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National Poem Writing Month 2020: Day 30: Samsara or Livin’ in the Surrealistic Time

A surrealistic chiaroscuro painted the time. Time will change is a known thing–from ante to post and post to ante over the meridian. The present will become memories and the past will record them in its bosom–blue and dark. Future will be the magician looking for the bunny in his hat till the dramatic music hits the crescendo.

A year will conclude; another will arrive like the Swallows returns to Capistrano or the Neelkanth* to the Himalayas. New message they will carry. New poem, new song they will bring in.

An unrealistic touch painted the uncertainty that the time piggy back. We will dance; we will sing again. The street that is empty, that is vacant will be fill with as we dance through the night, or in the rain that pour suddenly in some noon–lonely and depressing one.

The soul that have departed, lets us hold our candles high for them. Death is the new beginning and we should mourn first but then celebrate the life and the moments we have.

Samsara** it is where we all live in.


*Indian Blue Jay; according to mythology they carry the news of Ma Durga returning to his abode in Himalaya after five days in the land.

** a Vedic term meaning in simple word “cycle of death and rebirth”

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National Poem Writing Month 2020: Day 29: Lassey, My Guardian Angel

(I have no reminiscent of yours, only some scattered shorts or bits)

Dida used to recollect you as a pup who resembles a cub of a wolf. And you are looking through the open leads of cane basket with your wet nose protruding out.

She also used to recollect you as a big wolf who when barked used to send tremor to one heart.

Ma also contribute to the recollection. You used to follow her at her heel, and used to keep a sharp and vigilante eyes on her.

When I born and brought to home you take on the duty of my guardian angel. You used to lie near me. Follow me or keep an eye on me when I crawl or taking first steps.

I used to bite you, poke your eyes, and you always used to be blanket wrapping me in your paws, or turning side to let me do what I want to do.

I have only few photos of you with a couple of us in those. And your last teary eyes look when they take you away to the hospital


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National Poem Writing Month 2020: Day 28: Camphor

in memory to my Dida…

The morning was the amphitheatre and the room was the stage.

I opened my eyes and alert to the voice clear and coming closer. It’s Sanskrit. She’s chanting the hundred eight names of Krishna. Her voice now can be heard outside the window.

Listen, Hush.

The window a rectangle with high height and medium appropriate breath with long circular bars; a wooden separation runs between. The doors of the window are not faded but dark in color–colored by the time.

Turn on your pillow and lie on your bosom. Look there she is.

With a long iron stick, curved at head, she is making the high out of reach flowers to reach her hand. Her head is covered with the mid of the sharee while the free end where rings of the house tied has been put around her neck.

The whole house scented of camphor and burning incense stick–selected by her inspecting a dozens of variety of smell.

A placid lake the morning used to be in the room. And it’s used to get rippled when Mama, my maternal uncle, used to enter the room after bath filling the room with enhanced smell of the bath soap and his heavy presence.

Now, change the light as it is noon.

The smell of the clay oven coal-smoke still linger in the air. A singular woodpecker pecking on some tree as some other bird singing with its voice at crescendo. Shroud of drowsiness engulfing me as I read some book. She chewing paan and reading the newspaper. A faint smell of zarda can be smelt.

The light of the sun peeping through the boughs and creating abstract pattern on the long-run balcony and on the bed and face. It’s soothing not disturbing or pinching one.

Hush, let me sleep.

Now it’s evening.

Dim the lights as it is powercut and the moon is half crescent; light is dirtied yellow. The breeze of summer evening flowing and she would sat there chanting hymn and calling out the name of the passerby. She could see in the darkness I don’t know how who was passing and asking them of their being…

Wait, what’s this

What’s that smell

And why the room is…dark…

Oh it’s the room where she had been in her last few days and it smell of medicines and her helplessness.

Hush, let me meditate now and get transported to those summer mornings.

No more evening or night for me. Only the morning. And if you can let Mama out. I want her voice chanting and the smell of the incense sticks with the camphor.

