A bird's eye view

 

As I was cleaning my home,

my eyes glanced at a folded

piece of paper. I opened it.

A Map. Of the world,

in my hand. I made it lie,

in front of me.

Index, colour codes,

other clues.

An old one; that, which

helped me learn my lessons

of history and geography;

it felt strange, irrelevant lands, painful stories, ancient sadness,

thoughtless madness, 

enduring hues.

Numerous scratches and scars,

bruised the world; countries,

with borders, boundaries.

What have we done, I mused,

I imagined homes; many homes,

gardens, giggles, dreams,

demolished, scarlet screams

of families smashed to smithereens

to fulfil the greed

of the few.

Truths unfolded before me,

in time, the piece of land we

call world had developed

scores of added divisions,

newer dissensions; I was a little

bemused, for my thought

as a pupil didn't change much;

even then, it was much easier to

memorize the names of the

mountains, the oceans, the

forests, and the rivers than 

to cram those man-made 

pack of lies, those territories

violated, abused.

I folded the map of the world,

back in its place, the old world, 

I just saw with a bird's

eye view. 

হরি, আমায় ভালোবাসো

হরি আমার কাছে এসো 

আমার পাশে বসো 

আমার সাথে কথা বলো, 

আমায় ভালোবাসো।  

বল কি করিলে তোমাকে পাই 

খালি তোমায় খুঁজে বেড়াই, 

দাওনা ধরা অঝোরে তাই 

কেঁদেই দিবানিশি কাটাই।  

এই ব্যথা মোর কাটবে যবে 

তোমার সাথে দেখা হবে, 

তোমার হাতে হাতটা ধরে 

আনন্দে মন উঠবে ভরে, 

মাতব তোমার আলোর টানে

খুশির জোয়ার আসবে প্রাণে 

হরিবোলের জাদুর গুণে। 

ও হে হরি, বল না কি করি 

তোমায় ছাড়া সবই বৃথা 

আমার মনের গভীর ব্যথা 

কাউকে কি আর বলতে পারি? 

আমায় জড়িয়ে ধরো 

ঠাকুর, আমার যত গর্ব 

গরল, ভিতর থেকে খর্ব 

করে, নতুন ভাবে গড়।  

শত সহস্র পাপের বোঝা 

করো আমার হ্রাস

তোমার কোলে টেনে আমার

পুরাও অভিলাষ।

ও হে হরি মরি মরি

আমার কাছে এসো, 

আমার পাশে বসো 

আমার সাথে কথা বলো, 

আমায় ভালোবাসো।

The harbingers

Carrying the boulder for good
goes the accursed Sisyphus,
carrying his own cross for
crucifixion goes the accused
Jesus; a strikingly similar image
that had gone beyond 
time and space.

One was punished for cheating
death, for violating xenia,
killing guests, while the other,
for blasphemy; destroying
a set of lifeless dogmas.
One was punished by God Zeus,
the other by the humans, the
Romans, Pilate Pontius.

…

Who knew that Sisyphus, known
as the cunning ruler, would one day
become the symbol of human dignity,
one who was seen to be carrying
the stone for eternity was also
enjoying his taste of success, by
placing the rock on top of the
mountain, to experience and
renew momentary happiness?

Who knew that those who killed
the supreme symbol of sacrifice
and innocence that ever walked
on earth, would become his
earnest disciples?

The disproportionate punishment
of the accused, the accursed had
over the years made them the
heroes; Sisyphus, who carried the
burden of the underworld to represent
the humans, by combatting death and
their monotonous condition of life, and
Jesus, who carried the weight of the world,
with the sovereign sacrifice of his own life,
to represent God; the two became symbols
of love and sublimity.

Everybody cannot be wrong

When I was young,
I'd be horrified if I
couldn’t fit in, if I

wouldn’t gel with

my peers.

A group, a team,

a gang of untrained

bullies, important,

to be humored

all the time; it was

a game I wasn’t ever

good at.

I slowly became

a loner, then a loser.

As days went by,

my capabilities were

tarnished, I was defamed

by every single friend;

they were all speaking

the same language,

selling the single story

about me.

