Saturday, June 10, 2017


born like grass in wombs of time
live like sounds of bells that chime
gliding by all easy paths
dead like birds at aftermaths 
ever at large, ever alert
weep for the windmills, musafir heart

Wednesday, May 31, 2017


they keep on hustling down the poles and sunsets
asking for their dues
you don’t remember
so you reach out for your gun

but the gun isn’t real
neither are the dues
and nor are them. shadows lengthen from head to toe.
our beautiful bodies shiver
our beautiful minds shiver
some scars aren’t real, a few are
but from a distance,
they all look like all the time the stars can hold.
and rivers turn blue when thunder punches the sky out from head to toe.
our beautiful boats shiver
our beautiful houses shiver
the good earth shivers.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

সরহ, বাজাও বীণা

সরহ, বাজাও বীণা, নিঃশব্দে বাজো 
জীবনের অতিকায় ছায়া – আলো হয়ে, 
দয়ালু বাগান ঘিরে জোনাকির স্তব 
রাতের রক্তমাদর নক্ষত্রনিরব – সব খেলা করে –
বুঝি আতস উড়েছে ধূম কেল্লার অমাবস্যা-উঠোনে, অথবা
স্থবির নির্জনতা, আঙুলের ফাঁক থেকে ঝরে যেতে
কুয়াশায় জেগে ওঠা ইস্কুল বাসেদের মতো বহুদূর
বয়ে আনে স্তূপাকার স্মৃতি –
পোস্টকার্ড-স্ক্র্যাপবুকে মিশে আছে সেইসব
হিম অভিলাষ – যারা মানুষের পায়ে পায়ে
ফুটসোলজার হয়ে, মানুষের চেয়ে বড়ো
কিছু নয় বুঝে, ভেবে –
অক্ষর হল ক্রমে চৈতন্যের ক্ষরণে।
আমাদের ট্রাম-বাস-মিছিলেরা ততদিনে লাল-নীল ফিতে হয়ে গ্যাছে। 
তোমাদের ধূসর নদী সময়ের ফাটল বুনেছে।

too many people have died

indeed Thin-Man, ‘too many people have died’
coz the collateral mustn’t take sides
and there are too many sides
too many angles and pitches
too much light and blood oozing down
all the advertisements in all the billboards
in all the cities of the world. 
so many, that strangers who used to write their tales
on fallen leaves 
 throw punches in thin air tonight 
because all monsters are real, all nightmares are
Or else, too many people would never have died

So many have, that,
the sad guy in Hamlyn, after killing all the children,
must have had done something stupid or weird –
unlike sunflowers that face the sun
which are as real as all the corpses that the earth hides from the sun

It’s like, the cycle of fire just keeps on getting longer
as all circles of light and darkness shrink 
each time certain persons necessitate disenfranchisement because some rich men must get richer
a bit of the charming light fades, 
a dot from the deep darkness loses magic
Wolfeyes get redder all around flames
The hunted must watch the hunter tonight
marshlights won’t take him home tonight –. 
Home is where it rains after summer

A thing about sunflowers is - 
baby-sunflowers always face the sun,
even when it rains!
grown-up ones don’t
I have read of a place named Peristan
where the moon fades away
to humdrums of grown-ups
and where there is a dog named lion.

A thing about too many people dying is that
Despite all the sunflowery shit, we have all contributed
in our own ways, across generations of children who lived, who live,
for which some children had to turn collateral, have to, exponentially; 
Memories replaced by memories

Like the wise cat who wipes an occasional teardrop or two off the cheeks of space-time,
an occasional fairytale or two trickle down the iron-guards of history
Fairytales are as real as all our lethal contributions are,
as real as all the children who heard them before they slept were.

When will all the fairytales march out for all the children of the world who sleep in unmarked graves?

Sunday, May 7, 2017

a story of a river and a boy

all along the river’s bend
empty, earthen vessels float
certain stories never end
they stay as lumps in the throat

and ‘why did you?’ the judges scream
golden sailors make no noise
nothing to say, no dream to dream
but the river must flow – it got no choice

and then one day, when the skies frowned
a funny boy with a tilted hat
he wept a little, for the boats had drowned
and he kissed the river, and that was that.

Monday, April 3, 2017


ভাঙো! ভাঙো! ভাঙো হে আইকনোক্লাস্ট, ভাঙো!
যে ঈশ্বর লোকায়ত নয়, তাকে করো চুরমার
প্রেমহীন ভক্তির ভিতে রচো তাণ্ডবঘোর
যে মাটিতে শস্য নেই, বনস্পতি নেই
শবল শাবলে গাঁথো তার প্রত্যক্ষ ফাটল
মলোটভে প্রোজ্জ্বল কর রাজার প্রাসাদ

এ যাপন আমরা তো চাইনি, চাইনি মনুমেণ্ট-মনিকোঠা
চাইনি দুঃখের বুকে সুখের চাবুক
শতধা-বিচ্ছিন্ন তার পরে থাকে রিরংসা ও ক্রোধ
ক্রোধ, তুমি হয়ে উঠে যথার্থ চণ্ডাল,
কবে ছারখার করে দেবে সব?
কবে অবসান হবে এই চুড়ান্ত আর্য্যকাল,
এই নিরাপত্তা-অভিমুখ দক্ষিণাচার?

