Eat

[Quick shots]

A naked ape-man on four limbs eats raw fish like an animal beside a river.

A bi-pedal Neanderthal man wearing tree bark eats fruits inside a cave.

A pre-historic tribal family wearing hide-skin clothes eats meat and vegetables inside a camp.

An old historic civilization with people in armours devouring food like mad men in front of their huts.

A modest family (last century) is eating food with a spoon in an old classical home.

A modern sophisticated man is fine-dining in a high class restaurant with a fork and knife.

The same man dives for a swim in the sea from his yacht and gets eaten by a shark in the sea.

 

~ TITLES ~

Breathe

[Black Screen][Sound of a woman breathing heavily during childbirth]

[First cry of a new born baby] A baby is born with a loud wailing sound.

[Quick close-up face shots of kids playing][Faint sounds of their chatter & loud sounds of their BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of teenagers running][Faint sounds of their banter & loud sounds of their BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of young adults kissing and making love][Faint sounds of their romantic words & loud sounds of them BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of grown adults in orgasm][Faint sounds of their love-making & loud sounds of them BREATHING]

[Quick close-up face shots of an old adult in his death bed][Faint sound of his BREATHING]

[Black screen][No sound for 2 seconds]

[Black Screen][Sound of a woman breathing heavily during childbirth]

[First cry of a new born baby] A baby is born with a loud wailing sound.

 

~ AND SO IT GOES ON ~

Strangers

[Background Narration]

“I am sitting at an outdoor cafe smoking a cigarette, drinking some coffee and writing a journal. A big statue is staring at me with big expressive eyes at the junction of roads just in front of the cafe. One South Indian man is standing underneath and admiring the statue, as he lights up a cigarette. The next minute, a Punjabi Sardar approaches him asking for a lighter in sign language. Both of them start smoking appreciating the statue.”

Punjabi: Looking upwards towards the statue says, “Bahut sudar akkha!” (Very beautiful eyes!)

Tamil: Looks at the Punjabi and exclaims nodding his head forward, “Am... Idu nalladu!” (Yeah... it’s good!)

Punjabi: Looks at the Tamil man with a small pause and says “Ki tussi kise di itazaar kar rahe ho?” (Are you waiting for someone?)

Tamil: Nodding his head sideways, “Yarum illai...” (No one...)

Punjabi: Says with a disarming smile showing the cigarette, “Lighter lai dhanavada... Thanks”

[Narration continues]

“The Tamil man smiles at him and tells him something in Tamil. And surprisingly the Punjabi replies in his own language Punjabi. Like this they go on speaking with each other for the next five minutes not understanding a single word of the other person but still somehow carrying on the conversation until they both finish their cigarettes and eventually part their ways. With the coffee gone cold in my hand, I am left quite flabbergasted by the whole drama in front of my eyes. And I realize that language after all is not merely made up of words. We humans could communicate even without it, only if we try.”

 

#THELANGUAGEPROJECT

~ TITLES ~

 

My name is Man

[TRUE INCIDENT]

A middle aged woman is talking to her car washman [Camera POV from woman to man]. Car washman is staring at her with big eyes and a gullible smile almost like a loyal pet dog.

Woman: “300 rupiya har mahina. Roz gaari aur bike dono ka dhulai chahiye." [Bengali translation] "300 taka proti mashe. Roj gaari ar bike dutoi dhute hobe.” She looks at him up and down with slightly crooked eyebrows and continues after a pause, "Naam kya hai?" [Bengali translation]“Tomar naam ki?”

Excited by the question, the man’s eyes grow bigger and with an increased enthusiasm he says,

Man: “Mera naam MAN.” [Bengali translation] "Amar naam MAN."

Woman: "Haan? Kya? [Bengali translation]“Hyaan? Ki?”

Man: “MAN.”

Woman: “Man???” Totally surprised, she asks him after a pause, "Baap maa ne naam rakha hai?" [Bengali translation]“Baba maa naam diyeche?”

The smile on the man’s face disappears as he looks down and says,

Man: "Baap maa ko dekha nahi kabhi bhi" [Bengali translation]“Baba maa ke dekhi ni kokhono...”

Woman: "Oh... phir?" [Bengali translation]“Oh... tahole?”

The man slowly lifts up his face slightly staring into a void and says, "Mera koi naam nahi tha. Bachpan se jisko jo marzi kuch bhi naam bulate the" [Bengali translation]“Amar kono naam chilo na. Choto belaye je jar khushi ultopalta naam diye dakto...”

[Quick flashback shots of him as a kid at different ages]

Different people in different situations calling a street boy with different slang names like,

[0 to 5 years age] “Ei baccha!”

[5 to 10 years age] “Chhotu” “Chhotka” “Puchke” “Phochka”(joking tones)

[10 to 15 years age] “Kelaney” “Bolda” “Gadha” “Paatha” (taunting tones)

[15 to 20 years age] “Bokachoda” “Gandu” ”Shuorer baccha” (violent tones)

[cut to]

Man: "Par main toh yeh sab kuch bhi nahi hoon... mein toh insaan hoon... Iss liye bada hoke maine hi apna naam diya MAN" [Bengali translation] "Kintu ami toh shey shob konotai noi... ami toh manush... Tai boro hoye ami e amar naam dilam MAN”, the enthusiastic smile comes back on his face as he stares straight into the eyes of the woman. [Camera POV from woman to man][fade out]

 

~ TITLES ~

Cyclist’s Rhythm

[Background music – Uplifting rhythm and musical beats made with mostly cycle sounds like cycle bell, cycle chain sound, cycle stand sound, metal sounds etc. slowly increasing pace][Inspiration from AR Rahman’s track from MF Hussain movie Meenaxi]

Quick shots of different people (newspaper wala, milkman, dhobi, clerk, postman, mistry, security guard, cycle rickshaw wala etc.) riding cycle from rider’s POV/OTS, alternated with quick shots of a cycle mechanic fixing a kid’s cycle (chains and tyres) with more cycles, cycle vans, cycle rickshaws visible in the background. [Short cuts get quicker and increase in frequency with the cycle beats increasing tension in screenplay]

[Last scene] The same kid is riding the repaired cycle in full speed on a busy road with a huge smile on his face as if he is flying like a free bird. [Music has reached the crescendo in full high pace][3 shots of the kid riding the cycle at full speed][Wide-shot][Mid-shot][POV-shot] Suddenly he stumbles on a pothole and falls on the road precariously. [Music stops abruptly with a screeching of bus tyres applying sudden brakes]

[cut to Black Screen][pin-drop silence]

 

 

SHORTCUT - The Crescent Smile (Version 2.0)

Cobalt blue eyes. I knew they were black but somehow I felt blue – dark cobalt blue. He was sitting inside a bright yellow taxi, next to the driver’s seat – his eyes staring at me, piercing through me – daring me to dance – in that cold cloudy night.