It was tragic, not any less

than being violated

in public.

As a child, I recall,

I’d go into depression

if my perfumed eraser

was snatched away from

my school bag. Now, it is

laughable, no longer

relevant.

Everybody was

a scary machine in all

my working days;

much later, I realized,

it was nobody.

Everybody was

as needy as I was,

like them, I also had

a family to feed.

Thrown out in the open,

none heard my voice,

my version, no ombudsmen,

my savings burnt my fingers

because my unaccommodated

disability, lack of people

skill made me a prey,

an interesting kill.

Right or wrong,

old or young,

loner, loser, or lover,

now I know that

everybody matters

as little as nobody. 

The position

The position

I will write on the
bellies of the starved,
I will put words in
the mouths of the
famished;
not one word of
disgrace in my thought
to be used against the
unfortunate wealth, my mind
will not blame oppression,
injustice, it would, like a
singing bard, whisper in
the ears of the achievers
on what real acquisition is,
the eyes of the rich will
suddenly open up and feel
the poignance of walking
over the poor, the stalwarts
will redesign the market
trends; the world, devoid
of disparity, will see its place.

Until then, my love for
the rich and the poor
will continue to enrich the floor,
until growth and development
delivers equality, until the
time new theories of economies
are written, until the pleasures
of the absence of depravity
come into fruition, will I
safeguard my relentless,
tireless position, seated on
the bellies of the famished,
inside the mouths of the starved.

Standing its ground

The world
absurd.
many skies
rich, poor;
many grounds
sliced into pieces,
colours of rainbow
tarnished,
horrific melange
of dark shades,
power to grab
the lion’s share,
the pie of the red
innocuous fruit
made sinful selling
packs of irrelevant
stories.

Grim heaven,
sunless, moonless,
a stone on the
shoulders of
the cursed survivors,
glorified soldiers;
bright firmament,
shining stars,
an umbrella on
the blessed dwellers.

The residents of
the world,
divided, dispersed
caste, creed, colours, race
spitting scarlet words,
splitting the skies and
the grounds in
holes and parts;

The world, way too
unseparated in its
orbit to fly off
to a distant time
and space.
It needs one ground,
one sky to stand
in its moving place.

Soul of a text

 

A text written
lives longer;
bonsai in
a lounge,
fossil in
a library.
…
When you're
writing about
yourself;
truly describing
your life,
your experience,
you are also
drawing others.
…
The soul rises, sets,
in the different parts
of the soil, lightens
leaves of distant lives
like the sun, day and night.

JAI HIND

When I say JAI HIND

I fancy the HIND

That was. None

can take the picture

away from my mind.

I'm sure my humble

vibrations go beyond 

the borders, they reach 

my neighbors.

Stay well, my brothers

and sisters, wherever

you are. 

Our failure, 

when we divide, 

success, only

when we reunite, 

despite our stakes. 

We the fellow

people have the

power to rescind

the barriers from

our hearts, sing

aloud JAI HIND

for the Hind that was. 

The supreme state of being

You hurt me, I have rage
but I control it, no, it’s not 
the way; you hurt me, I 
don't have rage, yes, that is 
Akrodh dasha*, the ultimate 
state of joyous absence of rage. 

I say you don't teach students
about death, you teach them
about sex; you excluded moral
science from the aggregate,
now it’s no longer taught,
students moving with condoms 
and guns in schools; pupils, 
right from schools should have
death consciousness; they need
to know that death is not a bad 
thing; it'll reduce suicides, violence, 
distress and other diseases;

All right, all right, are you saying 
this with rage, with the feeling of 
duality? Accept it first with oneness,
in the life you’re living, there’s
one file in one folder. 

When you give alms to the poor,
what do you think? Ah, they’re
the less fortunate, this is duality,
think of yourself giving and taking 
alms, just as you wash your hands,
you don’t leave your arms.

You are the seen, you are the seer
for life has only one file in one folder.

Akrodh dasha* - complete absence of rage, it is not forbearance, it is a state where you do not have rage. Akrodh dasha is a skill that may be learned through practice.