যা কিছু চেয়েছি বলে, সকলে মিলে,
চাহিদার অতিরেকে ভেসে যেতে যেতে, ডাল ধরি,
চাল ধরি, ধরি ভাসমান, কামার্থ শব -

এইবারে ধ্বংসের পালা, এইবারে স্পর্ধিত সৃষ্টির পালা,
তীব্র তীব্রতর ক্রোধে চৈত্রের সশরীর সূর্য্য হয়ে,
কালবৈশাখী হয়ে, কঠোর প্রতিষ্ঠার মত টোটেমে টোটেমে
মানুষ ও ঝর্ণার আদল এঁকে যাওয়া সুঠাম কুঠার হয়ে,
ধ্বংস করো যা কিছু নিবিড় নয়,
নয় আন্তরিক –

বৃষ্টির মাটিতে সোঁদা গন্ধ এলে
এখনো মানুষ ভালোবাসে –
এখনো সেই ভালোবাসা –
নিছক ও পার্থিব। অতএব, আশা রাখো,

Saturday, March 25, 2017


Some people walk in the rain
Some people fear to turn crazy
We live in dark, crucial times
We live through criminal inheritance 
And then, in an empty, naked station
Feelings never felt make love
to dreams never dreamt

We don’t know what happens next
Maybe, the station does,
Maybe, the shivering trees do 
But we must know this, that,
One day, so much love will fill the world
That all the prisons will break

And people won’t be afraid anymore,
People won’t hate anymore.

The Tree by Ritwik Ghatak – (translated from Bangla short story 'Gatʃʰ'ʈi' by Ritwik Ghatak as was published in Abhidhara magazine, Year 1, Issue 2, 15th September 1947 (31st Bhadra, Bangla Year 1354))

Once, a banyan tree had leaned over a tiny river flowing through some distance away from a village. As a tree, there was nothing special about it.

The tree was very old. Insects had eaten its trunk, and all its branches had rotted up. In some forgotten, faraway past, it was all fresh, green and verdant. But now, it wasn’t. It was absolutely of no use.  Only the people, walking towards the village, knew of it – they knew that, beyond the next bend of the river lay ironsmith Haru Kamar’s bellow and chimney-laden workshop, and, beyond the workshop, the village would begin for good.

However, once a year, the tree would gloriously be honoured. This would be during the Chaɽak festival. Some people would polish a few of its roots with oil and smear them in vermillion. People would come from villages afar. The carnival would happen at the village field. Suddenly, the tree would become an object of envisioned attention. After that, once again, it would lie vapid for the rest of the year.  Cows would graze in the wastelands around. At times, some weary traveler from places far away would sit by its cold shade, eat dry puffed and pressed rice from their bags of cloth, drink water from the river and set out about their ways yet again.  On full moon nights, all alone by the vast field, the tree would create splendid lights and shadows on its own backyard, lie hovering down to conjure strange, unknown mystery, in dreams, through the ceaselessly flowing river waters.

The six seasons would pass by the head of the tree all the same. Little faces would peep out of awnings of the boats that would flow by along the river and stare at it in infinite curiosity.

Little boys would come and hang out by the bent-tree, play along its branches, dive into the river from the branches; they would bunk school and go there to squat around.

Thus, the villagemen would be going to the tree from their childhoods. Some would go during afternoons to sit at a spot where the roots, having arranged themselves in a complex pattern, had made a beautiful seat. They would sit there to hear the softly splashing river.

The fisherfolks there knew that there would be many small and big fishes stuck around its roots in the muddy waters. Their boys would go there to bathe and catch fishes with their gamchhas. Many fishes could be caught with nets also.

Even the old men knew of the tree. They would lean on its trunk, look at the playing boys, at the fishermen and, mentally, they would nod their heads. Perhaps they would be thinking of the evenings and nights of their lives.

But they themselves knew not how big a space this old fig tree had in their minds. They would think of it as the Banyan of Old Shiva (Bu’ɽo ʃi’bɛr Bɔʈ), and just that. It was forever there and so shall it forever be. There used to be a saying – ‘The banyan of old Shiva lies beyond Uncle Haru’s crossing’.

And, in all probability, it would have been there for quite a few more generations, and would have given shelter to many future travelers. But one day, all of a sudden and without any prior news, a new project was declared by the government. According to the new Plan of the present irrigation system, our river would have to be widened and would have to be made to carry more water than what it used to.

Suddenly, one day, after making much protest through many sharp and hard sounds, Bu’ɽo ʃi’bɛr Bɔʈ fell on earth. Both the shores of the ancient river got leveled and it was turned into a modern-style canal.

That night, the village awoke all at once. They had come to realise the value of the tree. Their minds were in much tumult. They made their dismay felt.

But their dismay did not go beyond mumbled whispers. The tree fell. Since then, the villagers began to slowly forget the banyan tree. New faces and new houses had come to be.  Only when the old people passed by the place, it would feel very empty to their eyes. Animated, they would tell tales of the tree to the new people – these were their tales on new development.

