Post-Apocalypse

A glass of water to my lips
Clasped tightly, taking a toll,
My eyes closed, as I sip;
Yet, for the first time, in control.

Blocked from the fire that I've caused,
Guarded from the city ablaze,
I embrace support, my life a pause.
I pray it's just a phase.

They tell me of the empathy,
They congratulate me on my fight.
They search for those blameworthy,
Seeking justice for my plight.

But I don't think of those in hiding,
Or the passion of those who care.
I strive to shut out the horrors residing;
Myself I must repair.

The glass of water I have withdrawn
And as they celebrate my progress,
I know I must live, and move on,
For what choice do I possess?

Punya Mati

In light of the excitement surrounding the upcoming pujo season, I was recently asked about why the punya mati, or ‘virtuous soil’, that is included in the making of the idols of Maa Durga, must be taken from nishhidho pali (forbidden territories) – in other words, begged for at a courtesan’s doorstep. I’ve never really paid attention to that ritual. I was first exposed to it when I watched the movie Devdas, and it didn’t strike any curiosity chords in me then. Being asked and not knowing the answer got me inquisitive. 

As I do with anything and everything that I don’t know enough about, I looked it up on the internet. It turns out that no one seems to know for sure. One of the common explanations I got was that when men entered such places with sin on their minds, they left their virtues at the door; hence, the soil from a courtesan’s doorstep contains the purest of virtue. Now I don’t know if you see what I think is so wrong about this explanation. Firstly, such men probably left their homes with sinful intentions, thereby having left their virtues behind in their own houses. Secondly, I don’t like or identify with the idea of discrete locations of purity and virtue. 

An alternatively offered explanation was that this is done to include the even most excluded types of women in the making of the ultimate divine feminine figure. Now, if that were true, at least on that superficial level, I should think that part of the punya mati would be taken from leper communities as well. They’re equally excluded in our society. 

But this category can be explored further. Perhaps the soil from these areas is taken to include one of the most potent forms of femininity in the making of a wholesome female entity. If there is a woman behind every successful man, there’s one behind every fallen one as well. Femininity is the most powerful weapon that a woman has. Important men have made big decisions based on their weakness in front of female potency. A wife cannot always be seen in this light; women living off their bodies might more accurately represent this side of womanhood. And who are we to judge another human being? Every form, every roop of a woman is to be celebrated. After all, Durga represents the pure, complete, omnipotent female.

While discussing this with a few of my family members, we came up with another possible explanation. It was suggested that perhaps this ritual is done to rid a man of his guilt. Keep your minds open for this one. Going by the old ways of society, a man could be unknowingly related to the courtesan he will get the holy soil from. When this man knocks on her door, he does not know how to address the woman – she could be like his mother, or like his sister, or his aunt, depending on how frivolous he or his male relatives have been – so he does not know how he may or may not be related to her. So when he pays his respects to her by begging for the mud, he respects her, not in respect to a relationship or any stereotypes of society, but as a woman, and a woman alone. In a patriarchal society where women are either someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, this unconditional veneration might be considered to be the purest form of respect anyone can have for a woman. 

I don’t know if people today even know the reason we have this ritual at all. I definitely don’t, and didn’t find any conclusive answers on ever-knowing Google either. If we start to demand the underlying reasons behind all the rituals we have for festivals these days, we will find a large percentage of them to be utterly irrelevant to the workings of society today. But, you know, who dares question?

Poetry update

Hey yall,
Just wanted to let you know that my poem 'Sanctity' has been published in a Blogspot e-magazine called The Brown Critique. Check out the August 2012 issue below (and my biodata at the bottom!). Yay more Google search results :)

http://thebrowncritique.blogspot.in/2012/09/august-2012.html

Death of a Salesman

Another slammed door snarls at him,
And he hurriedly embraces inevitable defeat
As now it is what seems to be second nature.
He hardens his face, unsmiling, grim,
and lugs his bag in the unrelenting heat
Seeking the next wound in his stature.

He finds a bench he wishes to rest upon,
loosens his tie and peers inside his bag
to evaluate the worth of its contents.
As he ponders his predicament, the thought spawns:
"Is it the appropriate method I lack,
or is it a delusion that my fate laments?"

