just read, And, after every four seconds, pause? How would you express your heart? With long words from a heavy lexicon? How long should each word be, Sitting on someone’s dictionary? And if all you want is to gently read, Write the poem a broken heart would need, Not simple meanings behind words too-long, Write your heart out to a simple song. Write the word that makes you believe Not the one that looks good on paper. Choose the word that weighs more No matter the length be nine or four. Ask yourself, what would make you believe, C...

Dedicated to Partha Deka, a friend I had known since I was a child, a friend fate had brought to me back this year, only to be taken away again  Remnants of a smile on a stone-cold face And maybe you can fool everyone again That death isn't as painful as we make it to be... Some tears bottled up from months gone by- You'd say judge not how one deals with loss... Dying dreams like drops of dew under a rising sun, You'd laugh they don't chain your ankles anymore... We'd cry for we wouldn't know any better And make stories of your new whereabouts, Playing MJ songs and laughing at your own jokes... Or in a make-believe world of hope, Somewhere in peace in a dreamless sleep...

My car moved when I typed 1 It stopped at each 0 I type 1 and the lights were on, At every 0, it was dark again... I look away from the perfect screen Through a glass window covered with dirt, And I see beyond the translucence A dimly lit house on the hillside, A broken door left ajar, A worn out roof that'd still let A few raindrops seep in, A man limping his way home the way he would have run if he could. I see the imperfections  Of the enormous tree Under which a child could still be drenched- One drop at a time. I see a half-torn ten dollar bill, Lying near some worm-ridden mangoes The owner of the tree couldn't pluck on time, Useless as both could be, the way A writer would think away his time, Without words to put on the paper. I come home late at night Another day of programming  LEDS and wheels of the tiny robot car, Coding 1 or 0, I kill my day, Only to find my night dimly lit Like the house on the ...

It’s funny how one’s life goes through highs and lows But we put some kohl and brush our brows. We someday realize we have no one but foes; So we sit back to paint the nails on our fingers and toes. For that might be the way one can drop that frown, To let not the world and its people pull you down, For I can see my life all blue- the hue I dread But I can change my hair to a better shade of red. I may wake up to find a messy work life But I can neatly braid my hair and pretend it’s all fine. I can find my job dull or whine that it’s not fair But I can take out a magic wand and curl my hair. I may cry all I can, as if I’m trapped in Medusa’s lair But tomorrow I’ll still show up with a confident flair.

Words engulf him The way he gulps his scotch One glass after another. He grabs his pen And writes down his love Pages after pages. He passes a smile at me At times when he isn't bothered About how he looks When his teeth is shown, When his hair is uncombed And she passes him by. He writes a note for her Without reading The stories I've to tell. He asks me, sometimes, As he drops his note In her old letterbox. His thick eyelashes flutter, A gulp in his throat, Drops of sweat  On his forehead, He fumbles as he utters, "Have you written anything new?"

I let you go like some old habits of mine- Checking your Facebook profile every minute I touch my phone, Reading our old messages for signs that would tell you don't love me anymore, Putting a burning cigarette in my mouth every time I thought of you, Exhaling the smoke every time I realized you aren't with me. But such are the habits that do not die- You come back to me one more time, You collide with me on a busy street on some Saturday morning, looking at someone else's photos from that phone in your hand; I let you go like the wine of Venice I swear I would never drink again, I let you go like the promise of never writing a poem again Yet I hold a new bottle of wine dearly in Vienna, A few blank pages and a new pen sit by my side in the cold nights when I would sit in a train and try hard not to think of you. But such are the ways with thoughts- When I close the doors, they find a new window to come in, Rotten like the smell of the dried fish you used...

Photo taken at Plitvice National Park, Croatia by Vibhor Dhote Oh! What are these days I have found myself in! The bagpacks I carry no longer feel that heavy; What have they lost if not for a few coins, a few notes, some letters written long ago, a few locks, a few clothes? Or is it the loss of some fears, some shackles, some thoughts tied to their waist belts several years ago? Where is the fatigue? Where are the tears that drenched my pillow? Where is the inability to wake up early in the morning and the incessant desire to sleep forever? Today, every time I close my eyes, I need to type, I need to write. Where is the indolence, the procrastination, the lack of, as I would say whenever they ask, the "limited time"? What is this insouciance called? Where have eloped the eternal need for love, money and the things I've already sold? Why Plath has shut her eyes today whom I so deeply adored? Bukowski's Bluebird is set free now while Sahir's pleas ...

I promised him, I won't write a poem again... It's been more than a month now Yet I have written a million on my heart A million on my mind, my soul, in between conversation, in pieces, in whole... I have written them time and again, never to be read, never to be heard, never to be told For I kept a promise I dearly hold, Never to write a poem again, unless I am told Oh, the pictures can't describe what I feel, Where are the metaphors? I am done with the reel. Where are the words? For you can't read my mind. Where are the innuendos or the shy gestures from the divine? Oh, how can I be myself if I don't pause to think, to write. To experience is heaven, but no more poems is a sacrilegious crime I break the promise today, to unveil another one No more poems on Facebook, but many more on the leaves of my mind...

