Disease

You play with the half-lights of lonely dusks and dawns
I can see that in the shadows inside your eyes they leave behind
The wisps of your grayish thoughts like nooses of fire;
They tangle you in a thousand knots

You are slowly dying

And I am slowly opening
Like a flower in the beams of night

Everyday, you come to me like a slaughtered butterfly in the metal air
When the perfumes of spring rip you apart, you come on torn wings
And like a firefly in fire, sometimes in shimmering nights,
Tired of forgetting or remembering

And the shadows crowd like phantoms in your blood
I can feel them in your kisses, when you give away one rib at a time
From the rickety skeleton you hide beneath
Your flesh;

You are slowly dying
In the fires of autumns and nights

This gives me some solace. I had read somewhere that it is just not important to forgive others, but also to forgive yourself at times.

Forgiving yourself does not mean to justify something wrong, but to accept that you have wronged.
And to let go. Just let go.

There was a house in North Road where I had belonged for a few days in my life. It came in my dream a few days back.

It had a small balcony with railings where I would sit and from its terrace you could see an abandoned chidren's playground.

There was a small garden in the rooftop and a little pavement that led to the terrace and a few steps that led to the pavement. The pavement fell right to the main entrance to the terrace. You would have to climb the stairs and turn right.

There are a few memories and secrets locked up in that pavement. I donot know though, whether they have cleared them all. They have renovated the house, I have heard.

So maybe the white, yellowing walls have been splashed with new colours and that dirty bucket, the junk tools, and the idol have been removed.

Maybe someday they will shift to another house, too.

I can never return to the house at North Road. I have lost my copy of the keys. But a part of me will always return there, from time to time. To smell the whiff of coffee from its kitchen,
and to feel the warmth of its people.

Maybe I cannot visit in person. But I will be there in some way, because it has some of my roots that I've broken away from, anchored deep to its own roots.

That little house in the corner of the alley where it stands, it came in my dreams a few days back.

Tonight, once, I took out my little prism that I had hid in my mind when I had been a child, and saw that all the beautiful colours that it could reflect have darkened to morbid blue-grays.


I have come from one sad city to another. I'm moving from one sadness to another.

And the void in my life continues spreading like cancer.

It is 4:11 in the clock. I have an exam today at 11. I am unprepared.

Well, that could be a good reason for some depression at this hour, had there not been worse reasons in my life now.

It does seem, I have been dreaming all the while. It does seem I am still. Just about to wake up, I am, maybe. I can sense now that it may be a dream I am in, which means maybe I am about to wake up, and my sleep is almost broken.

What goes around, comes around, they say.

I feel haunted.

I know already that I am running away. I may hit something.

That old pang again, in the middle of the night.

A chronic desire to hold another hand.

Nightmares. And an empty room to wake up to.

That coffee shop. That blue shirt.
And 16 Mandeville Gardens, Kolkata - 19.

Sprite

I had a strange dream. And I woke up inside my dream where a black-haired street guy told me that I had been dreaming all the while.

He stood under a dim street light, grinning in a saffron shirt. He had one wisdom tooth. He had a bunch of keys dangling from the pockets of his shorts. He had a sparkle in his eyes.

And he broke into this lovely peal of laughter and walked away slowly. His keys jingled. A wind blew.

Then I awoke, and I was alone and sad.