Perhaps it is only a matter of choice
that will determine the man's future
As to whether he gives up at this umpteenth sore
to pursue another calling of his inner voice,
Or resumes his attempts to break this stupor
and be found selling himself at the next door.

The fine line

Ill-advised is the man
Who dwells in his past,
His progress hindered by the yesteryears.
At the unopened door of choices he stands,
His stance wavering, his eyes downcast,
Wishing back the lost glory he holds dear.

Delusional is the man
Who looks too far ahead,
Dreaming of a future yet to come.
He walks forward with an outstretched hand:
Eyes closed to the trail on which he treads.
A simple diversion will leave him stunned.

Yet, in the continuum of linear time
Whilst lost in the sea of regrets and dreams,
To open one’s mind to the ticking of today
And discover the present in that fine line
Takes exceptional effort, it seems.
But that is where the keys to life lay.

My mama's poetry (yea girl power!)

Makes me really annoyed

Statement which is now void

World has moved on so far

Even after proving themselves better than par

Whenever they succeed and support

Why to such a lame excuse do people resort?

“My daughter is like a son”

When will people grow up and stop this pun

Having a she child is such a blessing

It’s so obvious and doesn’t need any guessing

I have 2 and both make me proud

Would always stand apart in any crowd

Being happy having only sons is thing of past

Whatever might be your race, creed or cast!

Wake up now and accept

To this great change please adapt

Daughters are daughters for life

Even if they move on and become somebody’s wife

Aim to do something for parents for them always stay

Come what may!

What am I?

Sluggish as a lethal plague, but certain as the Inevitable,

Obscuring the lines and dithering the colors on its way,

Lathering up tears of rage as it melts through every shield

Is a mordant sentiment that will all laws of reason disobey,

With all rationale forsaken, and every logic repealed.

Dear Thama

As of today, it’s been a year since you left us. I remember being so shocked and in denial that I still went to the Maroon 5 concert that very evening and actually enjoyed it. I didn’t forgive myself for doing that for a long time. I guess I just couldn’t imagine a life without you, or anyone who matters to me as much as you did, in it. I still can’t.

You were, to say the least, amazing. You were a strong, respected woman, a wonderful wife to my dadu, an incredible mother to your four children and an even more incredible mother-in-law. As a child I saw you and loved you through my parents’ eyes, because I was too young to know you personally and have an opinion of you as an individual. But I saw the tears in papa’s eyes when he sang that song Aamar Saadhna Mitilo and I couldn’t help but cry because I saw the emotion he must have felt for you every time he sang that song. I always thought of you when I heard that song, and I think no one sings it like him. I heard stories of mamma adjusting to a new household and a new family and she would always tell me how lucky she was to have you as a mother, and I looked up to you even more. You would also tell me stories of what papa did when he was young. It was as though you and dadu taught me how to love and appreciate my parents even more than I did already.

As I grew up, and developed a connection with you and dadu independent of my parents, I came to love you even more. I think the first time I spent time with you alone as a person who could form opinions independent of my parents was during the week I spent in Calcutta in one of the winters while I was at Woodstock. I remember going around the house in the afternoons while you and dadu slept, closing the windows to avoid the mosquitoes that came in the evening. At night we used to talk till we fell asleep, as I did with my pishis later. I think that’s when I picked up the habit of listening to music when I had trouble sleeping. I still do that, and I know you loved doing that. But for me, the most precious moments I’ve spent alone with you are the times you and I sat together to cut up your old saris and sew little diapers for Brishti. I have never felt closer to you than I did in those moments. It was also the last time I spent with you, and I wish I had had more time. At the same time, it was the first time I met my niece, and the first time in my life that I ever felt a maternal instinct towards a baby. I love her in a way I have never loved someone before, and it was because of the way you taught me to be around her. Also, watching you with her gave me an idea of what a wonderful and natural mother you must have been to the four amazing individuals of your creation.

