Wednesday, 2 June 2010


I lost you. I lost you that night I got wet in the rain
and the sheer wetness made me think. I can never write again.
Pink. Pink bougainvillea grew out of my ears
in tender tendrils. I could never write again.

Sometimes they said, you rhyme so well. Your love is
the love of a beautiful woman, your language the most
surreal, that of a beautiful woman. Afternoons in your company
are dreams. I want to live with you.
Together, we shall create fiction.
(And what better compliment?)

I wrote parodies. When something is about to end, crisis
brings forth reinvention. Forever we reconstruct,
forever we rewrite. I had realized
That night. I would never write again.
Or perhaps I would, but only differently-
And I would love again, but also differently
Oleanders are red too, like blood.
We were wet too
In mud.

Dirt and slush cannot crush the human spirit.
Fiction can also be written with invisible pens
on an intangible parchment-
human minds, and children's tears
old women's stories and their babies' ears
fiction is therefore woven like spider webs
like the Ganges; it flows and ebbs.

That night I knew I would never write again
but would count infinite polaash flowers
and count the minutes, never the hours
and knew that till the end of time
I could never find anything to rhyme
with Bougainvillea. I see you sigh
and whisper, "How strange you are
beautiful witch of the endless night
e ki sandhya"
This evening recedes into universal pain
I knew I would never write again.

(This is sort of a translation of a Bangla poem I wrote, hence it sounds like this.)


AUROBOROS banerjee said...


Baudolino said...
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Baudolino said...

The earlier comment I made and then deleted was about how I imagined bougainvillea growing out of your ear in tender tendrils. Which also reminded me of the day you ran toward the Central Library toilet with a bougainvillea bough tucked nicely behind your ears and the librarians beamed at you as if you were the pet unicorn of the university.

By the way, post the Bangla poem. Is it new?

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Torsa said...

The fact that this poem is a translated one which accounts for the somewhat different sound adds charm to it I feel... it has a layered feel to it... as if the essence can be realized by peeling the primary linguistic cover (english leading to bangla in the last stanza especially).

Anonymous said...


Anushka said...

You know, they say to test whether free verse is really Poetry, take away the line breaks and see if it reads like Poetry anyway. Your poetry would ALWAYS pass the test.

Anurima. said...

How strange you are :)

debAlina MiTiL C. said...

strange obsession with the flower..ow.. n' i liked the transition from english to bangla :)

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