Saturday, September 30, 2017

Shubho Bijoya



Sweetest part of India

If West Bengal is busy publicizing itself to the World and its cousin as the ‘Sweetest part of India’, it is quite literally for the variety of sweets, ranging from misti doi to more than 500 types of sandesh and rosogolla with all its different mouth-watering shapes, sizes and hues. And it is during this time of Dussehra that we get to see a parade of sweets hopping in from the plates to the mouths of people in and around the pandals as also in every begali household.

About Vijayadashami

In the eastern and northeastern states of India, Vijayadashami marks the end of Durga Puja, remembering goddess Durga's victory over the buffalo demon Mahishasura to help restore Dharma (Virtue). Vijayadashami, also known as Dasara, Dusshera or dussehra is a major Hindu festival celebrated at the end of Navratri every year. It is observed on the tenth day (hence called Dasami which in Bengali means tenth) in the Hindu calendar month of Ashvin. Vijayadasami is observed for different reasons and celebrated differently in various parts of the Indian subcontinent. In the northern, southern and western states, the festival is synonymously called Dussehra (also spelled Dasara, Dashahara). In these regions, it marks the end of "Ramlila" and remembers God Rama's victory over the demon Ravana, or alternatively it marks a reverence for one of the aspects of goddess Devi such as Durga or Saraswati.

Mysterious Mythology

Mythology is full of mysteries and one of them is that the goddess Durga is also known as Rama (pronounced as Roma in Bengali); so Durga and Rama are also namesakes doing the same work to help conquer virtue over vice. Vijayadasami celebrations include processions to a river or ocean front that carry clay statues of Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Ganesha and Kartikeya, accompanied by music and chants, after which the images are immersed into the water for dissolution and a goodbye. Elsewhere, on Dasara, the towering effigies of Ravana symbolizing the evil is burnt with fireworks marking evil's destruction. The festival also starts the preparation for one of the most important and widely celebrated festivals called Diwali, the festival of lights, which is celebrated twenty days after the Vijayadashami.

The celebration goes abroad

Owing to its popularity in England and the US of A, Durga and her family have been seen many times being immersed in the waters of Thames and Hudson.

Sindoor khela (game of vermillion)

Sindoor Khela is a tradition which is followed every year on the day of Vijayadashami. For all the Bengali women, this is the final ritual which holds a great significance. On Vijayadashami, or the last day of Durga Puja, married women put on sindoor or vermilion on Maa Durga's forehead and feet and thereafter they apply it on the other married women present around them. This ritual is enjoyed just like a game and thus it is called "Sindoor Khela". Women enjoy smearing sindoor on each other. Since sindoor is a sign of a married woman, this ritual means to wish each and everyone a good fortune and a happy married life.

A reason to celebrate life

While it is true that human beings need an occasion to celebrate, these celebrations also have a purpose behind them; mostly they would also be celebrations for the victory of good over evil, knowledge and wisdom over ignorance, light over darkness, kindness over cruelty, and finally sweetness over bitterness.

So here’s wishing a very happy dussehra to all our friends at Your Space. But going with the title, it is Shubho Bijoya in Bengal, the sweetest part of India!


Disclaimer:
Source for some information, viz. about vijayadashami, is Wikipedia.
Images a collage from pictures available in Google images

Friday, September 29, 2017

Family friends

Who is that spoilt little brat,
who whispered in our ears?
Negated family members
at the drop of a hat, for years
so we look at each other like that!

Father is rather not interesting!
Mother the perpetual oppressor!
Children are a burden; they’re boring
Family, a prison, less said the better!

This image is so unfair and untrue,
we look out for family, in our friends too!
Watch the serial Friends, where undeniably
you see a perfect picture of a family.

Chandler the dependable father with gumption
steady income, coveted profession,
Monica the affectionate mother in the kitchen
occupied and engaged, to satisfy their children,
Joey is the truant unruly child
cries being thirty, forever hungry and wild,
playing the big bro, a real boss
is the famous professor Dr Ross
a sibling rivalry with Phoebe
comes Rachael fighting like a baby.

Now it’s time for us to look around
we can be surprised, almost spellbound
to discover that in our friends too
we looked for a family, it is true!

