29.05.2009.

....... and 15000 miles away a poem I had not read recited my poetry that the poem had not read

and now I stand enisled.......

25.05.2009.

There was a baobab tree…. there are quite a few different species of Baobab and this one was an ‘Adansonia Grandidieri’…. his favourite. Baobab trees are not common to this part of the world and when he had planted it almost everybody said it won’t survive. But he had cared for it…. right from the moment he bought it from the crafty old Malagasy woman for 150 Ariary’s, from the bazaar in Tamatave…. the Baobab was his legacy.

The road winded past the Baobab and faded uphill eventually reaching the quaint bungalow on the ledge overlooking the North Atlantic. The board outside read ‘Heath Mews Care Home’.

The old man didn’t have a name. Well he obviously had one but here he was only known as ‘The Capt’. The care staff, other inmates’ even visitors called him just that. Nobody knew how long he had been there…. the oldest staff said he was already there when they came. He had a guitar but no one had ever heard him playing it. He would clutch it in his hands and sit staring endlessly at the ocean. He had a box of coins from around the world and he was often observed taking a coin out and looking at it keenly for long periods of time…. and then he would take out a diary and scribble illegibly in it.

He hardly spoke and walked slowly…. but the cook, wise like all cooks are once mentioned he doesn’t have the eyes of an old man…. he didn’t have weary eyes.

and time immemorial …….

Imon and Mischa were born a few months apart and became friends over sailing paper boats in puddles, hide and seek, lock and key, the blissful faith of childhood that everything is good and fair. Though from similar social background they had very different lives…. Mischa was pampered like a princess whereas Imon though equally loved, adored and cared for had had looked reality in the eye almost as soon as he gathered his senses. And with time they grew, and apart, and oblivious…. yet she remained forever etched in Imon’s mind but for one summer afternoon. Imon had found her crying and over choking sobs she revealed how her father didn’t love her anymore…. didn’t bring her favourite chocolate pastries anymore or hug her to bed every night. Her father was having an extra-marital affair.

Years later when Imon would think back to that day he realized it was his first experience of rage. A rage born out of a sense of helplessness….. of not being able to do anything when he was prepared to do everything to set things right for her. Almost as if setting it right for her would also undo all the wrongs he faced.

a saucer full of secrets …….

He was destinies favourite goat it seemed…. destiny is also people or am I to say people are also destiny? Everything he touched or did would invariably end up into some wrong and certainly some that he didn’t even do or touch. He longed to be loved…. liked and adored like the other kids. He too wanted to be popular and funny and to be on the inside.... and the harder he tried the more miserably he failed. Bad, aberrant, delinquent, wayward…. disobedient and he somehow always managed to end up doing everything to oblige these bequests. He was in fact just a kid…. lonely, painfully shy, emotional, naïve …. craving a little affection, understanding …. a friend. He is a hollow longing.

abstract noun …….

It was raining heavily. The kind of rain so typical to that part of Africa….. very heavy downpour in brief spells and extremely poor visibility. They had entered the ‘El Maan’ channel shortly after midnight as usual, maintaining a black out…. not even navigational lights, intending to cross the ambush areas before dawn. A pump had tripped at 0200 forcing them to reduce to Dead Slow Ahead for about an hour. Every one on the bridge was quiet. Every one kept looking out at sea to the East. The 3^rd Mate was the first to spot the tiny blips on the radar. Visibility was poor and the wind was picking up, the swell was about two meters but inside the channel the ship wasn’t rolling much…. he lay prone on the funnel deck scanning his field of view. It was all a blur at first and as he focused the 10X’s the skiff suddenly jumped into clear view…. angling in towards them from the port quarter, he could see the man upfront clearly, mouthing unheard words.... waving the RPD he held. Imon kept repeating in his mind – check if wind is from right to left or left to right, determine if its full value, half value or no value, judge wind speed, allow windage, beyond 300 meters always go for a body shot, breath evenly…… then the man started to raise his RPD.

red when you love, and rosier red.... and when you love not, pale and blue …….

