Ce qui demeure

Ce qui se trouve au-delà de la vie,
c’est la mort.

Et pourtant, la profondeur de cette certitude
est doucement, silencieusement ignorée.

Ce qui défie la déchéance inévitable,
c’est le désir d’être immortel —
par l’écriture,
par la création de richesses,
par la procréation,
par le désir de laisser
une part de nous-mêmes
derrière nous.

Mais pourquoi donc ?

Si chacun doit mourir,
que reste-t-il
de tout ce que nous bâtissons,
de tout ce que nous créons,
de tout ce que nous accomplissons ?

Peut-être que la vie se situe
quelque part entre
l’utilité de vivre
et la futilité d’être,

une façade de sens
que nous érigeons
face à la certitude
du néant.

The Illusion of Permanence

What lies beyond life
is death.

Yet the depth of this certainty
is quietly ignored.

What defies inevitable decay
is the yearning to be immortal—
through writing,
through creating wealth,
through procreation,
through leaving something
of ourselves.

But why at all?

If everyone dies,
then what remains
of all we build,
all we create,
all we accomplish?

Perhaps life lies
somewhere between
the utility of living
and the futility of being

a façade of meaning
we build against
the certainty of nothingness. 

The Roof

You deprived me of
wealth, intelligence,
recognition—
you, my gathered
destination of faith,
my organisation of work,
of strengths and debilities.

I had my family beside me;
you took that away too.

My only resource left
was my health.

Then, one by one,
my organs sang in chorus:
damaged, defective—
we give in.

And then, all of a sudden,
despite the failing body,
complete loneliness
you came unto me,
wholeheartedly.

I had never been
so full,
so adequate,
so content.

What a wonder
to discover the light
in you,
the glow of happiness,
the quiet yearning
to want nothing more.

The roof that was never
there in the room
sheltered me now—
not from the storm,
but with calmness,
with respite,
with the strange peace
of finally needing nothing.

Tue Reckoning

No matter what harm you do
to others,
The sky will not come
crashing down
On the failing crown,
Hey, brothers.

Laughable rhymes may
overlook unforgivable crimes,
And death, in time, may
balance inevitable birth.

The circle of life moves on,
indifferent,
While the tolerant earth
silently bears
The good, the wicked,
the just, the cruel—
And leaves the
reckoning to death.

The chain

If you do good

You get a golden chain

If you do bad,

You get a chain.

Coexistence

 Land speaks different languages 

But water speaks one

Yet they coexist.

The faceless

 

If you pierced through
her mundane life,
You'd never feel the
romance she felt—
Being in the kitchen,
feeding people,
Shopping for her inmates,
Turning everyday chores
Into little acts of love.

Her fingers would swell,
At times, they would bleed;
The torture of water—
Cold, boiled, or stale—
Would leave its marks
upon her skin.

Her waist, heavy with work,
Her legs, fatigued
From countless journeys
Through the endless chores
 of the day.

Yet nobody noticed. The meals
were served,
The plates were emptied,
Cleaned.
The sweets were relished—
And the hands that made them
Were forgotten.

This faceless woman
Would still wear her smile,
Her sweetness never
diminishing, Like the sweets
she lovingly prepared
After every single meal.

Perhaps that was her tragedy:
They tasted the sweetness
of her love
But never the bitterness
of her pain.
They called it her duty,
Never once wondering
What it cost her to give.

And tomorrow,
Before the house awakens,
She will return to her kitchen—
Still loving, still giving,
Still waiting, perhaps,
For someone to notice
The woman behind the
meal. And maybe leave some
lines about her
Some time for her that 
would give her the wings
to stay or fly away.

মুক্তির ঝড়

 ঝড় উঠেছে। ভীষন ঝড়। 

আচমকা, কাউকে কিছু 

জানান না দিয়েই এসেছে। 

ধর্মান্ধতা, বৈষম্য, অরাজকতা, 

গুন্ডামি, সব উড়িয়ে নিয়ে যাচ্ছে 

এক প্রান্ত থেকে আরেক প্রান্তে, 

আছাড় মারছে মহাসাগরে।

অবাক হয়ে সমস্ত মানুষ দেখছে যে 

যারা এতদিন ধর্মান্ধতার কর্ণধার ছিল, 

বৈষম্যের পাহারাদার ছিল, অরাজকতা 

আর গুন্ডামি-র নাবিক ছিল, তারাও 

স্বস্তি পেয়েছে। 

ঝড়ের মধ্যে তো কথা শোনা যায় না 

তাই সবাই নির্দ্বিধায়, অকপটে নির্ভয়ে 

চিৎকার করে বলছে ,

'আমরা মুক্তি পেয়েছি, ঝড় আমরা 

মুক্তি পেয়েছি। যারা আমাদের এসব 

ভূমিকায় বেঁধে রেখেছিল তারাও 

মুক্তি পেয়েছে।' 

সমাজের যত কলঙ্ক এক ঝাপটায় 

ঝড় সব পরিষ্কার করে দিল।

A Refrain

Dance.

Different forms,

different styles,

but we're all dancing.

Song.

Different forms,

different voices,

but we're all singing.

Sport.

Different games,

different rules,

but we're all playing.

Food.

Different flavours,

different cuisines,

but we're all eating.

Language.

Different tongues,

different scripts,

but we're all speaking.

Earth.

Different weather,

different beings

living in the same nest.

And yet,

we get caught up in the differences,

forgetting that we're all in it together—

doing the very same things,

mistaking the trees for the forest.

When You're Sixty

 

When you're sixty,

you're lost on weekends.

There's no thanking God because it's Friday.

In this life beyond nine to six,

there's nothing to look for,

there's nothing to fix.

What rubbish is this, though?

In this life, there's so much to teach,

there's so much to give.

The lessons you've learnt

from greying your hair

may help an office-goer,

or even a youngster,

if you decide to share.

When you're sixty,

you can learn something anew,

something that a nine-to-six engagement

didn't let you pursue.