(No one can I though know)


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National Poem Writing Month 2020: Day 27: Black or The Omen

Walking down the street few men; looking from the balcony people–mostly old and women of the house, so hide quick behind that bough of the mango tree. You’re good looking; a deep look can reveal that. But, if those on road see you they will drive you away with hush or will hurl stone at you, and those at the balcony will curse you. I know you’re furry little ball who sleeps on the old house’s roof in the dark shades of the tree, and occasionally on the roof of the ambassador whose owner has forgotten as it seems and left it there to rot and rust, or on the rusted tin roof of the old garage–camouflaging with the dark rust blackish-brown color. What are you looking at right now? Are you looking for someone to play with or some new place to sleep or just roaming aimlessly from parapet to parapet? Are you looking for something to eat? I can pet you and feed you if you come to me. In the night when the traffic dies down, in the normal time, you play with the dogs. At first no one can see you because of your color; they laugh on the dogs being jumping and barking at the darkness. Then when the lights of a passing zipped car falls on you your eyes shine green. And then you can be seen. No one likes you, you’re the omen. The carrier of the ill-fate. Looking at you can bring the fate down with an axe; I’m leaving the old saying and well-known fact, when a cat color black cross the street it brings bad luck, aside. (To me) you’re the most beautiful and jolly cat that can be ever found around. You’re the comedy that I need to laugh after a hard day of working–a bliss for the exhausted soul. Looking at you on the gloomy day I feel the sense of this bliss. Where did you gone now?

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National Poem Writing Month 2020: Day 26: (When) Henet Flew Over the Hooghly River or Siesta Dream of a Wife

The locks shading the dreamy face of my sleeping wife; (as) the mango tree dancing and rustling with neem tree in the gust; there may be a storm brewing up somewhere. The clouds have created boats with their sails being orange from the west sun. The home-returning birds–crows and sparrows and all–creating the wave that is needed to make the murky sky a clear stream like Ganga these days. The henet flied over the boats; they have to carry the message to the stars so that they can shine when the moon will rise. The Howrah Bridge will shine in the moonbow on the Hooghly river where the boats and ships and trailers are asleep. And where once the long-beaked dolphin used to swim in the abundance and carelessly. And the hargila** used to feast on the carcasses and the dead bodies. Once on a rainy day, four centuries ago from today, it is said, Job Charnock set foot on the bank of this river. The city was then a village of weaver in the name of Sutanuti. Somewhere on some bank a couple of century ago of the Independence, commander-in-chief Mir Jafar had plot against his king, Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah, letting the trader to be the ruler of the country; making the city their capital and the river to be used for trade not only for the religion. The fairy on the dome of Victoria Memorial waiting for that breeze from the river to dance once more; lore says the fairy used to turn when there was a wind–a striking strong Gangetic one. Now it stands rusted and sun-heated against the seasonal sky. The weather is balmy now as the summer day, another one, calling it a day. The flock of henet is flying smeared in the faded orange of the dusk touching the water with its paws and giving the wind of the river a voice with the flapping of their wings. They have lot of miles to cover. She woke up removing the locks–a dream I had, what can I say–she said smiling at me.

**Hargila: Greater Adjutant


Some space I filled up; some I couldn’t. I referred some line to be specific of the mention of some instances. Without much delay here’s my Almanac behind the poem…

Weather: Balmy, stormy
Flora: Mango, Neem
Architecture: Victoria Memorial
Customs: Water of Ganga river and its tributaries and distributaries is holy and auspicious (not only for the religion)
Mammals/reptiles/fish: Crows, sparrows, dolphin
Childhood dream: Journalist
Found on the Street:
Export:
Graffiti: Fairy on the dome of Victoria Memorial
Lover: My Wife
Conspiracy: Commander-in-Chief Mir Jafar conspired against his Nawab Siraj-ud-Daulah during Battle of Plassey (1757)
Dress:
Hometown memory:

Notable person: Job Charnock
Outside your window, you find: “The mango tree dancing and rustling with neem tree in the wind”
Today’s news headline: COVID 19 affected increasing in India (And the hargila used to feast on the carcasses and the dead bodies.)
Scrap from a letter: Job Charnock set foot on the bank of river Hooghly on a rainy day
Animal from a myth: Henet
Story read to children at night: The birth of Calcutta or Kolkata
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: The sky during the clouded sunset
You walk to the border and hear:
What you fear: Not being able to write (Now it stands rusted and sun-heated against the seasonal sky)
Picture on your city’s postcard:  Howrah Bridge