A world full of "certainties" All the plans, all the vanities. Where black covers the white Suited in "confidence"- the constant fight. A million roads I dream to take One destination, knowing not I turn where. A green veil covers for two years, some two decades. But the "plan" awaits, new roads to make. I pant, I struggle, I do my best While they say, "You are, dear, but so inadequate".

He says 'tis not poetry what you write. Where are the stories, where are the rhymes? Though we look into each other's eyes for hours From one sunset to another sunrise. He says 'tis not love if we await another day. Where are the words you and I didn't say? He says 'tis not about my daydreams. He says we don't hold hands very often. For the world is filled with contemporary poets, He says mine don't fit this world of substance. Where does the heart of your poem lie?, he asks. A poem's not a breeze, long, that doesn't last. A minute longer that doesn't stay, 'Tis not a poem, 'tis what your feelings say. A floating second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

She swirls around the same old swing, Like leaves that float and fly for a new breeze, The same park where benches lay adorned, The same garden of memories, of love and lovelorn... A gentle drizzle that comes every eve, Does make her not smile nor blink. She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors, A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm. Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings, A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

How nonchalantly we made promises of a love eternal And in the quest for eternity We forgot how to not forget each other, I had forgotten how it felt like To be in his presence, How he would talk of the faraway stars As we sit under the moonlit sky... I had forgotten his perfume And he had forgotten How my cheeks turn red Every time I caught a glance of him. In the quest for eternity I wrote a million poems, Letters I would not share... We had forgotten how it felt like To live in the "reality" people created. We left things unsaid Like we see in the movies written on ideas created by Shakespeare... I would cut my wrists, Drink wine to remember And recite Bukowski and Plath In the quest for the eternity they derived... But most of the pages life did unfold, Were nothing like the books he read, Or the poems I wrote... Life moved on, One memory after another... We kept forgetting Each moment we thought we'd cherish. Yesterday, I saw him again His picture on my ...

I found it strange how men swam in the pool without seeming to feel even a tad bit uneasy about their less than perfect bodies, hairy, dark, with proud paunches wearing a swimsuit that was nothing more than a boxer While I, Another Imperfect Woman, Shivered in my suit, Wondering if more than my contours were visible, Even though it was dark, Even though the swimsuit covered what's "necessary to cover". My first swimming lesson And instead of feeling proud for having dared, for having tried, A Million Thoughts crossed my fearful mind. The fat belly. The fat arms. Hairy armpits. Sunburns. Chlorine. Shape. Shame. Thighs too flabby. Hips too large. Hold your breath. Keep your head down. Pull the suit's edges Let it cover some more skin. I need to wax. I need to look thin. My first swimming lesson And before feeling the fear of water I felt shame. And if perfection is the need only for women. Oh, I tell you, it's a...

( Because everyone around us pretends to be someone they are not and, maybe, so do we.  Maybe the person you truly are is only when you're all by yourself. ) I hope it's you The face you show me every morning, For I have torn masks before, I have detached pretty pink masks from dark red faces, I have burned those wooden masks so that they can Reflect the faces they hide. They don't. They veil a different anatomy altogether, A face that only a mother could truly love, A face that would push me to trauma for a few months, A face that brings along depression and loneliness. I have fancied those faces would one day turn white, Or a lighter shade of grey or blue. They don't. They bathe with blood every night I kiss them goodnight. They have bathed in the blood they stole from someone else alike. Every time I pull out such masks Stuck to their skin Knowing not the thin boundaries For they have, over the time, erased, ...

Source: Levo.com I set them on fire, The pillars of withered leaves Like promises long broken. The bridge collapses On a sea of grief. I set them on fire Like there was no yesterday Looking at this morning With remorse and a hidden pain. Ages have elapsed Like a strand of hair That loses its identity over time, Turning pallid painlessly. I set them on fire- The long tresses you so loved once, Touching my neck, And down my spine, Once or twice, a gentle peck. I have burnt bridges, More times than I have lit a cigar Or held you in my arms. Today I pin them down, I collect the ashes- Another bridge to build With grey pillars of Infidelity and torture. Love, they call it While I prepare for it to kindle.

So that was it, Stepping on broken pieces of glass, bare feet till your toes too bleed, Splinters that pierce the skin, that flow within you like blood, never to be found again... Where darkness ended, another night began... And that was the way things were for them When they lived in different cities... Five years later when they were united They expected the world to turn all rosy, The pain to go away And happiness to stay. So when they met, they made promises to keep. To live in the same city. But that was the way things were in that city. They now live in different families

Where does the serpentine road lead? To the hill's top and beyond. A tiny hut resides at the end of the road, The road ends where people do not go. There rests in peace my muse and love Within a coffin made of soil and leaves. Sometimes, she sits atop the mountains people do not see, Touching the clouds, she smiles in glee. And when the wars will end and birds will sing. She will turn the serpentine road around, For a new world to lead.