Faith

 

I realise I cannot go 

beyond faith.

Faithlessness is also a faith.

Nihilism is also a belief.

Punishment Is a Blessing in Disguise

I spent my whole life
learning this:

your punishment
was a blessing in disguise.

Drowned beneath
the weight of my desires,
I thought you had deprived me—
yet you kept me alive.

I came seeking refuge
at your threshold,
and you turned me away.

Only later, looking back,
did I see the gifts
you had left in my hands:

light,
air,
water,
fire,
and the tolerant blue sky—
the elements
from which I am made.

Every time I came seeking you,
you rejected me.

Every time
I returned empty-handed,
I returned stronger.

I stood at the threshold
and turned away
when I should have crossed the door.

I did not know
that every refusal
was teaching me
to enter myself.

Day after day,
you led me deeper
into the relentless
examination of my own soul.

Sometimes I forget you.
Sometimes I remember
and try to follow your path.

Yet your cruelty
knows no bounds.

You disappear
behind the mask of appearance,
and even that absence
becomes a blessing.

Perhaps this is your kindness:

you reject me
because you are preparing me
to be taken.

You withhold yourself
until I am ready
to receive you.

And perhaps,
on that final day,
when everything I thought I knew
falls silent,

I will see the truth—

not with my eyes,

but with something
that has been learning
to see all along.

 

The Beast Is Not an Animal

The beast is not an animal.

It has no claws,
no fangs,
no forest to hide in;
it comes in open arms.

It sits in rooms
where the fate of our only home
is decided,
wearing a mask for a reason,
signing papers
that turns forests into trees and woods;
and oceans into borders.

Look at what it has brought us—

wars,
fires,
floods,
silent rivers,
empty nests;
and skies that remember
the colour of smoke.

Too many disasters
to count.

And yet
the beast is invited
to place its cards on the table;
where tomorrow is decided.

Perhaps that is what makes it a beast—
not that it destroys,
but that it knows
what it is destroying;
and continues.

Somewhere,
far beyond its reach;
a poet sits.

No weapon.
No throne.
No power to command;
All as its own.

Only words.

He writes of the beast
with metaphors,
with broken images,
with lines that refuse to sleep.

Perhaps the beast
will never read the poem.

Perhaps it will laugh.

But the poet keeps writing—

because sometimes
the first act of resistance
is to give a monster
its true name.

Flame

Flame, you efface the sacrifice
of flora and fauna
laid upon winter’s table—
the fever of the clean hand
that touches what it cannot save.

Flame,
so the white clouds
cannot wipe away the tears
of our silent cries,
you rise through the air
like a memory refusing to disappear.

I lean towards you.
I genuflect before the grief,
the solitude gathered in your smoke.
There, in your trembling light,
I search for the face
I have forgotten how to forget.

I lean towards you again.
I take your face into my hands.
How beautiful it is
to lie upon our deserted bed,
the bed that was ours
years ago—
when the walls still knew our voices
and the night had not yet learned
to sleep alone.

Flame,
from the other quarter of the room,
our house looks like
the prow of a passing boat—
already leaving,
already carrying away
everything we were.

And the broken glass of the mirror
lies scattered in the abandoned kitchen,
each shard holding a fragment of fire,
each fragment
like a piece of burnt toast
left behind
by a morning
no one came back to finish.

 

অর্ডার অর্ডার

অজুহাত পেরেক পুতছে
হাতুড়ির শব্দ
সাহায্যের হাত ভাঙছে
ঠক্ ঠক্ করে
হৃদয়ের ওপর।

হৃদপিন্ড লোহা বা কাঠের মত
শক্ত বোবা।
পেরেকের আওয়াজ ধার
করে আর্তনাদ করছে,
"ঠকেছি, ঠেকে শিখেছি।" 

Wake up, Dawn

Wake up, Dawn!
When will you wake up
from this daily ritual
of waking up—
this monotonous morning,
this mundane beginning
that promises a new day
but brings back the same old night?

Dawn,
with your trembling tears of dew,
you look upon the world
and what do you see?
Burnt homes, broken borders,
voices drowned in hatred,
hands raised against hands
with excuses that go beyond
all bounds,
people divided by walls
they keep building
inside their hearts.

The night could not ask for more.
Darkness has learnt
to survive the sunrise.
Even when the horizon glows,
shadows stretch longer,
hiding beneath the light.

From the depths of despair,
a thin streak of light appears—
frail, almost extinguished,
struggling  against the dark,
as though the morning itself
has forgotten the way to us.

Where are you, Dawn?

Every day you arrive,
yet I cannot find you.
You paint the sky with gold
while the earth remains bruised.
You scatter light across windows
that open upon sorrow.

Stop playing hide and seek, Dawn.
We have searched for you
through wars and wounds,
through smoke-filled streets,
through the cries of the displaced,
through the silence of those
who have forgotten how to care.

The fires may have faded;
the flames may have died,
but their colours still haunt the sky—
red with anger,
black with grief,
orange with memories
that refuse to burn away.