He had loved her dearly…. almost with affection one has for his child. He would often look at her when she wasn’t noticing and smile to himself. She was shocked when he called her at 2130 asking her to sneak out of her hostel….. he had already bribed the ‘Darwaanji’ he said. As they drove out he told her they were going to Gokarna for the weekend. He had packed a bag for her…. not forgetting a tooth brush. He had chosen the time well …. just about the end of monsoon and a full moon night. Those days very very few knew about Gokarna and since it was monsoon he expected the place to be deserted….. devoid of even the odd westerner or devout pilgrims. He had wanted the car to be a Gypsy but simply couldn’t manage one and had to settle for a Zen. He took the Konkan coast route from Bombay to Mangalore & Kumta. They drove through the night talking…. about the colour of the walls, what furniture it would be, what name sounds right…. listening to their favourite songs….. stopping for dinner at a road side dhaaba….. and late in the night when she had dozed off holding his hand, he kept driving while changing gears with the driving hand….. not wanting to let go. They drove into Gokarna when it was still dark, he woke her and to her utter disbelief they trekked up the hill….

………. and dawn broke

He was to sail again and would be at sea for nearly a year.... so he had wanted it to be special for her. They strolled along the relatively more unknown Half Moon beach in the middle of the night.... he took her up Casey Hill and they sat quietly on a steep ledge..... he wanted her to listen to the sounds of the night.... rain drops dripping from leaves.... the crickets excitedly discussing them.... the old lady on the moon smiling at them.... the Barn Fish Owl relishing his supper and the two of them wrapped in their comfortable silence. He had hired a boat and showed her how to do line fishing that he had learnt from the Minicoy islander ratings on his ships.... the boatman's genuine observation - 'Saar your son will surely become a fisherman' ......

sway …. sway sashay …. in flickering candelas …….

The Shadow.. sway, sway sashay …. around and round it sway …. in bejeweled beguiling way…. however still he may …. the Shadow sway sashay.

The Shadow was the restlessness inside of him.

The words ‘Sway sway .. sashay’ are not originally mine. They belong to a Maverick.

15.05.2009.

Dear Void,

Are your surprised at this letter? Or do you not remember me? I wrote to you sometime last May…. I know it’s been a while. Do you think me selfish.... am I? I've been busy with life you know. It is raining since yesterday and rain does something to me….always. Rain in Calcutta…. ‘Kaalboishakhi Megh’…. the slow darkening sky turning grey and grayer still in forbidding gloom…. the baritone thunderclaps…. lightning on the horizon, raaga malhar and steaming cups of ginger tea…. and I’m restless. I lay still….. breathing as little as possible and still the restlessness wouldn’t go away. I had to let it out …. somehow, so I thought I would write a letter to you. Have you heard the song ‘Jibono Gaan Gaahey Ke’ ?

jibono gaan gaahey ke je…. sur bujhina ami

Baul holo je…. sakalo raagini…. mon lagena kaaje.... jibono gaan …..

‘Krishno’ jeno se daakey sudhu ‘Raye’…. sab bhuliya choley jetey chai

sukh dukh michey.. sukh dukh miche.. sakoli maaya michey mori je laajey

dhrubo taroka sudurey aanka…. sudhu dekhi path timirey dhaka

keno daako peechey…. keno daako peechey…. cholechi ami antobihino majhey

jibono gaan …..

The last two lines touch me somewhere deep within. I love..... rain

Rain was a sense of boundless Joy.... running up the stairs to our roof and get drenched till the clouds are spent of their last drops…. shivering with the gusts of cold wind…. picking up mangoes that the storm tore from our mango tree…. more mud slinging less football…. chilled beer, blues and rock on the roof of that shapeless apartment…. ice creams and strolls down Marine Drive…. and rain is sitting by the window doing nothing.... listening to lovely songs.... rain is deep fried onion rings, rain is Ilish Maach bhaja and more ginger tea, rain was 'Rainy Day' freedom from school...... rain is Maa, Mashi aar ami and more music and guitar.... rain is 2nd Hooghly Bridge and more beer.... rain is ......rain rain rain and rain ...... and

.... rain is my outlet or should I be blatantly honest….. my excuse to allow sadness over sorrows that died alone a long long time ago. Rain is my walk down the lanes of those precious moments....