“Kahaan jaana hai?” he asked.

I could hear him but almost could not. I was somewhere else – lost in the bustle of man-made machinery, interrupted by strange honks, punctuated with desperate curses of a child’s distant cry, captivated by moving laser lights. The lights; they were sometimes white, sometimes red and most often an unidentifiable blue that looked like the arctic cold.  But if you go too close to it, you will feel wounded by its unnatural heat. They’re all moving. Faster and more ferocious than any creature God has put on earth.

I could see insects, all kinds of insects, crawling in lines – straight lines, crooked lines, broken lines – all kinds of lines. I do not know what they feed on but they are so big they might defeat you in a wrestle. Some of them are refugees running in a loop from one shelter to another in a no-man’s-land, pushed and shoved with hollow begging bowls up their starving mouths. Yet some wander alone without caring about any of these lines. They walk alone – a very few of them, and you can hardly notice them in the struggle of all these lines. Maybe they are the bugs, bugged down by the histrionics of this Machiavellian machine that they find themselves stuck in. Maybe, I too am just one of them – another immigrant bug hopelessly searching for refuge in the conundrums of this alien civilization.

In the confusion of this loud and flashing bright circus of man-made marvels, I looked up at the Prussian blue sky. It had a faint crescent shape and was dotted with a few spare stars, dazzling like diamond studs on a beautiful black face. The faintness of the moon was not because of the few strands of hovering rain clouds, but the clouds formed by exhaust pipes of the circus. I could see them again – the insects – only this time they were wearing Louis Vuitton shades, carrying Armani bags as they walked in lines in their Gucci shoes, soaking up the chimney clouds. The neon board across the road displayed ‘Elixir of Achievement’. And I was lost again.

A sudden gush of cool breeze woke me up from my amnesia and made me realise that I was on my way to where I came from. It was getting late. I looked back at the yellow taxi and those hypnotic cobalt blue eyes which had caught a grey hue by now. Like a spider web getting dense and denser.

“Haldiram’s”, I said and stared back trying to clamber my way through the web, to the core of its nest, to find out what the spider was thinking. I tried scratching on the hard surface of his emotional veneer but I couldn’t read a thing. Maybe the spider did not understand my language. Maybe, I had not yet mastered spider-tongue to perfection. He kept staring at me as I opened the back door and sat right behind, without waiting for him to say anything.

He turned his head back, like an owl, with a small earthen cup in his left hand that exhumed fumes of hot tea and kept staring at me. Not into my eyes, but into me – as if he wanted to know what I was – man or maggot, where I came from – mars or moon, what I really ate – meat or mite. For a split second, I felt stupid by this stupefying scene. And I decided to interrupt the silence.

“Haldiram’s pata hai naa? Airport ke paas?”

He said nothing and kept staring blank at me. There was this emptiness and the crawling spider in it. The void continued.

“Chalenge kya?”

This question to my relief cut the numbness. And he finally spoke.

“Nahi sir, main chala nahi sakta. Woh aa raha hain”.

The man’s voice sounded gross. Like the grunt of a pig. The kind of grunt you don’t hear but feel in your spine. Or maybe, like the rotten engine roar of a vintage car, just to sound better. I was reminded of Mr. Jigsaw from a movie series where he killed people in the most psychotic ways, using machines he designed just for the purpose. He kept his victims in chambers, and tied them, and clamped them, and stitched them to those machines and yet gave them an option to live, only through an ordeal of excruciating pain and plunder.

Somehow, I felt relief in the pig’s grunt. As he turned in front, still holding the cup in his left hand, I noticed something. His right hand was not there. It was cut off from the blade of his shoulder. And the right sleeve of his shirt was folded till the elbow. A few answers to my questions started gathering and immediately I was transported to one of Jigsaw’s chambers, with rotting rats spilled like the vomit of an addict, stinking like the foul burp of a cannibal, sweating like mating snakes. And there was this pig, chained down in the centre, clamped to an iron chair. This time Jigsaw had his victim’s right hand stitched to a part of the chair. And the pig yelled and shrieked and cried grunting for help. But his only option was to cut his right hand so that he could live – and be free. He could, but he could not. He could not, but he had to. At this moment Jigsaw enters, and the other door crunches open.

The driver stepped inside with one of his legs jostling for some space underneath the steering wheel when the man grunted again. “Haldiram", looking at the driver with one of his eyebrows arched in a curious question.

The driver, with half his body still outside, turned his head to look at me. A look to decide which family of maggots I belonged to. Or, which city of moon I came from. Or which part of the mite I liked the best. This time, I said nothing and waited. He sat behind the wheel, revved up the engine and the car slowly started to roll.  I saw a picture of goddess Kali, half the size of my palm, stuck in the middle of the dashboard. It had fluorescent light bulbs twinkling all around. This driver must be in his mid-thirties. With a rough beard glued all over his face. I couldn’t decipher his partner’s age though.  Maybe he was in his late thirties or perhaps, easily more than forty-five. I couldn’t care anymore.

The car was moving now and as the world outside the window started to blur, I thought I should ask him how he had cut his hand. Maybe he would say by an accident or from birth or by the Jigsaw.  But the truth was I didn’t want to hear that grunt any more.

As the cab started gaining speed, three of us were the only souls who were still. And everything else passed by like lightning. As I looked outside the window, the laser lights streaked past - sometimes white, sometimes red and most often an unidentifiable blue. Insects, lines, bugs, everything came back. I shuddered at the sight and almost compulsively brought myself to the dark blue sky, which was calm and quiet. The cool breeze of this darkness was feathering my face. There weren’t many stars left by now, and the moon looked like a dusty relic kept inside a forgotten museum. This relic, you can’t hold, nor can you keep. You can only see it and feel good about it, or at the most feel ancient with it. The few strands of rain clouds had by now collected in a bunch, and it looked like it would rain. My lips followed the crescent shape and I smiled.

I remembered a shortcut underneath a flyover, which would save me some notes. An insignificant amount may be, but I preferred that route. It was through a dingy slum. There were no glittering lights there to advertise the poverty – only the reds, blues and greens of some uncultured, unscripted, vulgar emotions. There were no lines of insects, only some leftover carcasses of their dilapidated dreams. There were no loud honks, but an eerie silence of sanity. It’s dingy and it’s a slum – with no addresses, no names written on any of the unsettled walls. I liked taking this route. I liked seeing what most people won’t see. I liked being what most people would never want to be.