And the nightmares
have risen from their beds.
They walk among us in daylight,
wearing familiar faces,
speaking familiar words,
turning fear into habit
and hatred into routine.

Wake up, Dawn!
It is about time you woke up.

Not merely to wake the birds,
not merely to open the flowers,
not merely to colour the sky—

Wake up
to awaken us.

Wake up the kindness
we have buried beneath our pride.
Wake up the humanity
we have silenced with hatred.
Wake up the hope
we have taught ourselves to fear.

For what is the use of another sunrise
if the world remains asleep?

Wake up, Dawn.

It is time
to wake up.

গর্ত

আমি নদী।

একদিন আমার বুকের উপর
নৌকা চলত—
পাল তুলে, গান গেয়ে,
দূর থেকে দূরে।

আমার দু-পাশে ছিল জনপদ,
গাছের ছায়া, বাগান,
ফুলের গন্ধে ভরা বিকেল,
ফলে নুয়ে থাকা ডাল।

সন্ধ্যা নামলে
কোনও উঠোন থেকে ভেসে আসত শঙ্খধ্বনি—
জল ছুঁয়ে সে-শব্দ
দূর গ্রাম পর্যন্ত পৌঁছে যেত।

এখন
আমার জল নেই,
গতি নেই,
শুধু শুকিয়ে যাওয়া বুক।

সেখানে
একটি গর্ত।

দগদগে ঘায়ের মতো
দিনের পর দিন
সে গর্ত আরও গভীর হয়।

কেউ আর নৌকা নামায় না,
কেউ ঘাটে এসে দাঁড়ায় না,
শঙ্খধ্বনিও আর ভেসে আসে না।

আসে শুধু
হাহাকার,
আর্তনাদ,
আর বাতাসের শুকনো শব্দ।

কখনও ভাবি—
আমি কি সত্যিই নদী,
নাকি একদিন
আমাদেরই ফেলে যাওয়া
কোনও অসমাপ্ত স্মৃতি?

তাই আজ
আমার বুক জুড়ে
একটি নয়—

গর্ত আর গর্ত।

in the loop

 

loo
in the air
forests on fire

still

It's-lovely-the-sun-has-come-out
travels in the minds of people not
willing to break the ice
pages burn with the sun
the frigid snow doesn't stand a chance

two tribes are at war
the world weeps, wails, warns
but...like the loo
it cannot stop

অলি গলির এক কথা

পথ হাঁটতে হাঁটতে একটা চৌরাস্তায় এসে থমকে দাঁড়ালাম। এই তো এখানেই ছিলাম। ঐ তো, সেইরকমই এক চায়ের দোকানে চা খেলাম। চোখ মুছে দেখলাম একটু যেন অন্যরকম! ভিন্নসময়, অন্যরকম, সেইরকম সব এমন গা ঘেসাঘেসি করে বসে আছে যে আলাদা করে জানার উপায় নেই! 

আচ্ছা আলাদা করে দেখার খুবই কি প্রয়োজন আছে? ছোটবেলায় যখন ট্রেনে করে যেতাম জানলার মুখ দিয়ে দেখতাম আঁকাবাঁকা পথগুলি  সবই একরকম লাগত, মনে হত যেন একই লোকেরাই ওখানে থাকে। নিমেষের মধ্যে হু হু করে চলে গিয়েও দেখতাম জমজমাট যমজ গলি গুলো আঁকাবাঁকা হয়ে এদিক ওদিক ছুটে বেড়াচ্ছে। 

এখানে এই যে এত চায়ের দোকানে বসে থাকা লোকজনেরা কথা বলছে, চা খাচ্ছে, খবরের কাগজ পরছে এরা কি সবই একই রকম, নাকি আলাদা? এইসব সাত পাঁচ কথা ভেবে হিললি দিল্লীর অলিগলি দিয়ে যেতে যেতে হেঁয়ালি করতেই বিকেল গড়িয়ে সন্ধ্যে হলো। আমারও কাহিনী শেষ করার সময় হল, আজ আসি, কেমন? 

শুধু এটুকুই বলে যাই যে গ্রামের শহরের অলিগলি ভিন্ন জায়গায় অবস্থিত হলেও এরা সব একই রকম। ভিন্ন ভাষা, ভিন্ন পরিধান, ভিন্ন খাবার দাবার, কিন্তু মূলত এরা সবাই সমান, ভূগোল এদের কাছে হার মানে যুগযুগ ধরে, ইতিহাস তাই বারবার একই কথা বলে অলিতে গলিতে পাড়ায় পাড়ায়। হেঁয়ালি করে লাভ নেই।

Enough

 

I haven't heard the word in so long,
Neither in cash nor in kind;
It lingers in our language,
Yet nowhere in the mind.

I wonder what has become of the world.
The word still lives upon the tongue—
Only its meaning has departed,
Its quiet wisdom left unsung.

No limits, no borders, no boundaries;
No ceiling for our wants.
A craving divorced from every need,
Greed gallops beyond all restraint.

Until we learn to say, "Enough,"
No treasure fills the empty soul;
The richest hands remain outstretched,
Begging perpetually for the elusive whole.