রাজ্যজয়

আমার বাড়ির দেয়ালে
একটা ফুটো ছিল। 
সেখান দিয়ে চুনসুরকি 
খসে খসে পড়ত। 

আমি আমার ছোট আঙ্গুল 
তাতে গলিয়ে দিয়ে আরো 
বড় করতাম আর ভাবতাম 
দেওয়ালের ওদিকে কোন এক 
স্বপ্নের রাজ্য আছে।

চোখ বন্ধ করলেই দেখতাম 
আমার মাকে, সেই কবে 
আমাদের ছেড়ে চলে গেছে 
আকাশের তারা হয়ে,
মনে হত আঙ্গুলটা আরো 
একটু গলাতে পারলেই বোধহয় 
আকাশটা হাতের মুঠোয় পাব,
মায়ের নাগাল পাব।

মনে আছে, কি অসামান্য আশা 
কত ভালোবাসা ছিল সেই 
দেওয়াল ফুটো করার মধ্যে,
একটা রাজ্যজয়ের উন্মাদনা 
ছিল, একটা অমূল্য রত্ন পাওয়ার 
তাড়না ছিল।

আজ অনেক বছর পর,
এক ছোট্ট বাচ্চাকে 
রাস্তার ধারে বিশাল এক 
ভগ্ন অট্টালিকার দেওয়ালে 
পেরেক ঠুকতে দেখে 
আমার শিশুবেলার কথা 
মনে পড়ে গেল। 
ভাবলাম, ওই শিশুটাও 
বুঝি কোন আকাশ হাতড়াচ্ছে
কোন রাজ্য জয়ের আশায়। 

Stars

 

sunset…
all lights have
disappeared willingly
from the outside
to enlighten me,
a dark space
all words have ceased,
need for big and small talks
rest in eternal peace,
I feel a sun rising
in silence, a soft golden
ray, I feel a sense of warmth,
I dance with mridangam*
right in the middle of
stark violence, the wind
playing inside the magical flute,
the argent touch of the ardent moon
tells me how absurdly false
the blood of hatred is;
I feel the healing energy of truth;
love, magic, miracle, abundance,
spread all around in delight,
throughout day and night
by the golden and the silver stars.

mridangam*, a musical instrument, as shown in the picture.

Way of life

Despite many attempts
I failed. To define life.

I travelled between a journey
and a lesson most of the time.

Then
I started reading
versions of good and bad,
right and wrong,
success and failure;
Nothing is accurate,
nothing perfect.

My life, I thought
cannot be construed
by borrowed fantasies.

I came back to spell out.
Horrible interpretations
of yes and no.

Which path to take?
I don’t spend my time
thinking over it,
questioning ceaselessly,
anywhere I go
a way comes along.

Feeling is the universe

There's no painting
that takes me there,
texts fired me long
ago, I get attached to the
strings for nothing,
all paraphernalia fail,
I’m inevitably thwarted
to experience, witness 
the prescribed romance,
angst of time and space.

The brush, the pen, 
the rhyme, the rhythm
morass me in an abyss
of unreal compositions,
useless jewels.

I close my eyes,
with newfangled wings 
I feel the early clouds
in the sky, the news
of sunrise through my
goosebumps, I approach
the beach, the waves caress
my feet.

I wonder how I was
in the midst of the magic,
which mechanical miracle
took me to the warmth,
the froth, even the salt in 
the waves my bewildered
tongue could sense.

I open my eyes.
The dichotomy has
me confused.

In gratitude, I wake up
and crawl my way up
from the gorge, look at
the canvas, the words,
the notes in wonder,
are these then the
technical instruments
in prose and verse,
that opened the treasure 
of my priceless universe.  

Worth, worthless

Meanings, reasons, beliefs
sharpening the intellect,
sullying the intelligence,
caged albums,
memories I need to sit upon
I carry on my head,
a herculean burden;
there's no meaning in nature
other than what it simply is;
with the three humanly designed 
impediments, boons, and banes,
clashes are inevitable.
Don't blame the child
shooting on the computer
waiting, wanting, willing,
yearning to shoot for real.

You know scores of things
more than I do, but now
I have a machine that knows
thousand times more than you;
so, now what is your value,
it’s perhaps nothing
other than the worth
of a human being.

The outcast

The longing to belong,
a hammer the hurts
the chords of a song;
slavery of the tie-ups,
a group, a tribe, a race,
a class, or a community,
blocks the possibility,
flow of humanity
without grace.

To sing along in wonder,
with the ups and downs
of the stars is perhaps
the liberating dignity,
the outcast key.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas
Santa will relieve us
From the dangerous virus
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas
Stay at home, enjoy the festival
On-line with friends and families,
With cakes, pastries, and the Christmas Tree,
We are going through difficult times,
Have faith, don't watch the news all the time,
Don't be scared, don't be serious
Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas!

 

কৃষ্ণের মতে কৃষ্ণের মত

কৃষ্ণের মতে চল, কৃষ্ণের কথা বল
কৃষ্ণের মত কাঁদ, কৃষ্ণের মত নাচ
কৃষ্ণের মত ভাব, কৃষ্ণের ভাবে ভাস
কৃষ্ণের হাসি হাস, কৃষ্ণকে ভালবেসে 

তারই মত ভালবাস।

যদি বল
হরে কৃষ্ণ হরে কৃষ্ণ
কৃষ্ণ কৃষ্ণ হরে হরে,
হরে রাম হরে রাম
রাম রাম হরে হরে,
তবে যত দুঃখ যত কষ্ট
সবই যাবে দূরে সরে,

আনন্দে মন উঠবে ভরে।

আবার জাদু কেমন আছে দেখো
কৃষ্ণ রামের মন্তরে 

যদি বল হ রে কৃষ্ণ হ রে রাম 

একটু খানি ছেড়ে ছেড়ে
তবে যা চাও তা হবেই হবে  

সকল কাজই তোমার ভবে 

দেখ কেমন সফল হবে
বাহিরে আর অন্তরে।

তাই বল
হরি বোল হরি বোল 

আস্তে আস্তে জোরে জোরে 

এই নামেরই বলে সবাই

শুদ্ধ হব হেসে খেলে,
তাই সবাই বল  তালি দিয়ে

হরি বোল হরি বোল
    হরি বোল হরি বোল।   

Lost voices

Still. You remain still.
Yet, speak a thousand words.
Who is the silent speaker inside
of me?
You see, you hear, you judge, you
snigger; a mirror broken into pieces,
they take several roles, times, spaces.
Demons that were asleep suddenly
wake up in the middle of a doublespeak
raillery. Their tongues reaching
up to the sky talking of the past,
only of the past, pulling off  
a nauseating course of memories.
I crawl toward the garden, but my hands
are stampede with brown leaves, full
of words, forlorn lovers.

Is this the world, a stillborn world
that I nursed within, with resilience,
faith, and affection? Just when death
was born in front of me, I fathomed that
it was a fake offspring that was giving
me the genuine pain of a new-born.
You pick up those slices of glass, pelt a
thousand questions at me. They sound
gibberish.

The world is massacred with words
whose sweethearts, actions, are lying
dead; a mound of cadaverous lives
moving inside the womb feigning birth,
waiting to come out as lost paramours;
only their voices masquerade, a downpour
of mimicries.

Shipping the waste

The West is dumping its
waste on the rest of the
world.
The unsinkable is sailing
close to the wind while
on the other sides, the poor
cousins are taken for a ride,
their burden of garbage and
debris, warming up, like an
iceberg.