“Yaha se right le lijiye. Shortcut padega”, I called out to the driver as I saw the flyover approaching.

“Right nahi le sakta saab, road kharaab hai aur light bhi nahi hain”, the driver shot back.

The driver sounded quite normal, much unlike his partner. So I decided to persist. And I did. But he insisted back.

“Election time hai saab. Mohammedan area – total basti - bohut lafda chal raha hai. Safe rehna hi accha hai. Mussalmaan refugee log aapko pata hai na saheb? Bhagwaan jaane keedo ke jaise kaha kaha se aa jate hain? Aap samajh rahe hai na?”

I  did not understand. Strangely perplexed, I did not want to understand. I felt a sting. I do not know where. And I thought I should say something, but the sting made me reluctant and I forgot what to say. The sting hopped, skipped and jumped somewhere deep inside.

“I hope someday you will understand”, I mumbled to myself.

The car kept moving. I just stared at the back of his head. I could see a pair of invisible eyes. I know they are not there. But I want them. I want the spider. I want to snatch it. I want to crush it between my teeth. I want to gulp it down with a bottle of poison. So that it’s dead for sure, and it never comes back.

I looked outside the window to feel the breeze. But I couldn’t feel it. All I could see or feel was something very different, something very difficult – the sting. It hopped, skipped and jumped still inside. The outside seemed like movie reels, moving faster than before – they come and they go. Before I could realise they were gone. Something else came again. I couldn’t make out. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. My mind was clogged. I couldn’t breathe and I searched for the calm. I searched for the Prussian blue, and the diamond studs, and the crescent shape. But everything was hazy, unclear, faded and lost - except for the sting. It hopped, skipped and jumped. Incessant still, it stung. And free from this sting is what I want to be. I had learned, rather taught myself a truth – freedom is only another word for control over the self.

The car turned right on the main-road crossing and things started slowing down. The sting was in control, for now. The window frame and everything outside it started making sense again and I relaxed a bit. I knew that it was the final leg of my journey and I wanted to feel the cool breeze for one last time.

I could see two coconut trees, standing tall like two siblings – dark and handsome. It must have been decades for them standing by the high-road, watching laser lights and smelling man made clouds. I saw two kids – a boy and a girl. They were playing badminton under a halogen lamp-post with two broken rackets and a crushed paper ball. It was about to rain but they didn’t care. I saw an old, old woman. She was walking at a right angle, with a stick to balance the extra weight and a head full of snow white hair. One of the bugs may be, I thought to myself.  I saw a banyan tree standing like a dead man trying to cross a busy road to the other side. There were no leaves, only the crooked branches waiting to catch the moon in an embrace. It had stopped watching laser lights, and stopped smelling man made clouds, and stopped feeling sick about it. I could see another person hugging the trunk of that naked tree. I do not know what state he was in, but I could see him find solace in love.

The car pulled over just opposite Haldiram’s as instructed and the moving pictures stopped to a pause. Suddenly everything became still. Did I feel the breeze? Yes. I did. I smiled and took out a note written 50 rupees from my wallet. I handed it over to the driver and opened my door. Before stepping out, I turned to him and said,

“Main aapko kuch kehna chahta hoon...”

I got out and shut the door. Both partners were by now bending over in their own ways to listen to what I had to say. I leaned a little forward so that my eyes were in line with that of my pig and the dead spider.

“Main bhi Mussalmaan hoon”, I said. “Keeda nahi, insaan hoon.” – Like the clouds and the birds, the rivers and the breeze, the moon that floats with us as we sleep in the coffers of a new day. I am like the raindrops that will soon drizzle upon us.

The cobalt blue eyes looked blank for a moment, perhaps in shame.

As I walked away searching for the Prussian blue, it rained. I took a deep whiff of my wet earth, smiled to my sting and kept walking in the pouring rain.

পথের গান

তোহার দেখা পাইতে গিয়ে আমি অন্ধ হয়েছি।
তোহার গান গাইতে গিয়ে আমি সুর হারিয়েছি।
এ কি ছলনা যে তোহার দেখা মেলেনা ?

মন্দির মস্জিদ আখাড়া তোর গির্জা গিয়েছি।
দু টাকা কি দু হাজারের পাথর কিনেছি।
পাথর মিলেছে, তার অর্থ মেলেনি।

তান্ত্রিক তন্ত্র সাধনায় মন্ত্র পড়ে কালা জাদু করে।
একটাই জাদু জানি আমি, সে কালা জাদু নহে।
এই জাদুর মায়ায় বুঝি প্রেম কাহারে কহে!

বন্ধুগনকে সেই পথ দেখাতে আমি হাপিয়ে মরেছি।
নিজের পথ যে কোন দিকে আজ সে দিশা হারিয়েছি।

পথ মেলা কি সহজ কথা, পথে থাকলে এতো ব্যাথা ?

Furniture Family

Shopkeeper opens furniture shop shutter early in the morning. The sunlight falls directly on a bean bag lying in a corner. The bean bag is Ramu, the house servant.

RAMU (Servant talking in Bangladeshi accent): 

“Arey baba re.. abar aishya gesey gambat ta shokal shokal.” “Kichhukhhon shanti te ghumoteyo debe na haramjada ta..”

 

BORO BOUMA (Big Dining Table): 

“Ramu!! Kirey?? Ekhono ghumochhish??”

“Shokal hoye geche…dokaan khuley geche… boli cha ta ke banabey?”

 

BORO CHELE (Big Wardrobe): 

“Aah! Astey astey… eto chellachho keno?”

“Baba jege jabey je!”

 

BORO BOUMA: “Thamo toh! Jegey jabey toh jabey..”

“Boli ghor er kaj kore ta ke ami chhara?”

 

RAMU (hiding in background): “Maa Jogodatti… shob e naki uni koren!”

 

BORO BOUMA: “Chhoto bou toh saradin nijeke ainae dekhteyi byashto..”

“Oi dekho, seje gujey dibbi dulchhey boshey boshey. Uh, Nyaki Kothakar!” (Red Velvet Revolving Chair)

“Ar oi dekho tomar Chhoto Bhai…” (Single Cot)

“..gaja teney ghumochhen”

“Uh, Kumbhokorno ar Surpanakha..juti mairi..ami kintu ar shojjo korte parbo na...”

 

 

BABA (Big Antique Sofa): Singing Shyama Sangeet

“Shokoli tomari iccha

Icchamoi Tara tumi

Tomar karma tumi koro maa

Loke bole kori ami

Icchamoi Tara tumi”

 

“Bouma !!! Cha holo?”

