Winning is losing

It sets you at the helm of things

in time

you become

alone

insecure island

without a hand

holding your crown

and your image

blinds your eyes

deafens your ears

as an artist, or a player

you lookout to topple your peers

you have to be there

by hook or by crook

touchy words

you blow your own trumpet

​​​​​​​kind phrases

with no kindness in heart

you have practised the art

as an industrialist

your forehead bursts

layoff, other hurtful acts start

corruption plagues the air

so you could be there
have the last word

as a country in the world

you dollarize

to secure

your rank and file

you forbid lands to be ploughed

you don’t let others live

for you need to be at the top

your position you believe

but slowly you lose

the ability to be

with others

hand in hand, ah no

you must have your say they should know

being ahead

burdens your head

slowly you lose

you get into recluse

you outstand as a winner

as a big brother of things

but you are singled out

in time

you become a loser
little under the weather

defocus

from the circus

the frog is boiling

rats are dying

let the world and the sky win

our roof and the ground

will be secure and sound

Influenced by Peter Senge’s thought, ‘faster is slower’. If you went out of the box and gave it a thought, it could destroy all wars, physical and psychological. It makes business sense to be in the market of things than be out, or outstand as the Big Bro. Please come out with some new strategies my friends. These age-old mindsets are killing us day in and day out, it is an open secret in an open page.

Piano-writing

I am piano-writing
my fingers
agile, numb, nimble
at different times
caressing the key-board
do re me
in many combinations
planting thoughts
on the patient page
rhyming with time
timing with rhyme
this moment I am on the cliff
and in seconds
I see myself in deep sea
experiences expressed
I desperately want them to stay

but they are going away
like the beautiful snake
pious teeth people call poisonous
leaving, forever leaving
flowing like the dews and the rains
hissing the mystery
missing the history
one by one
all at once
crowded, glowing
wanting to tell the stories
spaced in truth
lighting the fire
fighting the liar

I am a doer
I will never give up
I told the stars
mountains and rivers
listened with care

writing is my prayer
in whatever forms and norms
without a piano in sight
it is vivid in my mind
tapping
​​​​​​​my fingers
agile, numb, nimble
weaving the words
tales of my worlds
toning the notes
noting the tones
all seven of them
and more
again and again

You will need some more time

A permanent lie
we call firmament, or sky.
Stalking its bounty, everlasting luxuriance
it falls in love
with the earth
woos, plays uxorious
obliges her with light
from the stars
to hide his ‘nothing’ scar
but alas, remains peripheral;
desperate, joins hands with
the trickster horizon
liars are never allowed inside
the stage
beating, breeding life
moment by moment.

How horrible is this perception
a selective oversight?
Way of looking at the truth
when did it hold away
the color of its presence
or conceal its being
in the nothingness
both
equally open pages
in all fairness
completing the whole.

Free from phony image
‘nothing’ hangs above
stars in it adorn day and night
luminous, light
embracing his darling
from its corners
she, in her turn
responds, bubbles
the lovers, not taciturn
gifting clouds and rains
till their sublime lust
lasts without ends
partners, in presence
with patience
making love
in their passionate zone.

Wait.
You’ll need some more time
for making them, your own.

Be a woman

Be a woman

When I said that

my friends laughed

some of them, women

be a man

my ears were trained thus

what does it mean

I asked myself

strength, power, confidence

with which

you protect or kill women

you marry or molest women

you work and relegate women

in broad daylight

in my friend’s family

a zamindar

it was being man

to throw a course which

his spouse cooked for him

in front of everyone

and accept the one his mother

brought

mother was endlessly happy

so was this machine, everyone

what you should do

how you should be

where you should go

when you should come

Wait… now I understand

what is to be a man

a matter of pride

nothing to hide

free from shame

untouched, free from blame

Be a man? Then?