If it’s cool to search for a family in our friends
why not try to be friends with our families then?


Note: The poem refers to a very famous serial called Friends, still telecast, from time to time, in various TV channels, especially in the Star World.

In love with the lines


I love
living in the leaves
letters lie,
revealing the lines
leaving a lingering tale
of time,
in between many tales
with my ears on them
sometimes through the wind,
at times with my hand
I listen
to horrors, wonders
I see the world as Echo*
lashed for love
I read and write,
what others wrote and read
in my mind
on the same inky space,
I let the leaves be
just being with them
I love

The poem is in reversible style*

Note:
1. Echo* - In Greek mythology, Echo (/'?ko?/; Greek: ?χ?, Ekho, "echo", from ?χος (echos), "sound") was an Oread who resided on Mount Cithaeron. Zeus loved consorting with beautiful nymphs and often visited them on Earth. Eventually, Zeus's wife, Hera, became suspicious, and came from Mt. Olympus in an attempt to catch Zeus with the nymphs. Echo, by trying to protect Zeus, endured Hera's wrath, and Hera made her only able to speak the last few words spoken to her. So when Echo met Narcissus and fell in love with him, she was unable to tell him how she felt and was forced to watch him as he fell in love with himself. (Source:Wikipedia)

2. Reversible style - Poems written in this style can also be read upwards. The idea behind the style is to let the poem rise above (a leap in existential term), even in its physical form.

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Looking out


Three people cannot stay together
One spouse is bi-polar
Untreated, on the loose
With words can never choose
What is wrong or right
Throws tantrums, fights
With the other two members
Threatened for life, take sides.

The other a megalomaniac
Always doing all the work
From running errands
Has piles of bills to pay
For every matter, has a say
Angered here, worried there
For nuts, cannot stand the bi-polar
Who once upon a time, was the lover
Since long it’s over.

The third person is the child
Confused and wild
Encourages the working parent
To date with new friends
Has fun with its own;
Family finds a tragic end
All the three members
Ping or sometimes phone
But with each other,
They could never stay together!

Yet the three
Flying independent and free
In their own ways willy-nilly
From strangers around
Wanting their feet to be
On the ground
Are searching every moment
Getting cheated, being silly
Looking out, for a family.

They will never look inside
For they know they’re quite right
With treasures of affection in them
The three, a mystery, playing the same game
Of blaming and calling names;
But one thing is dead and clear
They will never explore love together
For they cannot stay with each other.

Monday, September 25, 2017

Challenges come unto us as lessons

Challenges come unto us as lessons
We don't let them stay
Blindly, we shoo them away
With all our might
In the restricted dead-ends 
of wrong and right
excuses abound
solid and sound,
and when the problem is singed alive
be it a text, or a person burning for life
because like machines we hissed
playing only with ornaments and jewels
we suddenly realise having missed
to exercise acceptance and tolerance.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

A forgotten dove


Light
with my wings
winsome and white
harbinger of peace
with love
I fly above
like a forgotten dove

chirping, I soar
I rise above countries
all boundaries, in sight no more
underneath I see
lovely lands
warm waters
​​​​​​​mighty mountains
beckoning me

beautiful people
waving at me
wanting me to come down
they are singing
enough, we have had enough
to each other
we have been more
than cruel and tough
come down come down
we’d not cage you anymore
you will live in our work, in our chore
come down come down
from north to south
west to east
your seat
is our crown
come down come down

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Waves of travelling interpretations


A couple. On their honeymoon.
Holding, waving hands.

A man. Married for twenty-five years.
Happy family. Daughter. Pet.
Now alone. On his own.
Waving at times passed.

Old couple. In their nineties.
Holding hands.
Waving through the times.

They are all at the beach.
Watching and listening to the waves.

It is nine. Time for supper.
And then, to go to bed.
Tomorrow they will leave the place.

Monday, September 18, 2017

A call

A sudden call
seems to be heard,
from beyond the cracking wall.

A decade of stories
from failings, miseries
full of holes, falls
has been built
written off, learnt.

Now
the being
is beginning to rise
suddenly ears comforting the eyes
if I jump off
a ten-storied building
I know
my wings will not let me die
I am prepared to fly.