 

RAMU: “Ei..eitto hoye esheche Boro kotta”

BABA: “Ja bolechhis..hoye eshechhey boiki. Aj ei shesh din amar toder sathe. Kal thekey ei buro lok takey ar dekhtey hobey na toder.”

 

BORO CHELE: “Erokom keno bolchho Baba?”

 

BABA: “Bolchhi ki ar michhi michhi.”

(Tint changes to sepia) - “Jobey thekey toder Maa gotow hoyechhen, tobey thekeyi amar mon tekey ni ei bari tey.”

BABA: “Tobey thekeyi porey achhi ei dhulor modhye.”

BABA: “Keu pochheyo na amake.”

BABA: “Tai chollam ami!”

 

RAMU (in background): “Buro ki bolchey re? Chollo?”

RAMU: “Chollen kothae Boro Kotta?”

 

BABA: “Jekhane jachhi amader moto lokeder kodor achhey…shonman achey…toder moto..”

 

SHOPKEEPER: “Ashun Ashun!”

Shopkeeper welcomes a customer inside the shop.

 

BABA: “Oi dakh.. [camera starts moving from Shopkeeper back to Sofa]

oi..mone hochhey..eshey geche..”

 

SHOPKEEPER (showing the revolving chair): “Ei dekhun notun maal. Brand New!”

SHOPKEEPER (in background): “Dekhun..dekhun..touch korun..touch korun..”

 

CHOTO BOUMA: “Do you like what you see?”

 

CLIENT: “Hmm..kharap na..ta koto discount deben etar jonye?”

 

CHOTO BOUMA: “Discount? Amar oporey? Fuck You Dude!”

 

RAMU: “Ei boudi Khishti dilo re..”

 

BABA: “Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram Ram..”

 

CLIENT: “Achha ota chharun..shob thekey beshi discount kontar oporey

ache?”

 

SHOPKEEPER: “Eitto ..ei dekhun..”

SHOPKEEPER: “..original teakwood, vintage looks..”

SHOPKEEPER: “..ekta besh roishy byapar ache. Ki bolun?..60%..”

 

CLIENT: “Discount??!!”

 

SHOPKEEPER: “Aggey hyan…”

SHOPKEEPER (in background): “..pack korey dei?”

 

CLIENT: “Pack..and Post”

 

ACT II

[Bhojpuri remix "Patli Kamariya" playing in background. Baba Sofa opens his eyes slowly as if in a trance. Sees half naked girls dancing and one big fat guy fully sloshed dancing with them under bright disco lights]

Sofa:

3(a)Dialogue1: Ami kothaye?

3(b)Dialogue2: Ki hocche?

3(c)Dialogue3: Era kara?

 

Sofa - "E ki? Era to pagol!"

 

Sofa- Nana, naanaa, naaaah...! (while PK walks towards him)

 

LOUD scream from sofa "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" (2 seconds - No music. Black Screen. Twisting sound of old spring after PK sits on sofa)

 

(Girl coming towards sofa)

Sofa:"Ei, edike na bolchi. Edike na!"

Sofa:"Bosho na ma. Amar boyosh hoyeche"

 

(When girl sits on sofa)

Sofa:"Na na naaa ... Bachaooooo"

[The music gets louder and video zooms out from the ceiling] 

What is Art? What is Craft?

Art if defined in one word, is simply nothing but expression. Art can be defined as pronounced expressions of life, in any form. It does not matter whether you are a painter or a sculptor, a musician or a dancer. You can be a great artist by being a gardener, if you are able to express your passion for life fully and exuberantly through that medium. Not only that, art also has the power to move an audience emotionally and evoke a thought process in the viewer's mind. I believe that the primary goal of art is very emotional, not necessarily political or social, but mostly very personal. The moment it starts serving a social purpose or relates itself to a political scenario, it ceases to be art and turns itself into propaganda. Art is not propaganda, it should never be. Art is simply someone's emotional expression of how they've perceived and experienced life.

But yes, if this expression is mundane or common, there is nothing artistic about it. For any expression to become art, it has to be pronounced, or in simpler words, it should be overflowing with emotions. Any human expression overflowing with pure unassuming emotions, has the potential to become art. Most common people are either too shy, or too rigid to be able to express themselves so freely, thus making art so uncommon in our concrete world.  An artist's job is to express freely and fully, evoking real emotions in the viewer's heart. Art when perceived, essentially enters through the brain, passes through the mind and eventually ends up changing the heart. That, when happens is true art.

Yes, artists are different, because they cannot be mundane. Mere fodder cannot satisfy the hunger for their kind. They feed on the phenomenon of life itself. That is why most artists are always so full of life and eccentric by nature. They don't need to follow any discipline or a set routine made by society for them. They are free to make their own rules, their own space, and their own time. And that, they should be allowed to. Because a bird can fly only so much if you put it in a cage. And needless to say, a cage is not the most convenient place for a bird to spread it's wings.

You often hear about artists being so engrossed in their creation, that they forget to eat, drink, sleep or even respond to any external worldly stimulation. The process of creating art is so introspective and overwhelming that this experience itself becomes the food for the artist. This process in it's essence is totally inclusive, spiritual and meditative in nature. In this process, artists will often lose connection with ground realities, and find themselves connected to some higher realm of existence, which in a way guides the artist to create art through their humanly perceived skills. This connection to a higher energy field makes us artists realize that we are not really the authoritative creators of our art. We artists just possess some exceptional human skills, and are nothing but a conduit from a higher and more vast imperceptible realm to this tangible mortal worldly realm.

The reasons for creating Art, and the consequences of perceiving Art, are both very closely related to the existence of duality in our nature. Duality in simple terms means the existence of two sides in the same coin; like male and female, day and night, good and bad, so on and so forth. Duality in our nature establishes movement, which is essentially a journey from one place to another. The purpose of art is also to create movement. It is only possible for a piece of life as we know it, to experience this duality in some form. And it is only humanly possible to feel this movement, the journey that happens between the two extremes of duality. Due to the presence of you and me, a conversation can start. And this conversation which satisfies the bare necessity of human expression, when cultured, inevitably turns itself into art sooner or later - like a seedling transforming itself into a tree in full bloom.

I am glad and grateful that I am able to see this happening every moment of my life. As an artist, the ability to perceive this very happening is my true gift, neither my skills nor my creations. Thus in essence, Art can be defined as purely an individualistic expression which moves the viewer in some way, either emotionally, physically or energetically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Craft on the other hand is often mistaken or confused with Art by the general mass of people. This misconception has prevailed for centuries especially in India, due to lack of progressive art related education in general. Indians for ages have taken pride in considering their craftsmanship skills as art. Generations of so-called artists have been replicating exactly what their forefathers had been painting for hundreds of years in the past - for example traditional art forms such as the likes of Madhubani, Raghurajpur, Kalighat, Warli, Tanjore, so on and so forth. Jamini Roy, for example created his own signature style of art drawing inspiration from these traditional art forms, but eventually our society has inevitably converted it into a form of craft. In present age there are schools who teach children how to draw in Jamini Roy style. Jamini Roy in his time did create art, but today's children replicating his works can be safely termed as a craft.