I miss you so much. I miss your narkol nadu, nimki and pati shapta. I miss you feeding me bhaat-bhaat-maach, and sometimes maach-maach-bhaat, and getting all the fish bones out for me, and telling me stories of tia pakhi and rakhhosh at the same time. I miss wiping my wet hands on your soft, old cotton sari. I miss watching you use your Nivea and your talcum and comb your long hair and tie it with a black thread and put on sindoor and bindi with that cute little two-sided instrument that I’ve never seen anyone else use before. I miss watching you knit on the long rexine sofa, feet up, with ETV Bangla on full volume, while dadu reads his second or third newspaper. I miss taking all the nokul dana after your daily pujo. I miss the way you said hello on the phone; bodo pishi says it exactly like you used to. I even miss you yelling at papa when he forcefully made you stand up straight. I miss your childhood stories of when you lived in a big house in a jungle. I miss your smell and your voice. I miss you always being on the phone with your sisters and your daughters. I have such vivid sights and smells of your memories in my mind that couldn’t possibly ever go away.

You are my role model. You fought and overcame breast cancer. You were the wife, mother, mother-in-law, grandmother and great-grandmother that I someday hope to be. The entire family revolves around you and dadu. I guess you lived a full, hopefully happy and satisfied life, and you had to leave one day. But you were such a huge part of my life that it’s impossible, even after one year, to cope with your absence. I haven’t come to terms with the fact that everyone got to say goodbye to you except me. I haven’t been to Calcutta since before you left us and I can’t imagine that house without you in it. Maybe when I go there next I will get some closure. But just so you know, I’ll still be looking for you on the terrace, waving goodbye when I leave your shrine. I love you.

Crossroads

Through the tainted window of my eyes

I see in wait a hundred epic stories

Standing at the same corner of their lives,

All with the amity of their own quandaries,

Watching the movement of hurdles upon hurdles

Awaiting a sign to cross the road.

Often misinterpreted as merely the general masses

Seeking a sort of desperate conformity,

Each one endures the weight of matchless burdens

Secreted behind the smiles and colloquity;

They yearn to rid of the gratuitous anguish

But it is a secondary purpose to seek.

A change of signal encourages movement

And a pulse of hope propels the multitude forward

As they move on, despite their accompanying torment,

Toward their own primary destinations anchored

To their personal, exclusive characterizations

Of what one may call success.

My father's reply to Sanctity

You must actively perceive events with ease

Develop innate aplomb in matchless oscillation

While engaging in vibrant gust and breeze

Experience the serenity of stasis in dynamic manifestation.

Sanctity

A gust of wind; a fragrant breeze;

Practiced aplomb or carefree pirouette…

Do I passively perceive events with ease,

Or must I engage in a dynamic duet?

The black, the white, and everything in between

Characterize this ambiguous entity

Wherein two worlds struggle in a manner routine

To maintain an inimitable sanctity.

Sometimes a sacred covenant

But often a skirmish for justice,

It is one minute misread as ailment,

And the next as an alluring stasis.

Whether resulting in helplessness or exaltation,

Its existence will always be sure.

But perhaps we will forever long for an explanation

To these sentiments obscure.

Redemption

A riven heart, a crippled wing,

The touch of a caring soul

And redemption is attained.

We dare venture not past the precincts of sanity.

But mustn’t this be assumed natural?

Why, then, are our lives stained

With crimes against humanity?

It truly is a pity;

More than once have we viewed glimpses,

Through portals of crude reality,

Of apathy beyond perception.

So often the heart winces

At the perverted proceedings of the rabid

And mourns the system’s imperfection.

Yet we must all dream of an unblemished world,

Of relishing a unanimous reception,

Of the credence of contrariety,

And, someday, perhaps of redemption.

The I must go.

Behind the dew-covered lucid wall
With a stony stare in its glassy eyes,
Refusing to look at anyone at all
Is the silhouette I despise.

It only peers at me; it penetrates my soul,
Twisting it into grotesque distortions.
I scream in agony at the malice of its hold,
Yet cherish the masochistic bliss in a portion
Of my wretched conscience.

Someday I hope to defeat the impermeability
Of this translucent membrane,
If only for the sake of my own sanity
And for the sake of the hearts in which
Its terror still reigns.

The I must go.
But, must it?

What is God?

Who is God? I asked myself one day.
What is it that the word means?
Does it stand for some superior Personality,
Abundant in Extravagance, in Divinity,
Or simply the meaning of true Felicity?

I believe God is nature.
For nature gives birth to life itself,
As easily as it may take it away.
It is the Perfect,
The ideal for us imperfect creatures.
Hence, God is nature.

