Letter for Mr Mitra

Dear Mr Mitra,

And all the other things I called you...Something compels me to write to you...We have always had deeper, more abstract conversations in the written exchange. You compelled me into silly habits -- buying an SMS pack to share Wimbledon scores, and knowing just when to distance...abruptly at that moment when you would be most needed...the greatest lesson you gave me, unknowingly...

Ten years down the line, it is an uneventful mid-day, and I toddled back to that moment of our conversation. I could have reacted in a hundred different ways. Well, at least in more than three ways. Blatant as ever, all I could was accuse, "Where were you?" And reassuringly, you replied, "You were vulnerable, and would start depending on me." That's what you had said. Convenient, I had thought. But after that initial blow from you, similar unexplained blows from others began to hurt less. I learnt to lap up the distance and crawl back with maturity. Some people go, some stay. Some remain.

It was two-two June yesterday. Like we used to refer to your birthday for the last ten years over a mandatory, however late, phone call. Just that slight styling -- two-two in place of twenty second -- you used to say I had something special. Nobody says that anymore. You are no more since last year, and there are no Wimbledon exchange nor any sudden big mail. No coffees at serene cafes, neither plans which do not happen. Which will never be lived.

Vulnerability is accompanied by your teachings. You left. And left behind a stronger me :) Some remain.

Stay stylish Mr Mitra, as you must be suavely deliberating amidst the clouds!

Thanks for when you were and now that you are not,
Kalpana.

Back to this Day

I will someday write myself
Back to this moment.
That some other day
Something nicer will happen.
While other people will agree, admire,
I will myself lightly hearten.

I am all those people,
I am all those places,
I am all their problems,
I am all their burden.

Wait till I rewrite it all,
Back to this day.

Flights

I sit to pine on hope,
And pine and whine,
Till I am worn out with disgust.
Ink-pots dry up,
Tear-like.
Hope is a heavy drinker.

There are bouquets of moonshine,
In elsewhere lands,
As calming breezes
Play with longings.

In its authorial pace,
Hope flies. Afar.

Visionary Silhouttes

It always began at an 'ago',
A time meant to have been
Erased.
Yet,
Aloud it slept,
Bright at night,
That dream.

Palpable like the rain,
Till the day broke,
Between us.

The silhouette is drenched,
In smoke,
And stain.
Laughs back at me,
As if my shadow.
I forget,
It is only a dream.

The roads dance ahead in chorus,
Wearing wet lights,
Brushstrokes as were.

Shifting shapes,
Shatter silhouettes.

Into unread rhymes,
And unwritten essays.

Directions

Time warp, time lapse,
This is not what is
Prescribed.

Yet to meet on the other side,
Where once I sat,
Together with their voices.

The window screen is polka-dotted
With raindrops.
Each minute full,
Of the next door story.

A hundred faces evolve,
A hundred faces fade.
Somewhere singing out of a flute,
Somewhere,
As golden waves of sunset.

The Infinite Hopelessness of Suspension

Perhaps.
Perhapses are so potent,
Cramped with power.
Filled with possibilities,
Of anything.
Anything becoming everything,
Too soon, too fast.

Perhaps.
The building is frozen,
Bricks of nostalgia.
The roads are collages,
Of deep, faraway visions.
The faces are tearful,
Full of feelings.
And god's reassurance,
Is it not but
Amber in a glass?
The grand drinkers will
Silently confirm,
God listens.

Perhaps.
This mind is a trap,
Saying such things are true:
It is a prison,
And my otherworldly wings,
They are clipped.
The keyboard has rusted,
Beyond attention.
And destiny is designed.
The mind is such a trap.

Perhaps.
Cruelty is a choice,
We call upon ourselves.
The rib-cage contests
The heartbeats.
I fight --
Fear,
And boredom.
Fear and boredom.
Fight, fear, boredom.

Perhaps.
It would be better,
If the curry didn't spill,
On to washed, ironed clothes.
And books started speaking,
And work-hours wouldn't
Be like prayers,
Hopeless,
Unanswered.

Perhaps,
It would be lifelier,
For dreams to shine,
On our palms,
And amber to sing
On our lips,
And perhaps,
For perhaps
To lose all its power,
Would be terribly, terribly
Satisfying.

To grow out from,
This infinite hopelessness,
Of suspension.

Of Unreasonable Love

"Have you ever been loved better?"
Lovers claimed.
Do me a favour,
Love me lesser.

Who will forgive me for such asks,
Who will forgive you?

Take me,
With my forgiveness.
It yields out of caring less,
Or, caring none.

Who will forgive me for such acts,
Will you?

I won't lie,
I only lie when,
I choose to not love you.
Or, love you lesser than you do.

Brushing the Weekend

Whiskey in your glass?
Coffee in your mug?
Colours on my coasters,
Quenching my thirst.

You, My Dear

Many eons ago,
When I lived,
A sweet kid
In an open house,
It was a summer of
Many doors,
Leading to you.
To your adored kisses,
All over the neck,
The raindrop
On the windowscreen,
Of a racing car.
Yes love,
To run into your room,
Silly star like,
Splashed on the sky,
All over my face.
Dewdrops and ash,
As they would clash,
The noon after rain,
Striking each other.
You, my dear,
Left me no more a kid.
It was a green summer,
Of muddy puddles,
And dear disguises. 

The Battle

There was once a battle,
Between the poem and the prose,
Who would conquer,
And who would sell.
They met, speech to speech,
From time to time.
Their's was a forlorn battle,
Subtle.

The words they whispered,
Flew to the humblest of ears,
With the colour of breeze,
And the fury of thunder.

At the other end stood I,
Stood you,
Brooding over whispers,
Silently,
Listening.
While we caught a breeze,
Refusing to descend.
And caught a thunder,
Declining to be contained.

For blood must shed in a battle,
Words must be spared too.
And we witnessed an end,
Under an incessant rain,
Of some men who danced,
And some women drunk.
While somewhere else,
A battle remained.

Taste of Patience

I like the smell of you,
The sky before the shower,
Before you are next to me.
I like to look at you,
Inhaling like a red balloon,
And exhaling like a limp steak.
You remind me of something.
I like the look of you.
Your sound,
I like that too.
It sounds like a shape,
A sultry evening,
Of underwater escapades.
And how precious water droplets
Stick to you,
Like promises.

You are the teaspoon of mischief,
On early urban restaurant tables,
Clinking out coded messages,
To the table next.
Do we know us?

Testing, tasting.