Replication is not Art. Replication is a skill. Replication is a Craft. The same holds true even for some European Renaissance Painters who could copy a portrait or a figure exactly how they saw it in reality, but often lacked in original expression. If a painting looks exactly the same or even quite similar to what it is being drawn from - either another painting, a photograph or even the reality, where is the individual expression of the artist? As a viewer where can I see how the artist is feeling while creating that piece of art? Yes, even when life or the real world can inspire most artists through some strong experiences and poignant moments, the artist has to find a way of expressing it in his own style. He has to find his own way to stroke his brush on the canvas. Then only it shall become art, not otherwise, not until he unlearns how to replicate from others. Till then he remains a craftsman but not an artist.

In hindsight, an artist does not need to be a good craftsman himself in order to become a great artist. An artist is an artist because he thinks in the language of art, and not because he does it. The idea in Art is more often than not, greater than execution of the piece itself. On the other hand, when it comes to the execution, the Craft is always greater than the idea of Art itself. There could be a thousand masons who built the Taj Mahal with their own hands, but they were not the artists, they were the craftsmen. The artist was Shah Jahan who thought about the idea of building it. But think about it, however great an artist he might have been, could he have built it with his own hands?

The artist is privileged to be endowed with the power to imbibe an idea of creation, and henceforth the craftsman finds his way to manifest this idea into matter and reality. Having said that, Art is not greater than Craft, neither the opposite. Both are essential for each other to survive and evolve together. Just like the ultimate truth in the concept of duality, one is nothing without the other. One cannot exist without the other. Art and Craft although very different in meaning and essence, will continue to be pronounced in the same breath by most of us till the time they both shall exist.

আমি কি ভালো ?

আমি কি ভালো ?
নাকি অতটাও ভালো নই...
আমি কি কালো ?
নাকি অতটাও কালো নই...

এমনও আছে কোনো তপ্ত দেশে
যে নিজেকে ফর্সা মনে করে।
এমনও আছে কোনো সুপ্ত ক্লেশে
যার আনন্দ মনে ধরে।

খারাপ নেশা ধরেছিস তো
মনে কিসের এত ভয় ?
চরস গাঁজা আফিম তামাক
তাতে কি সত্যিই ক্ষতি হয় ?

ক্ষতি হয়, ক্ষতি হয়...
তবে শুধু নেশা দ্রব্যে নয়...
ক্ষতি হয়, ক্ষতি হয়...
কিসে ? শুধু মাত্র ভয়ে...

এই ভয়ই হল সর্বনাশা,
ভয়ের চোটে উধাও আশা...
ভয় হল এক গড়ল সম;
বল ! নির্ভয় হয়ে থাকব মম।

তুচ্ছ যাহা মনে ধরে, তুচ্ছ তাহা নয়,
গুচ্ছ হয়ে জমা হয় সে পাহাড় সম ভয়।
ভয়ে ভয়ে কত কি ক্ষয় সে তো বলার নয়,
এ জীবনের চেয়ে বড় তোফা আর কি কিছু হয়?

Jaaga (Hindi)

I

Hum hain dharti ke vaasi
Dhar humaari maa se pyaari,
Jal vaayu bhu aur agni
Pashu panchi per apni...

Jis fiza ne humein banaya
Uski ki gun mein dhun ye gaana,
Pran o pranay se ghar basana
Ek dujhe se gale laga na...

Jaaga har ek ki chitta..
Nishtha satta, vishwa satya

Jaaga har ek ki chitta..
Nishtha satta, vishwa satya

Jaaga vishwas hamaara
Jaaga vishwas hamaara
Jaaga vishwas hamaara...


II

Gagan shunya neer punya
Agni dharani Meri karani,
Ekta mein Prerna hai
Karam apna prem hai...

Gagan shunya neer punya
Agni dharani Meri karani,
Ekta mein Prerna hai
Karam apna prem hai...

Jaaga vishwas hamaara
Jaaga vishwas...

Jaaga vishwas hamaara
Jaaga vishwas...

Jaaga (English)

I

We children of creation,
Mother nature's celebration!
You created life in glory,
One with peace and harmony.

We are fauna, we are flora,
We the peaks of Himalaya!
Air, water, earth, fire,
Come together take me higher.

Awakening has begun...
Dawning On Me Like The Sun!

Awakening has begun...
Dawning On Me Like The Sun!

I am awakening...
I am awakening...
I am now wide awake !


II

Clear skies and clean water,
Warm silt earth, like a mother!
In love for true humanity,
Lies the strength of Unity.

Clear skies and clean water,
Warm silt earth, like a mother!
In love for true humanity,
Lies the strength of Unity.

I am now wide awake !
I am awake...

I am now wide awake !
I am awake...

My Child is my most precious Creation

The day we returned from Har ki Doon, I had this day dream; although everything in it actually happened with me, it felt like a reminder of my father's lost Battle of life. And it brought me to tears, yet again.

Someone like Debo or Jith has been looming around my studio for a while, maybe a few days - asking me to leave, or close the studio. I didn't know why. So I have not been paying attention and I have been ignoring him although I knew that he was dangerously looming around and fuming like a demon.

One day I was inside with my sister, Khushi. She was sitting on the sofa and I was standing and talking to her. Suddenly he gushes the glass door open and enters like a storm. I am still standing facing him while he charged at me like a bull, or a mad elephant. I felt completely powerless, helpless, numb, so much so that I could not move an inch to dodge him. It was as if I was hypnotized to a trance, possessed by something like a demon reducing my physical powers to null; numbing my mind and my strength completely. He comes straight ahead and rams me to the ground. My head cracks. Before I realize he lends a heavy cracking blow to my right cheek bone with his knee. I hear my skull crack right open. In an instant he cracks open my left jaw with his elbow and I could feel blood oozing inside my Skull and gushing out through all the openings of my face. Keeps slamming me left, right and center until I almost lose my consciousness. In my half dead state I could dreamily see my sister also getting hurt, and then he left like a storm through the door before I blacked out completely.

Next time I open my eyes, I am shivering with excruciating pain and incomparable fear trembling to regain my posture. I take sometime to sit up and see my face in the mirror totally disfigured and decapitated. I struggle to stand up still shaking, my hands and legs trembling to find the keys quickly. I manage to get my hands on them, switch off all the lights, come out and lock the glass door and leave immediately in my decapitated state, body reduced to a rubble.