I believe God is truth.
For “the truth shall set you free.”
In a world of images, of relativity,
We crave the impossible, the Absolute.
Hence, God is truth.

I believe God is the mind,
To me, my mind; to you, yours.
For the mind is the undefeatable,
And potentially infinite in capacity.
It conceives the inconceivable,
And remains, to date, incomprehensible,
A power we are yet to completely find.
Hence, God is the mind.

Therefore, for me God is science.
For science reveals the Ultimate Truth,
The mysteries of nature,
And the aptitude of our minds.
God is science.

God, I then realized, is just a name,
An idea, a concept;
A synonym for your answer to every question.
In essence, the solution.
A potential Creator,
A possible Sustainer,
An inevitable Destroyer.

God is what you truly believe in.

Yet again...

I looked down at my face
reflected in the puddle of water
Staring at a stranger
submerged in a pool of sin,
of regrets, of mistakes...
lost in the surrounding din
of temptations;
ignorant of a thousand sensations...

when suddenly a cheery drop
distorted my puddle,
and what followed after
was a shower of solutions;
as the rain swirled down
glistening leaves
cleansing all in its way,
purging me, it seems,
of all such thoughts, and leaving
behind, a new ray
of fresh hope.

I couldn't tell if this ripple
in my puddle of glum
was the rain of Mother Nature
or the flow of my own emotions;
caused by the cloudy skies
or my betrayal of all devotions
that I held close to my heart.
I wished tomorrow would be a new day,
and for many, a fresh new start.

But in vain.
I long for another sign,
for clearance of my mind,
yet again, bless me, with solutions.
Yet again.

A cloudy morning.

The glory of a subtle grey
Sweeps over like an early autumn breeze
As a solitary soul makes her way down,
Amongst hurried lives and whispering trees,
On a beautifully melancholic morning.

Mournful Bliss.

Goodbye seems so sad a word,
and yet the smile on my lips...
situation asks the heart to mourn,
but the mind is soaring in bliss.

Ambiguity fills my eyes with tears
and content fills my heart
as I wave away those memories dear
for another fresh new start.

Hold on I will, to these chapters past
While scripting those anew...
And with these memories, mine to take,
I now bid thee adieu.

The power of silence

It was that unusual dread,
As the awkward quiet engulfed the air,
As I stood there with my arms spread,
And they walked away, with no love to spare.
It was over. The silence told me so.

And so began the saga of sorrows,
The dominance of pain, the vengeance of foes,
While standing with a foot on my chest
Remained the power of silence.

Silence forced me into solitude.
It told me of my misfit ways
Unaccepted by society
And represented, yet again, by that quiet
That I dreaded so much
How I longed for a touch
Of sound, of belonging…

And so continued the saga of sorrow,
Of pain, of a heart left hollow,
While crushing me with its full force
Ruled the power of silence.

At many a time, I am accused,
Judged, misunderstood, or perhaps simply used.
I console myself, and justify their offense.
Let them have the benefit of doubt,
Since my only defense
Is silence.

But today is a different day
As I seek refuge under this tree,
The same quiet gives me a peace of mind
And I proceed to conquer the inner me,
I gain self-knowledge, a bliss, an ecstasy,
The cage is open, and I’m set free.
Such is the power of silence.

Time

Flying, fleeting at furious speeds
Whizzing past the past,
The memories of the remembering,
And for the lacing, the needs;
As life halts, watching, its face aghast.

Precious as a pearl, fickle as a flower,
His disastrous arrogance is to be feared,
All hopes of immobility smeared…
To quicken to His pace cannot be,
Yet lay the dreams of many…
Bearers of His fruit, victims of His pride,
His ways are tricky as the games of light.

He arouses in His subjects a hope,
An anticipation for tomorrow may it be,
When before the blink of an eye
One mourns the slipping of eternity.

“To see the world in a grain of sand”
Is to comprehend Chronos.

Break the Glass.

Tied down in chains;
Wings are cut off:
Aimless obligation
Can I afford declination
Of “unnecessary” pain?

The moon shines, as I see:
A bright dazzle
Among the weak, blaming stars;
A courtroom, a farce.
Witness to all of me…

What keeps the glass
On the table?
A sweep, a slight touch
And push it over the edge:
Violate all class.