হরিধ্বনি

সবাই ওরা জিতুক হরি
আমিই যেন হারি, যাতে 
তোমার বিশাল হৃদয়ে আমি 
হারিয়ে যেতে পারি।

যারা ধনের ঘোরে ঘুরে মরে 
তোমার ভাবনা ছেড়ে,
দেখি গাড়ি, বাড়ি, টাকা, কড়ি,
পেয়েও তারা আটকে থাকে 
হাহাকার আর লোভের বেড়াজালে, 
কেউ বা দেখি আর্তনাদ আর 
কান্নাকাটি করে, কেউ বা আবার 
অহংকারের অন্ধকারে ফেঁসে, 
এক্কেবারে দিগ্ভ্রান্ত, হরিভ্রষ্ট পুরো
তাই তো বলি দু হাত তুলে, 
তুমিই আমার আসল হিরে,
হরি, তুমিই আমার হিরো।

সংসারের ঐ যাঁতাকলে

সবাই চরকি কাটি,
হরির স্নেহ না পেলে যে
সকল ধনই মটি। 

যদি কর্মে-মুখে-মনে 
তোমার, শুধুই থাকে হরি,
তবে সদানন্দে নাচে গানে
ভাসবে জীবন তরী। 

এই ভাসাতেই আসল বিজয়,
বাকি ভাষায় হিংসা ও ভয়,
বোঝাই আছে ঘোর অন্যায়,
কেবল হরি পেলেই সব সংশয়
মিটবে তোমার এক নিমেষে,
তাই এস সবাই মিলে মিশে
জেতাহারার চিন্তা ভুলে,
হরিধ্বনি দিই সকলে।

the strange nature

...has a rose ever
competed with a tulip,
or with a lotus,
has the sun ever fought
with the moon or with
any other stars,
then what is preventing us
from learning the loving
lessons from the celestial
school;
nature is a good teacher,
sad, the supreme creature,
a group of unteachable pupils...

The image of an ordinary ag

I drew a picture
of a poet; the face,
an orchard, blooming
words, one strong chest,
a soft breast; one foot of
a beast, one of a dove,
struggling to balance
in a dancing posture;
one wing of an eagle
one of a Gabriel,
hair, half-forest
half neatly braided;
no hands, no eyes, no ears,
the lower portion, a tad
controversial, comfortably
covered with a black piece
of rag; on the whole, the
desperate brush tried to
capture the likeness of a creature
who’d sprung directly into adulthood,
of someone who’d converse in
verse, but forever peripheral, an
outcast, for the fear that the being
could cast a spell that’d end all sins;
therefore, thrown out as a sinful,
a strange outsider who would go
inside the human’s mind, in no
time

when the work was done,
it was difficult to make it lie
or stand, for a moment I
thought of not working on
its back, I discovered to have
ignored the interiors too, that's
how incomplete a reflection is,
I mused; however, the image
in time acquired a tag;
a far-out version of an
ordinary ag.

With you gone

When you went away,
the spring left from
my backyard, the sun was
pouring heat in my space,
burning the plants, from
the soft green to a pale
yellow. My house, transformed
into a pyre.

The crows had their beaks
open for a drop of water
from the exhausted heaven,
trees failed to offer
a comforting shade of love.

I knew, almost instantly,
that a year later,
when my space will
again be in full bloom,
nature will be on fire,
spring will not return
to me, I will have the sun
smoking my heart.
I will see the fuming star
drying my barn.

On a full moon night,
I will sense the inevitable
darkness, with you gone,
will I be forever forlorn,
despite the chirps of the birds,
the songs of the breeze, I will
be doomed in a deafening
silence; if I don’t hear your
moving steps in my courtyard,
your voice in the homestead,
of what use is the spring then,
if I do not caress your
touching presence.

The household reveries

Lively friends, families,
celebrating ceremonies;
vanished in time,
cleared from the space,
like a dry leaf withers
without a trace. 

Buried in the memory,
they remain forever,
with love and care,
treasured stories,
priceless, defeating
deaths for centuries;
some hidden, some
hang on the walls,
stored in the albums. 

Nothing matters

When I was beginning
my career, to get a good
job was a dream, thus
to get promotions, positions,
possessions mattered to me;
when I had them one after the
other, it was nothing.

A childless mother,
a motherless child,
what do they think?
Ask a mother with children,
and children with mother,
to them, it doesn’t matter,
it’s nothing.

When I wasn’t rich,
wasn’t able to express
myself in writing,
then, to own a car,
win accolades,
sign autographs,
mattered the world
to me, now when I
have them, it’s nothing.

When I was 10, I thought
of being in my prime
40s, but when I became
a forty-something, I missed
my childhood days; being
in my forties didn't matter,
it was again nothing.

O Budhha! Now, as I am
walking on the beach,
I see the sun rising from
the west, feel the waves
on the sea, in the air, in
the sky, I realise the duality
of nothing, with experience,
I know I have to repeat one thing
over and over again, like I
breathe, eat, walk, read, write,
like my organs inside, like the
stars outside; on being a practising
student of zen, I know that
nothing matters, and yet
nothing matters.

For you, O Budhha,
enlightenment is nothing.

A strange game

War, an indoor game,
played outside,
by the outsiders;
soldiers, warriors,
caregivers,not the
stakeholders,like
a herd,in a cattle-field,
who don't score any
points unless they
thrive to die outdoors,
for a greater cause,
for self-destructive havoc. 

War, a strange game,
misdirected by the
selfish, displayed by
the selfless. 

The two slum dwellers

Two slum dwellers.
In life, they became
successful, for as children,
they decided to go to school.

Now they work in the
MNCs during the day,
in the evenings, teach
the eager children of
their neighborhood, and
offer them healthy food. 

As it were

I grew up giving up
on a wide range of things;
my favourite pillow,
crawling, being fed,
applauded for doing
the littlest of things,
being dressed by my
parents, occupying
the window-seat of all
vehicles I thought I owned.

I do remember a sudden,
silent voice resisting,
talking back to time,
whispering in the air,
asking it to stay, 
as it were.

Retired from work,
I looked askance at the
state of affairs; severed
from life, I feel numb;
oftentimes, I have the
urge of asking a child, or
an adult if they were my
age and imagine a strange
expression on their face.

I can still walk, eat, watch
TV, stay connected with
the world, mostly with
the virtual world, do my
chores by myself.

But very soon, this time
will disappear, like camphor,
I will have to give up on
these as well; return to my
childhood for good, albeit
with the experience of an
adolescent, mature life;
I find it rather comical
that I will still not have
learned the art of giving
up; I can clearly listen
to the voice screeching 
everywhere on my behalf,
as it were.

The fish

A fish
caught in the net.

I suffocate on the
stage, look for the
exit gate, the red light
attracts me, but I get
trapped in the play.

Yearning to escape 
like the fish,
the net gain.