After I return home, I see my sister quietly lying down, head resting on the lap of my father and I could also sense the presence of my mother sitting beside. My father is stroking my sister's head staring blankly into the white wall in front and no one is saying a word. My mom utters, " you have the same script as your dad". I turned my gaze from them and isolate myself into a closed room.

My eyes open and I wake up stretching my jaws as if I could still feel the blows on my face. First quote that comes to me is, " let the world grow into you and you can grow into the world" - a slight aberration from Jith's tattoo quote, " let the world change you, and you can change the world." I switch on the dim bed-light and sit quietly staring blankly into my blanket.

Thoughts start streaming in as I try to figure out the meaning of this dream that I had. The only thing that I could sense was my mother's words which meant my life was almost totally the replica of my father's life. Till recently I have not been able to look into his eyes and speak. Every time I do look into his eyes now, I can see pain, tremendous amount of heart wrenching, excruciating and unexpressed pain, forcibly held inside for years so that no one else can see it.

He had tried to do everything in his life in the best possible way with the best possible intentions, never wanting to hurt or harm anyone in the process, always trying to protect and provide for his family and close ones. First the biggest blow he got was from his own Blood Brother, then he was forced to start his own venture which was forcibly shut down by the laborers. Then he tried again and again. And again he tried but failed every time. Eventually he got ousted from his own house where he had grown up spending almost 40 years of his life. After that, at almost 60 he could not recover from his Haunting past and left all hopes of making it big ever again. In this while both his son and daughter had grown up taking up their own career path and that was his biggest achievement in his whole life, all that he could really be proud of.

I felt a strange pang in my heart while all these thoughts were streaming through me. Questions started clouding my head. Will I also fail in my career like him? What did my mother mean by her words? Will my son also have to see the same sad eyes burdened with a lifetime of pain like I do in my father? Will I also end up so lonely, isolated, unheard, not cared for? All the virtues I have built, will that all go in vain? All the things I could do, will that all wither in vain? All the things I could give the world and its people, will all of it rot away in vain?

Yes, the dream could only make that much sense to me. They won't let you, they won't let you, they won't let you. You could lose the whole world but make sure you never let yourself lose your family.

Of all my Creations, my child is my most precious creation.

An Ugly Face

Some good things in life come to us with a distorted and ugly face. How much ever we despise it at first, the goodness in it reveals itself much later. We as mere mortals often fail to realize that the point of utmost fear is the same point beyond which lies absolute bliss. Most of us don’t have the courage to cross that point, and that is why all our doubts and miseries never dwindle. It is only them who have patience enough to wait and watch gets to see and live the bliss beyond that point. It is only them who have the courage to withstand all the fears gets to see the goodness beyond that point.

I am not worthy of you. I have not been. I know that by now. Time and again I have failed you according to your values and principles. I am aware of it by now. I will not try to preach you my values and principles anymore because I have understood that how much ever we try, oil and water can never mix. But I still believe there must be a way where they can coexist.

For the first few years of our life together till now, I have come across to you with a distorted and ugly face. I have not been able to fit in your definitions completely, breaking you into pieces over and over again. I have terrified you with this horrifying mask all this while. But you must know this and you should, that the goodness in me still lies intact within the folds of this terrible mask. It is only but recently that I have realized the presence of this ugly mask covering my real self. Now the time has come for me to slowly open it. You may have seen glimpses of the real me inside but very seldom, not quite often. So seldom that you didn’t even believe that it was me. So seldom that you thought it’s just your imagination and whisked it aside.

The mask is now at my feet. Muscled with dirt and dust and sand from the dry scorching earth beneath. I stand here with my valor showing the world what i am here for. Believe it. It is happening.

Adventures in a jungle

Samik, Sayan, Kalyan and I have met after a long time and decided to go for an adventure in a Jungle resort. A lot of our friends and family are also staying there. We take a walk towards the forest and come across a big entrance going down towards a tunneled basement having a mysterious staircase. We enter the orifice and start following the staircase. Like in a normal building the staircase kept winding back and forth as we change the floors. After a couple of floors there are openings on either sides like an open staircase. Through them the forest slowly reveals itself. Right in front there is a water body, kind of a pond. And looking at that I have a dejavu. I have been here before. I have been to this forest before with Krishna and it is a dangerous forest with a lot of ferocious animals. I had just started remembering all the past incidences and before I could speak it out to them, I see Samik has already gone ahead, in a matter of seconds straightaway head on, he slides himself down into the pool.

I give out a shriek of fear and start telling the others that a massive ferocious crocodile stays in that pond. Gasping for more breath I say, " once you are in there, there is no chance you can come back alive". All of us start panicking and the next moment I spot some movement in the water. I see thorny dark scales shining in the obscured sunlight through the thick cover of the forest, moving in the water. I bring their attention to the movement and instantly all of us realize it is the massive crocodile I was talking about. We cry and call out his name aloud but he is nowhere to be seen. We saw him slide into the pond but no sign of him after that.

We are out in the open Jungle now and suddenly there is a foreigner with us looking to explore more. I start walking with her telling her stories I had gone through the previous time I was here. We were being chased by animals we have never seen before. Ferocious mythical creatures which come in a herd and just want to kill you in a stampede. Baboons, elephants, rhinos, dinosaurs, lions - none of them and as much we know about in this Real world. All of them look different, more ferocious than normal, like from a mythical world. I was narrating how we were constantly running to escape from each of these attacks, how we maneuvered to get away from the stampedes. Suddenly the earth starts shaking. We See The Rocks, water and trees vibrating in thunder and I knew they have come again. I hold the foreigner's hand and show him from far away a huge cloud of dust rumbling towards us. And before we could gather any sense to react, in the whirlpool of the dust we could see a herd of massive mammoths running towards us.

In seconds all of us are already scattered and I end up in the Tunnel through which we had entered the jungle. I start climbing up, running and gasping for breath. After a couple of floors I end up in another entrance of the forest. I retract and start climbing down to the next floor and I land up in yet another instance of the forest. I quickly realize that it is a maze. No matter how many steps I go up or down I will end up in another entrance of the forest. Apparently there is no way out of here. Still I keep panting and I keep climbing up and down searching for a new opening for hours to come. I don't remember how many hours passed by before I lose my consciousness out of fatigue one one of the floors.