My nest
from where I began my journey
is perhaps calling me
to carry on
with the unfinished text
I am getting ready
as it were, to sing
to take off with the lost identity
and flutter the rest
of the times left, a-borning*!



*a-borning – wishing of new hope; a colloquialism. The word I learnt from a well-known poet from England, Herb Bryce. I wish he reads it!

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Another ladder


Ladder
made of steel or bamboo
singing thousand songs
of lost labor
in each step
failing stories

but you climbed up
we succumbed

but aren’t we now
your support

you are a bestseller book
your hurdles are sung
and read
because you made it
till the end

yet you see
the ladder is leaning
against something
a wall, or a tree
or tied up with a rope
firmly, tightly
your position at the top
swinging, dwindling

if ever you fall
we are prepared
to hold you in our arms
just as we were
when you were growing

we are survivors
we have survived, despite you
not because of you

but no pen has moved
for us
we remain your buyers.

What if the ladder
that is so deep in the mind
didn’t have to lean
what if it stood straight
secure, unafraid
untied, unabated
what if with a little help from you
the steps could sing a different song and woo
we could also go up as high
founded on the ground, the ladder too
wouldn't tilt, could upright touch the sky

Monday, September 11, 2017

How mature people talk

I am fifty-four now
I can write my lines
go for a long morning walk
but I still do not know how
mature people talk!

All the time, they are serious and grim 
their tension in the crown alone shines
whether on the staircase or in the lift
going to work, or workout at the gym
they do smile, but are always prepared for the rift.

At conferences, seminars or discussions
they need to win with what they opine
I feel like hugging them warm and tight
with the little of child-like gumption
so they enjoy the moments, without meaningless fights.

I see them hiding behind the words
somber, they know they are not fine
their feelings bleed a thousand tears
would never listen, concur in their juvenile world
die delinquent deaths in imaginative fears.

When I was a sophomore
I was much the same, outdated infantine*
was direct, blunt; could never know
how to work smart and talk more
to mind my Ps and Qs, and win the show.

I am sure when I will be ninety-four
I will ponder over a glass of wine
how grownups cleverly converse, conquer and rock
I am sure I’d be shocked thinking of the yore
I’d wonder still, how mature people talk!


Note: infantine* - archaic word meaning infantile 

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Winning is losing



It sets you at the helm of things
in time
you become
alone
insecure island
without a hand
holding your crown
and your image
blinds your eyes
deafens your ears
as an artist, or a player
you lookout to topple your peers
you have to be there
by hook or by crook
touchy words
you blow your own trumpet
​​​​​​​kind phrases
with no kindness in heart
you have practised the art
as an industrialist
your forehead bursts
layoff, other hurtful acts start
corruption plagues the air
so you could be there
have the last word
as a country in the world
you dollarize
to secure
your rank and file
you forbid lands to be ploughed
you don’t let others live
for you need to be at the top
your position you believe
but slowly you lose
the ability to be
with others
hand in hand, ah no
you must have your say they should know
being ahead
burdens your head
slowly you lose
you get into recluse
you outstand as a winner
as a big brother of things
but you are singled out
in time
you become a loser
little under the weather

defocus
from the circus
the frog is boiling
rats are dying
let the world and the sky win
our roof and the ground
will be secure and sound


Influenced by Peter Senge’s thought, ‘faster is slower’. If you went out of the box and gave it a thought, it could destroy all wars, physical and psychological. It makes business sense to be in the market of things than be out, or outstand as the Big Bro. Please come out with some new strategies my friends. These age-old mindsets are killing us day in and day out, it is an open secret in an open page.

