Walks. Through City Roads.

I walk. Long distances.
Presidency to Ballygung Phari. Or Kalighat Metro Station to Ballygung Phari. Or City Centre to Hyatt Regency… and those countless other routes.
I walk whenever possible.
Walking is my most favorite means of conveyance.
It also gives me the feeling that I’m not depending on anyone else to transport me elsewhere. I’m independent.
Walking lets me soak in so much of the city.
I walk past so many people.
Some look lost. Some look determined. Some look too pleased with themselves.
Some walk alone.
Some walk with another person. Just one. A friend. A parent. A lover. And sometimes, even a stranger.
Some walk in huge groups.
Some walk as a cluster of a few-similarly clothed individuals.

However, something, most unfortunately, is common among all of them.
They, (almost) none of them, really look around to See. To absorb the world around.
They do not pause to look at the careless wall-graffiti on the walls on both sides.
The incessant wars being waged through those ‘dewaal-likhons’.
They do not pause to admire the delectably marvellous sight of sunrays seeping through pauses and recesses between those hundreds of tree leaves, that could have otherwise formed a green dome overhead.
They do not perceive the sheer bliss in the smiles of the children that call the roads their home.
They do not look at how every alternate manhole is left uncovered in a certain central Calcutta street.
They do not enjoy the aroma of the scented flowers on those trees the names of which they mightn’t know.
They do not derive the immense sadistic pleasure from kicking the small pebbles lining the pavements, from being able to dislocate them from where they had been resting peacefully.
They do not experience the wrath unleashed by the rain-gods on the little kittens that try to desperately find shelter and end up meowing relentlessly, in tones that evoke terrible sympathy.
Hence, they lose out on an extreme variety of potentially motto-of-life altering experiences, encounters, events and/or episodes.

The Moon-Lore

I was the one that painted blemishes on the moon. Popular Culture might be of the opinion that there is a Dame-Spin-Yarn(no pun intended) or ‘Chorka-kataa-buri’, aged seven hundred thousand and twenty, who is perceived by Earth-dwellers as the dark spots that tarnish the beauty of the moon. The Chinese say there is the hare, brewing potions of immortality for the moon-God. Sugar-coated fables for the comfort of young children. Mothers, once upon a time, knew of my story. It made their teeth chatter. They never narrated my story to their children. Ergo, Mothers today do not remember me and my-minister-of-war, Darkness. We, that had embarked on that ambitious expedition aimed at conquering the youth, and love of the Moon. We, that on being refused, had taken her captive, and had inflicted ourselves, and some terrible physical wrath, upon her.

The moon, despite our obnoxious attempts at possessing her, still retains her grace. She illuminates and hence resists the lecherous sexual advances of the Darkness of the night sky, every night. Darkness has been fighting on my side since the beginning of times. When I was younger, and more aggressive, it used to frustrate me to see my all powerful minister-of-war failing to overpower the dainty lass more than just once a fortnight. On that one night every two weeks, when the moon has to give in, only because she has been resisting for too long, I used to go on a rampage. I used to unleash my supreme wrath. All of Death’s minions would then rise from the Underground and we would feast on human bitterness .I used to return late, in the early hours of the morning, to the seductive comforts in the cold stares that Silence, my minister-of-war’s devoted wife, would direct towards me, while allowing me to become a part of her. For some hours few.

Now in my death bed, I feel guilty. As a child, when I used to stare out of my window on a moon-lit night, the psychedelic effect of the illuminated hill-slope just beside my window, would leave me enthralled, enchanted. I would lap up the vision of brownies and elves merry-making in one corner of my garden. And then there would be visits from the silver-cloaked fairies from the other side of the rainbows, from the folks of the Tree Closeby.Tree Closeby spoke to me only when I would visit it on moon-lit nights. It spoke to me about its only sibling, the Faraway Tree, in an absolutely far, far away land. My love for the moon dates back to those days.

Even now I wonder, now when I am old, I am withering away. She, despite having existed under servile fearfulness, still retains her glow, her youth. Maybe, if I had made an approach with an aim to love from my heart, and not merely to conquer, maybe then, I could have had her as my own. But as my one time friend Aslan had said to me, “One should never wonder ‘What-if?’. Aslan and I had drifted apart many years back. Even he had advised me not to desire merely to conquer, but to learn to love. I never paid any heed to those who mattered. Now when I have only some hours to live, I regret, I regret…

Phera.

Jaatra hoke na deergho,
Hoke na shey khonosthayee,
Jaatra sheshe tomay, amaay
Phire aashte hobei...


Aami bohukal takiye dekhechhi, shunechhi.
Surjaaste’r shomoye paakhider kakoli,
Bhebechhi, jaatra sheshe bashay pherar
Uchhash i ki taader modhur koli?
Phera’r e niyom er longhon
Hoyni aaj-o, e niyom chironton.

Joler buke aalor abha
Ei achhe, pormuhurte gaayeb, ei jhilik
Rong’er chhota akaasher gaaye
Raater aagomone muchhe jaayo theek
Jaar ghotechhe aagomon
Hobei tar kromosho gomon…

Aami aachhi, ei muhurte
Nishash-proshshashe ullashito,uddipto
Poncho-podaartho’r ei kaaya
Taader to gontobyo oi ontorikkho.
Phere shobai, poth aar koddur?
Jaay, phere, barey barey andhaar aar roddur.


Jaatra hoke na deergho.
Hoke na shey khonosthayee,
Jaatra sheshe tomay, amaay
Phire aashte hobei…

Ten fingers and Uneven Toes

We all have. At least most of us do...

Given below is the first 'Misfit' poster. I plan to design several of these.And this was created when I was in a fight-arena pitted against Macroeconomics at around 2000 hours today...Watched a terribly cliched and crass (German) slasher flick called 'Dead in Three Days...' on World Movies today. And I always used to think that the 'them' at World Movies had some good taste...

Bleh.

More later...
I have written a Hindi poem...