Next time I open my eyes, I am lying down on one of the Midway staircase landings, my eyes fixed on a half opening through the Midway landing leading into a new flight of stairs which I couldn't notice before because it is hidden from normal eyesight. I manage to crawl through that small opening into the new staircase which leads me to the exit where I finally see people happy with their families, smiling heavily after a brief visit to the forest. In contrast I I'm terribly distressed losing all my friends and having wanted to save their lives I start running towards the resort where our friends and family were staying. On my way running I meet Gautam mesho and ask him if he has seen my father. He says no. I keep running and straight away enter a room where I see my mother and sister safe relaxing. I tell them what just happened but no one believed me and kept quiet. Now that they were at least safe I left them and locked myself in a room with Eyes full of Tears exploding with helplessness and guilt.

After several months I happen to meet Samik again and was shocked. I catch hold of him and shake him and ask him, " what happened that day?"

He said, " I got lucky and escaped through a hidden tunnel inside the pond."

One big sigh of relief and I finally felt that I have never been happier before.

Convicts

Prisoners move in a queue one by one at the serving counter in the prison mess, getting their lunch served on steel plates. Two convicts having distinctly different facial features, quite evidently raised in two different cultures, in two different regions speaking two different languages come to a table and sit down opposite to each other with their respective plates, bowls and dishes, surprisingly quite an elaborate meal for a prison meal.

One of them is called Shaikh, a Muslim Bangladeshi who has an elaborate Bangal meal in front of him which includes aampora sherbet (roasted green mango drink), maacher kabiraji (fish cutlet in lacy eggnet), koraishutir kochuri (hot and sweet peas kachori) with aloor dum (brown potatos) and kosha pathar mangsho (mutton gravy), ghee pulao (savory rice dish), aloo posto (boiled potato with poppy seeds), macher mathar moog dal (pulses with fish head), chingri macher malai curry (creamy red prawn curry), bhetki paturi (bhetki fish fillet seasoned with mustard, steam wrapped in banana leaf), bhapa illish (hilsa fish in creamy mustard sauce), tomato tetul khejurer chutney (tomato-tamarind-dates sauce), papad, rasgulla (sweet dessert), payesh (condensed milk dessert), bhapa sandesh, rabdi and malpua (authentic Bengali sweets).

The other prisoner is called Iyer, a very disciplined South Indian Brahmin very sophisticated in his own culture. He has an elaborate South Indian meal in front of him which includes Ponni boiled white rice, Sambar (lentils), Rasam (tamarind juice with tomato, chilli pepper, cumin and other spices), pumpkin kootu (veg curry cooked with lentils), potato fry, carrot kosumari (salad with grated carrot, coconut lime juice and a tadka), medu vada (deep fried lentil dumpling), appalam, curd, spicy mango pickle, akkaravadisal (sweet made with cooked rice and lentils) and a serving of fruits like banana, papaya and watermelon.

Before starting their meals, South Indian Brahmins often follow a ritual of offering prayers to God. So to speak this Brahmin in question was also doing the same thing as the Bangal keep on looking at him with puzzled amusement and a sense of awe, one of his hand already holding the glass of aampora sherbet, waiting for Iyer to finish his ritual. Little did he know that it would test his patience like a thirsty crow waiting for the rains in a hot and dry scorching desert. Overcome by his impatience, Shaikh decides to break the Brahmin's prayer by sipping on his sherbet making a loud slurp sound, and keeps it on the table with a satisfied smile of a food connoisseur.

Iyer gets slightly angry and irritated with the nuisance of the slurp sound distracting his prayer ritual in an unprecedented unsophisticated fashion. In reply, he also takes his butter milk glass from the table and makes a similar sound slurping it in as if indicating that he is ready to start a battle or rather a game of foods with his Bangal opponent.

Shaikh starts by looking at his sherbet glass and then towards Iyer, "Aah! This mango sherbet is the best way to start your day in this terrible summer heat! What say Iyer?"

Looking at the fish kabiraji (cutlet) with gullible greed, he takes it up in his hand and describes, “Have you seen the color of this kabiraji? Ufff... like the golden rays of the sun!". Taking a big bite he utters with mouth filled with hot cutlet, “Aah hahaha... I could bet that this fish is surely going to heaven!”.

Iyer keeps sitting with his hands folded on his lap looking at Shaikh with disbelief and a bit of pitiful disgust. He gives a big sigh slowly turning his eyes down nodding his head in resentment and starts to dig in the Ponni white rice without saying a word.

Then Shaikh bends over a little closer towards Iyer, and says nodding his head in mockery, “You people will never understand the essence of good food. Wherever you go, you eat the same sambar and rasam and curd rice... How do you eat all that sour shit all the time?", speaking with such excitement that a shower of spit from his mouth almost wet the whole table in front of him.

Disbelief and slight irritation shows on Iyer's face. Still he keeps quiet, giving the Bangal a cold stare with his right hand digged in the sambar rice. He keeps with the same cold stare for a while, and slowly starts eating his Ponni rice uttering, "How you have become an animal by eating animals! How you disrespect a Brahmin sitting in front of you?"

Shaikh mian with an unapologetic smile continues eating and says, “Relax Iyer babu... You know our Brahmins eat everything.... fish, chicken, mutton... As long as it is tasty, we will eat it!"

Immediately Iyer stops eating, looks up at Shaikh and retaliates in an unpleasant surprise, "Vittala Vittala Vittala!!! Taste is not everything you stupid filthy creature. Don't you have any morality left in you people? How do you find pleasure in killing innocent animals?"

Shaikh replies, “You see we are merely mortals - alive today, dead tomorrow. And in this small life, all we trust in are the five precious senses. And probably... our tongue is the most important one of them!", he starts giggling mockingly.

The Brahmin utters in exasperation continuing with his meal, "It seems that after so many years of human civilization, you have had no evolution. You are still living as ape men, controlled more by your greed and gluttony than your intellect. You call this pleasure? In the name of killing? Ignorant barbarians... I think it is high time you should realize the benefits of eating these green vegetables. This I promise will ensure a long and healthy life."

The Bangal snaps back at him, "Which health are you talking about? Look at Europeans, look at the Pathans. Are they not strong and healthy? They live on meat and only meat. See the difference between their physique and your physique on the field. Without meat, where will you get all the muscles to fight?"

The Brahmin continues smiling laboriously, "With all this obsession about growing muscles, your mind has become lethargic, and your intentions more cruel. You have become an animal Shaikh mian!"

Shaikh now starts getting a bit enraged, "How dare you call me an animal?". Still trying to keep his calm he continues, "Listen mister, I don’t understand what you will lose eating it. Don't think so deep about everything in life! Just trust me and try this fish at least!"

Iyer looks at him with disgust and distances himself a little bit giving the Bangal a sharp critical look with his hand gesturing to stay away from him. Shaikh almost gets offended and screams, "All big big dialogues... How do you get your appetite of so much gyan (wisdom) living on this green fodder?"

