Tuesday, April 23, 2013

In fragile things

Who’s to say what happiness is?
I could never have predicted (despite all the predictions I made)
that you would be so close.
That you would nestle – like the word last read in a half-read sentence-
deeply, firmly, lightly embedded.
I play with chopping blocks,
and fixatives.
With resin.
Bloody hearts may lie strewn across my spotless white bench.
It gives off the faintest smell of formaldehyde
(-makes me light headed sometimes,
but nothing to compare with – no matter, that’s sop.)
And who’s to say that happiness cannot be found
In the rustle, as pages brush their bodies against each other for a moment,
In the middle of a story-
About October telling stories,
As February-fussy, timid- sulks,
and April sucks her dainty fingers clear of innards,
while May takes her side.
And I, I dream at the back of my mind,
About a wondrous, terrifying August.
On an evening, where the skeletons of trees look in through my window,
as I sit inhaling the hot breath of my brown-slatted-heater.
Fingers stained with chocolate that arrived in the mail today
(near a month too late).
Bearing solemn, sincere advice on a background of blue,
it brought with it the hope of a new year.
I listen to a pink moon sing,
And curl up by my heap of warm, fresh, laundry.
Who would have known that we would come to know
each other, from half a world away.
Through tangles of invisible wires,
and calling plans that rob us blind.
Who’s to know that happiness lies here?
In fragile things.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Shubho Noboborsho

Bengali New Year comes at a time when I'm desperately in need of a clean slate. Redemption, the possibility of making good and starting over. Here's to a second chance to have a brand new sparkly new-year.

Shubho noboborsho.

P.S: I'm craving kosha mangsho like mad. If good fairies do exist, would they please drop by with mutton and mutton jhol'er alu? 

Friday, April 5, 2013

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.” - Ana├»s Nin