When I said that

my friends laughed

some of them, women

my inner voice screeched

unheard, unjudged

​​​​​​​untouched, unsung
be a woman

পূজোর হাতছানি

পূজোর হাতছানি

সাদা ভাসা মেঘ হেঁসে হেঁসে আজ

সবাইকে শুধু দিনে দুপুরেতে

হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে

পালকের মত সাদা কাশফুল

শরতের সুরে দুলে দুলে তাই

হাততালি দিয়ে নাচছে।

পূজোর নতুন গানগুলি সব

গানে-সুরে-তালে সাজছে

পূজাসংখ্যার কত না গল্প

তৈরী হ’চ্ছে অল্প অল্প

প্যান্ডেল গুলি খটাখট ক’রে

চেনা আওয়াজেতে মনপ্রাণ ভ’রে

মনরম হ’য়ে উঠছে।

হ’য়ে গেছে শুরু মূর্তী বানানো

ম’ ম’ করছে মাটির গন্ধ

মা, মা ব’লে কুমোরবৃন্দ

নবনব সাজে ঢাল তরবারে

গড়ছে দূর্গা সপরিবারে

সাথে চিরসাথি বাহনো।

ঝলমলে সব জামাকাপড়েরা

স্টলে, মলে দেখ ঝুলছে

হকারেরা হাঁক পাড়ছে জবর

কেনাকাটি শুধু চলছে

আশা ভরা চোখ একই ভাষা কথা

জ্বলজ্বল ক'রে বলছে

এই তো পূজো এসে গেল ভাই

এই তো পূজো আসছে।

জিভে জল আনা সুস্বাদু পদ

মনের মধ্যে ক’রে কলরব

গুনগুন দিন গুনছে।

চারিদিকে শুধু এস, এস রব

বাতাসেতে শোনা যাচ্ছে

বাঙালির এই মহা উৎসব

সবারি আপন হ’চ্ছে।

আনন্দে তাই সুনীল আকাশ

মিলনেরই কথা বলছে।

পালকের মত সাদা কাশফুল

শরতের সুরে দুলে দুলে আজ

হাততালি দিয়ে নাচছে

সাদা ভাসা মেঘ হেঁসে হেঁসে তাই

সবাইকে শুধু দিনে দুপুরেতে
হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে।

The survivor

The Sun did rise here

Two hundred years ago.

A nine year old girl.

Dragged,

thrown into the burning funeral

of her husband.

The girl. Burning.

Drums beating in the background.

They do gobble the deafening sound

of the girl

​​​​​​​hurled.

Close your eyes.

Visualize.

Open
Almost burnt,
she strives her way out.

Runs.

Gets caught and thrown again.

Beaten to death.

Thousands of them.

In time. In pain.

The Woman objects.

They have all come back.

Now.

As rebels.

They have fire in their bellies.

Their wombs energized

with the Sun's glow..

They survived widow brothels

Womb slaughters.

Child marriage.

Dowry killings.

Many unwritten hell.

The Woman objects.

They have all come back.

Now.

As rebels.

They have fire in their bellies.

Their wombs energized

with buried sadness.

This time around,

your judgements,

blind or wise,

your Goddesses

dressed or otherwise,

will not be of much help,

even if you wept at their feet

for the next two hundred years

cleaning the dirt you have caused

trying to melt their frozen tears.

They had succumbed to you.

They have survived you too.

The Sun will rise here.

Two hundred years later.

Kohinoor is the name of a …

Kohinoor is the name of a …

There goes the concern
fake again, as it were
amanat…
there goes the judgement
ghar ki daulat
a refresher on how to kill
the disobedient
in public
what should they wear
when will they come home
there is fear
scattered everywhere
India is not Rome.

But who violated a three-month old
someone stronger and bold?
who, a nonagenarian nani
someone a tad childish and funny?

Boys will be boys
girls are at fault
soft tender toys
raped, severed, a lusty lesson taught
they are our treasure
should be kept in a vault
else boys will have pleasure
for their beauty, they’re under pressure.
Girls are like Kohinoor,
precious and cherished
at home, should be confined, like jahan ki noor
nurtured and nourished.

Rapes, honor killings, molestations!
Girls are the reasons
they are to be blamed.
and the western influence!
So beautiful, they travel unprotected, uncovered
it's natural for our boys
to violate them,
to have their limbs severed.

2017 is coming to an end,
so what, even thousand years later
with plastic concern and care
power, pelf and pride
men will still discuss
some women in their side
girls shouldn’t offend
they should not fuss,
roam here and there
list of things they should do
what they should not wear.

The sky observes
brooks flow
sun shines
moon smiles
earth shelters
all of them witness
how girls in gloom glow
how they are in a mess.

They all laugh and sing
in chorus, O how horrible it is
girls are treated as jewels
and not as human beings!

ink

ink

ink was real

close

it painted the page

a quiet sound;

could touch, smell, see

red, different from

green, black and blue

writing still continues

with more shapes and colors

ink shelved

useless hues

frozen

in time

sometimes sneaks in

through

the ears

and

the nose.

​​​​​​​

I become a wet cloth

squeezed and hung

in the line

to dry.

pen

pen

pen is my hometown

a zone

abandoned for growth

for good

pen

pen is my hometown

the ink in it

an ocean 

sails me to distant lands

I reach out

to the world

pen is my exile

the ink in it

a constant flow

of love

of understanding
in deep solitude

pen is my life line

the ink in it

raindrops

washing away tears

dewdrops

kissing the beginning

bloods

floating inside

all the time

making life, life

pen is my kingdom

fertile
with endless supply
of bubbling hues

to reach out to the world

​