Iyer replies with an air of superiority, "Gyana? This is not gyana mian jaan... this is the truth. Your system is overworking itself to digest all that toxin. And in this process your life is getting shorter. Look, look at your paunch Shaikh!"

Shaikh utters with a tone of dismissal, “Leave aside my paunch, and all your meaningless dharmic notions! Try something new today, at least for the sake of an experiment." He takes a bowl of chicken gravy and offers it towards Iyer, "You should try this chicken and for once in your life stop being so stubborn! After tasting it, you tell me if you don’t like it. You can sermon me about my sins only after you taste this!", saying this he actually puts a chicken leg on the Brahmin's plate, despite his warning.

Immediately Iyer gets infuriated, bangs on the table and stands up shouting in anger, "You fucking piece of shit! You have ruined me now! You have severed my faith in God! Vittala Vittala Vittala!!!"

As they stare at each other in awful shock, a loud prison siren goes off and footsteps of the jailer is heard coming from one side. The siren sound shakes them off from their dream state as they suddenly remember that both of them are just two convicts wearing the same prisoner's uniform, and not exactly what they were imagining themselves to be. Even the plates in front of them were just ordinary steel plates with some half eaten dal roti, and not exactly what they were imagining it to be.

They turn towards the officer in disbelief and gets shouted at being ordered to clear the table now.

Just like an enlightened mind would have said. Whatever we humans fight about in our lives based on our culture, caste, creed, race, ethnicity or religion are all futile and these differences are only but a figment of our imagination. In reality we are all the same, living and getting nourished from the same mother earth where we all have come from.

Ohio!

O hio hio ho! Ohio hio
O hio hio ho! Ohio hio

A midnight fox on a Rapunzel trail,
With the hunger of a sponge…

Came prying with light yellow steps,
Brute! She is on her thongs!

Is she here to kill me or eat me?
Or seduce me with her songs?

She is sultry, she is mysterious,
She is everything promiscuous…

Shall I give in to her, or shall I frown?
For sins of my past, must I really drown?

O hio hio ho! Ohio hio
O hio hio ho! Ohio hio

Stuck in a stack of lines

It’s been a while I've been wandering.
Passing through cold, not touching. Wavering.
It’s been a while that I’ve been lost.
These lines of asymmetry. Lines of frost.

I am but a mere creature made of hide and skin,
I am but a mere feature in this jumble of a dream.

It all started when grazing at the beach house of grass,
When the fair phosphorous was glowing in the hour of dusk.
Waves washing away dust in sand in earth in a storm...
What a way it was to bid goodbye from home!

All my brothers and sisters had ears to the whistle,
They did not pay heed to this flickering drizzle.

Me, had my mind to the drone of a feisty storm,
Whirling sand scattering high to the gods forlorn.
Like a shower of offering in honor of the king,
Like a blessing of Eros for sprouts to begin.

They ran and they crammed inside the stock of a house,
While I stayed aloft riding the waves of winds so aroused.

At first my mind was blown into numb for a while...
Then I started to enjoy this rush through the black of an aisle,
Where they catch you and throw you in mid air blues,
To dress you and despair you in pink cotton hues.

A maze of transcendence where you float and you swim,
To move towards the dive in that far white stream.

I floated here for endless days and came to a halt,
Where I found a bronze broken gate covered in salt.
It was a path, a sign, a legend forgotten;
Years ago a castle where a war was fought in.

There were so many lights, twinkling lights beyond,
I was nervous to enter the chaos and that sound.

The marks of wrath and glory still etched on the guild,
The scratches and screams of warriors withheld.
The stink of sweat and blood on the iron shield,
The taste of fire and spark and dirt revealed.

Good over evil, or rise against the fall?
Which battle’s the greatest, the greatest of them all?

Blurry it started to be in there, in the cold white dark.
The salts had eaten the gates into a wide open arc.
The memoirs of the battle pulled me closer within.
Past is past; but they'd never let me forget my sin.

I have fought this fight so many several times,

The clashes still call me like heavy metal chimes.

Sure I had no choice but to step inside,
I had no will to go backwards or to hide.
These bright sonic lights seemed to be my only way,
That could make or break my gingerly day.

It was a long long moment I cannot measure,
It was in a time space void I’d surely treasure.

But you need to move on as everybody does.
You need to roll, refresh and give it a pass.
So I stepped forward into the neon lines of haze,
Where everything passed me like a frenzied daze.

Not only do I see but hear these lines, Allah cries
That, in a dargah the mullah sighs...

I do not see a highway but is it one of those?
I do not hear a train but is it something close?
I feel insane speed wearing this muddy shoe,
I can see beasts on rollers passing through.

The only way out is the way ahead,
Have to keep walking till the lights aren’t dead.

Walk, walk, walk away...
On the straight path in front without a say...
And meander this while through the maze of them beasts,
That menacing speed, feed them as much as they'd want to feast.

Now I am a loner on the streets of merry Burberry,
I am just a clown in this twinkling town of sherry!

I see a few fairies strutting on the tile,
They look happy the least when they quench and they smile.
A few of them smile in a moment of smoky allure,
A few of them do that just to check your fake valor.

Now do I dwell in this unsure world of so sure frailties,
Now do I sway through a road with white little dainties.

It sounds like a story of a cow in which she cannot say!
But this cow, may be your savior in days of dismay.
Her master may not leave her, but he leaves her as he does,
Because she does not say much, so should I talk as much?

All my life I have been this meandering moose,
Through the cream laden meadows named Praline and Rouge.

There lived a milkman at the end of this strange little town,
There he milked his way to make himself a crown.
The crown of cream and frozen diamond,
Which he thought did taste like roasted almond.

He comes to me and wakes me at dawn,
Says come on now old kid! It’s time to go home.

Shupto iccha

Shupto iccha, shupto bashona
Roilo lekha kathar phaake,
Hobe ki naki hobe janiney
Ei putul naacher jibon maajhe.

Jor gola aar nei re aamar
Jor khatanor shomoy pichhey,
Jor diye je hoyna kichui
Shoto muni rishi aaurey geche.

Shob e hobe,
Shotti ja chai shetai hobe...
Shotto je shudhu chaite hobe!

A dream that meant everything!

I am racing a car. Racing, racing, racing but its not moving. It is stuck, jammed, inclined underneath the roof of tiles built on the ground. There is no space to move forward. But me in a trance, I don't understand. This is happening in my birth residence.

And then Father came. And all the tiles started flying off as in a hurricane wind. Like a tornado invisible in form taking away is burnt clay one by one in the sky with it.