But this did not last for long. Memories of the fig tree that once had given shelter to many people have, over time, been erased away.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

মঞ্চে কুটিল হাসে

মঞ্চে কুটিল হাসে শোষক ইতিহাস
আলেয়ায় হাত আর পা তার বাঁধা
অনমনে গান গায় চামার রবিদাস
যমুনায় ভেসে গেল একাকিনী রাধা

মঞ্চে হাপুস কাঁদে ভুখমার ক্রম 
 কেউ কেউ খাবে বলে অনেকের খিদে 
পুঁজির ফাটলে জমে হৃতকায় শ্রম 
নিষাদ-শায়ক তার বুকে গেছে বিঁধে

মঞ্চে তুমুল নাচে হিংসার ধারা 
সূর্য্য অস্তে চলে নদী হয় লাল 
মঞ্চ ভাঙবে বলে আগুয়ান যারা 
জ্বলুক তাদেরই হাতে বাঁচার মশাল

Friday, March 3, 2017

'Shakuntala' by Saroj Dutta (Agrani Magazine, January 1940)

Tale of an angry sadhu’s curse,
of wisdom,  of the ring,
Splendid scenes of love –
All these falsities and rude deceptions
hide the tale of one
among countless women
at the altar of kings’ lust
And then, some court poet, putting his oblations unto
the fatal conspiracies about divinity – out he slandered in verse!

The girl’s man might have stayed in faraway places
Her hut might have borne ill the tides of life and the world
The king saw her, and gave up on his game
He didn’t need the deer’s meat anymore
He needed the woman’s meat.

He was bored of the monotony of endless sex with the courtesans
He wanted the girl from the wilderness
So, he seduced her

The theater is silent today
Oblations to the manes
Suddenly, the man, the master of this ceremony
He who must bow before the ghosts of dead ancestors
stunned by purple terror, he turns speechless!

cloud of verses torn apart! up rises the sun of truth!

The audience shudders at the moral of the story –
“Horny Hero Impregnates Heroine!”

The poet, who had lived by another king’s grace,
Wove the natya through art and craft.

The stage is dark. Shankuntala weeps on earth.   

Monday, February 13, 2017


সারারাত তারা ভালোবাসে
পাহাড়ের ছায়া হয়ে;
ভোর হলে, মিশে যায়, 
রোদ্দুরে রোদ্দুরে 
বিদীর্ণ উপত্যকায় মোচ্ছব লাগে তাই ঘোর।

সেই মোচ্ছবে এসো,
ভালোবেসে এসো,
মানুষ, জোনাকি অথবা গান হয়ে এসো
পথের হদিশ ভুলে এসো
একদিন খুঁজে নেবো সব পথ ঠিক
একদিন ভালোবেসে মিশে যাবো আকাশে আকাশে

Monday, February 6, 2017

ragtag tales

angry days lead to sad nights
have we always been human enough,
to return to those empty places
that throb on like beasts of love from realms beyond reason,
through cold breezes, at dead of night,
at the death of this night, and of all the ones before it and after –
to kill each night that hang down heavy like stoic gazes and abandoned spaceships
and hang on to each dog-teeth yellow day
through warm coffee and stale bread  -
and to keep returning , like repeat-telecast dreams
and nightmares?  

haven’t we always been human enough
to search for paths that lead to places where magic looms
and freedom weaves telltale love –
to keep moving from space to space through time
like mammoths lost in blizzards
like the Iconoclasts standing before the Gods of Judgment
before burning them down with the same cold blue fire
that gets inside that emptiness, those throbbing fiends
of love, of believing in beautiful things, makes the blue
moon set on blue cities and shores, turns you and me mad
puts fear in the eyes of those who fear madness
and, through everything that flows,
all anger, hatred, jetsam, floatsam, double-dealings
backstabbings, shoes, sticks, stones, Molotov cocktails, manifestos
that herald new dawns, hoping on, hopping on –
move on, flow by – ask, dream,  think,  speak,  narrate,  articulate,  blaze, endure
scream like your deepest fear –
scream on, for everything is ceaseless,!
don’t be sad, for everything is ceaseless,
questions, answers, silences, everything –

have we always been magic enough to turn into birds,
into rivers?
haven’t we always been rivers enough,
for all birds to return when the sun sets and tales of magic erupt?

anitya – be karuna
voice – be empathy
revolution – be love

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Where is Ledha?

was it five years or ten or fifteen?
history didn’t bother to note
do you still have a lover? a mother?
they say your folks have left
and so have you
they don’t say where to
is it that easy to depart?
we’ll never know
there are places where postcards never reach
even rivers dry up in the face of hatred
songbirds forget Philomela
and wishing wells wish suicide
as we move, we move on
spewing venom and bullshit,
from one phenomenal hashtag
to another,
from one dusty manuscript
to another, from bright orange mornings
to pale saxophone nights –
cursed, by ennui and lacklove,
we move and we forget
like we have forgotten you

do you still see colours?
do you still dream dreams?

do you still breathe?