...

the healing touch

a dot

that joins itself

within itself

all by itself

have you ever tried this

at home all alone

with everybody

tacit books and wise masks

with sad seaside balloon-sellers

through the sands

one gibberish city of mundane

arise arise

it has been good

neon

all the smiles

toasts raised

hoisted petticoats

flags of

who we are

mirrors of

subjectivity.  Mad time. One meme life. One bullet life.

But when all the chips were down,

history had gone to meet the daughter of the clouds.

  

Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik

there's no song for you tonight, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik, 

some people will rejoice, we know who they are,

and this is not about them.

as for us, we are too scared of being judged

after all, your ancestors were criminals, as were mine

as you know, buddy, crimes across history does lead to anger across history. some people rejoice in this anger, it makes them powerful, we know who they are,

and this is not about them

as for us, we are too weary too churn

how, thoughts, actions, words, pictures - bring some people closer, thwart some asunder

like all histories have ever been doing - 

through all these wars and struggles big and small - across all these walls that we have built 

in the name of all the shit that frightens us, 

all that hollows us out, 

that chokes our music

and snuffs our candles - 

stern bricks like caste, race, creed, colour, religion, passport-stamps, public opinion, political mores of the enlightened et cetera et cetera.

personally, perhaps, a few of us will hum a timid tune or two for you, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik, or sigh or weep for you - but all from deep inside these enlightened walls. like we sang and wept and sighed deep inside when that kid who got killed for wearing a shahid afridi tee-shirt had etched a small ripple across our respective information bubbles a few moons ago.

even then, some had rejoiced, 

but it was never about them.

it has always been about us. 

we are afraid

we are tired

ghosts haunt us every night

many moons down the line, these ripples will turn into smudges, and then, into indelible imprints,

and then, something incredible will happen

maybe, certain magic doors will open up 

maybe, the ghosts will stop haunting us,

the bullies will stop bullying us

the killers will stop killing us bit by bit

we have the privilege to imagine

we have the privilege to dream,

to learn

to climb trees and mountains;

we are alive

we are afraid of political incorrectness

we are tired of all the killings 

we are silent

we are screaming

we are criminals

we draw flowers

we draw pistols

ghosts haunt us every night

and the ghosts have taken all our songs for you tonight, Mr. Shantanu Bhowmik.

বালিঘড়ি ও বাতিঘর

তুমি, যে বিমুক্তি নেবে অন্ধ আলোর থেকে

আলোকিত অন্ধকারের পথে, স্রোত থেকে স্রোতান্তরে –

তুমি, যে উজান ও ভাঁটা মিলে শূন্য হবে – তেপান্তরের ও’পারে রাখবে

নির্গ্রন্থ অক্ষরকাঁটা – জঙ্গলে মানুষের ঘ্রাণ, মানুষে সমুদ্রের

সমুদ্রে বসত করে অলীক জলপরী

মাঝে মাঝে উঠে আসে জ্যোৎস্নার বালুচরে ক্লিশের ক্লীবমুখ ছিঁড়েফুঁড়ে –

মাংসে চৈতন্য ছোঁড়ো, ছোঁড়ো পাথর কাঁটাতারে কার্ফ্যুতে

প্রেমবজ্র নিক্ষেপ করো যা কিছু দুখদায়ী, তাতে,

যে দুঃখ আপন নয় তাতেও কেঁদেছো বুঝি কিছু

নিভৃত সুন্দর কাঁদিয়েছে অভ্যন্তর আলিন্দে প্রাচীরে

কেঁদে কেঁদে ফিরে গ্যাছে দয়ালু নদীর ঢেউ নানাবিধ বিকেলের কাছে

ভেঙে দুই রাঙাপাড়, গিলে কিছু কেল্লা ও ফাটক

প্রিয় ইনকিলাব,

গাছ হয়ে যেও মাঝে মাঝে

চিঠি লিখতে ইচ্ছে করলে মানুষের মতো অনুভূত হয়  -

জানলা খুলে রেখো

বলা যায় না, চলেও আসতে পারে যে'কোনো উচ্ছ্বল একদিন

দু’একটা নির্লিপ্ত প্রজাপতি – পায়ে নিয়ে অবিস্মরণীয় রেণু!

moon man & mother time

moon man is beautiful
moon man is wise
and when the world gets dead & dark
fireflies gather for advice

it is always evening here
too much thirst to quench
certain hearts shall flutter by
certain writhe and wrench

moon man's mother, she is time
she is sweet like flesh
little children pop their heads
and see the world afresh!

mama time, she knows it all
she shall ever do
moon man, he's strong & tall
and both of them are true.

Rohingya

40 thousand people

40 thousand phantoms

are marching towards you 

right now

you have taken their lands

you have taken to hatred

you have been taken by greed

they knew nothing of this

they knew everything

their backs, painted by barbwire,

cooked by bullets

know everything

40 thousand dreams

that couldn’t connect

how the price of onion & flour 

and the price of guns and tanks

and the wrath of Buddha

and the sword of Rama

would not let them 

return to their homes by sunset,

maybe, smoke a little,

and look at the river flowing by,

clouds making shapes in reds and oranges

so they turned with the tides,

with the agony of the moon, the weeping hills,

the alert golden winged vultures – 

with all history and being – 40 thousand vivid humans

first you didn’t count them

and now, you can’t

and, right now, 

in deep silence,

they are marching

towards you

towards the spot between your eyes

may 40 thousand nightmares be all yours tonight

Rohingya, flesh of me and my mother

soul of my sweet, big, ancient earth

you, 

friends,

shall live 

and they, who took your lands and bodies,

shan’t.