Piano-writing

I am piano-writing
my fingers
agile, numb, nimble
at different times
caressing the key-board
do re me
in many combinations
planting thoughts
on the patient page
rhyming with time
timing with rhyme
this moment I am on the cliff
and in seconds
I see myself in deep sea
experiences expressed
I desperately want them to stay

but they are going away
like the beautiful snake
pious teeth people call poisonous
leaving, forever leaving
flowing like the dews and the rains
hissing the mystery
missing the history
one by one
all at once
crowded, glowing
wanting to tell the stories
spaced in truth
lighting the fire
fighting the liar

I am a doer
I will never give up
I told the stars
mountains and rivers
listened with care

writing is my prayer
in whatever forms and norms
without a piano in sight
it is vivid in my mind
tapping
​​​​​​​my fingers
agile, numb, nimble
weaving the words
tales of my worlds
toning the notes
noting the tones
all seven of them
and more
again and again

Friday, September 8, 2017

You will need some more time


A permanent lie
we call firmament, or sky.
Stalking its bounty, everlasting luxuriance
it falls in love
with the earth
woos, plays uxorious
obliges her with light
from the stars
to hide his ‘nothing’ scar
but alas, remains peripheral;
desperate, joins hands with
the trickster horizon
liars are never allowed inside
the stage
beating, breeding life
moment by moment.

How horrible is this perception
a selective oversight?
Way of looking at the truth
when did it hold away
the color of its presence
or conceal its being
in the nothingness
both
equally open pages
in all fairness
completing the whole.

Free from phony image
‘nothing’ hangs above
stars in it adorn day and night
luminous, light
embracing his darling
from its corners
she, in her turn
responds, bubbles
the lovers, not taciturn
gifting clouds and rains
till their sublime lust
lasts without ends
partners, in presence
with patience
making love
in their passionate zone.

Wait.
You’ll need some more time
for making them, your own.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Be a woman

Be a woman

When I said that
my friends laughed
some of them, women

be a man
my ears were trained thus
what does it mean
I asked myself

strength, power, confidence
with which
you protect or kill women
you marry or molest women
you work and relegate women
in broad daylight

in my friend’s family
a zamindar
it was being man
to throw a course which
his spouse cooked for him
in front of everyone
and accept the one his mother
brought
mother was endlessly happy
so was this machine, everyone

what you should do
how you should be
where you should go
when you should come

Wait… now I understand
what is to be a man
a matter of pride
nothing to hide
free from shame
untouched, free from blame
Be a man? Then?

When I said that
my friends laughed
some of them, women

my inner voice screeched
unheard, unjudged
​​​​​​​untouched, unsung
be a woman

Saturday, September 2, 2017

পূজোর হাতছানি


















পূজোর হাতছানি

সাদা ভাসা মেঘ হেঁসে হেঁসে আজ
সবাইকে শুধু দিনে দুপুরেতে
হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে
পালকের মত সাদা কাশফুল
শরতের সুরে দুলে দুলে তাই
হাততালি দিয়ে নাচছে।

পূজোর নতুন গানগুলি সব
গানে-সুরে-তালে সাজছে
পূজাসংখ্যার কত না গল্প
তৈরী হচ্ছে অল্প অল্প
প্যান্ডেল গুলি খটাখট করে
চেনা আওয়াজেতে মনপ্রাণ ভরে
মনরম হয়ে উঠছে।

য়ে গেছে শুরু মূর্তী বানানো
করছে মাটির গন্ধ
মা, মা বলে কুমোরবৃন্দ
নবনব সাজে ঢাল তরবারে
গড়ছে দূর্গা সপরিবারে
সাথে চিরসাথি বাহনো।

ঝলমলে সব জামাকাপড়েরা
স্টলে, মলে দেখ ঝুলছে
হকারেরা হাঁক পাড়ছে জবর
কেনাকাটি শুধু চলছে
আশা ভরা চোখ একই ভাষা কথা
জ্বলজ্বল ক'রে বলছে
এই তো পূজো এসে গেল ভাই
এই তো পূজো আসছে।

জিভে জল আনা সুস্বাদু পদ
মনের মধ্যে করে কলরব
গুনগুন দিন গুনছে।
চারিদিকে শুধু এস, এস রব
বাতাসেতে শোনা যাচ্ছে
বাঙালির এই মহা উৎসব
সবারি আপন হচ্ছে।

আনন্দে তাই সুনীল আকাশ
মিলনেরই কথা বলছে।

পালকের মত সাদা কাশফুল
শরতের সুরে দুলে দুলে আজ
হাততালি দিয়ে নাচছে
সাদা ভাসা মেঘ হেঁসে হেঁসে তাই
সবাইকে শুধু দিনে দুপুরেতে
হাতছানি দিয়ে ডাকছে।