‘The clouded sky today, bears a divine shadow of sadness - on the forehead of brooding eternity’

Here comes the rain again ….. It is time now for me to take a walk Void. I may not write for a while. Of late I’ve been writing more than I usually do. It is time now to reflect.

Dowidzhenya dear Void,

I Jai

14.05.2009.

                                                                                                                                

Anachronous and Phoenix

 

plaudit not  O’ poetess reap

but a stirring within the confined deep

 

do know a gaze…. gazed your word’s abyss

recur a morning dream…. adieu past amiss

 

scrawl meaningless words…. let disappoint drain

and may be hear say – ‘lets go for a walk, lets walk in the rain’

 

what are poems…..

but our stroll through time.... scribbled in ink or lime

wishes & i ... live or die… dream or scream… don’t  always rhyme

 

but wish we may

 every morning is another day

 

die not but live

regardless of pain or peeve

 

let we must our dream’s…. dream

stifle we must our anguished scream

 

in pursuit of happiness burn…. say the wise

from your raging flames will Phoenix rise

 

 

I Jai

11.05.2009.

I am waiting to receive feedback.

Yeah…. So?

I am waiting to receive psychological feedback.

Okay! (Sits up) I’m listening….

A String of Funny Events

Well at least I think they were funny. I’m not really moody. I am whimsy but not moody. However I have this strong sense of like and dislike and that sense often does not make sense to the sense of the sensible. Discussing psychological subjects invariably manages to catch my undivided attention, more so when I’m the object of the subject. But I despise filling in ‘Tick This or That’ forms that ask for personal details and require a brief ‘about me’.

I was pretty much going through a bad day. The previous night I had burnt my arm pretty badly while cooking (now you know the hazards of cooking with wine while adding a few drops to the food). The chemists enroute to college had informed me that in England one cannot purchase ‘Silver Sulfadiazine’ based burn salves without seeing a GP and obtaining a prescription. And my ‘mard ko kabhi dard nahi hota’ ego (legacy of watching a Papa Bacchan movie on cable TV ages hence, on a sweltering Calcutta summer afternoon, while high on a fair amount of gin and orange) wouldn’t allow me to visit the GP for such superficial injuries. Next, the three lines for Gemini in the newspaper predicted a passionate romance for the day!!!! Puh, I was on my way to attend a three hour lecture on ‘Tides’ (one of the most repulsively boring, disturbingly confusing yet indispensable subjects we deal in…. involving a sickening degree of interpolation). Fast forward to 01hr 51m 32s into the lecture, prodded by a philosophical voice whispering somewhere in the labyrinthine recesses of my head, I remember opening the blue book and (in neat beautiful calligraphic handwriting) writing on the front page – ”So die all who enter thy pages”. As luck would have it (why…. why, why, why is it that luck always gets to have?) I was sitting right up front and Capt. Ire (thus christened I) was chosen by luck to have put his book on my desk. Hmm…. in these recessed times the 37 pounds sterling fine would have allowed me to generously contribute to less job cuts in breweries…. alas. Exactly 01hr 08m 28s later…. there I was wafting down the corridors, all bubbly & welling with enough verbosity to allow me to write ‘Freedom At Midday’ and……. and this absolutely gorgeous ‘other species’ appears at the long end of the corridor. She is walking down towards me…. my gait changes, the ‘ i’m the man ’ look switches on…. closer she comes…. closer still….. and walks right past me without even a nano-hint of acknowledging my existence. I heard my ‘alpha ego’ cringe, let out a heart (my) wrenching squeal and drop dead. Skipping details of a depressing lunch, overcast by a festering existential dilemma I was found sitting in a classroom for the next torture, I mean lecture when….. Capt. Mad Dog (he is fond of this nickname) announced that the college management has decided on an in-house psychologist and although optional, students are strongly urged to fill in evaluation forms. I had had enough. Bring it on baby…. bring it on…. the voice in my head spoke.

I filled the ‘about me’ section with a dash of my imagination and a dollop of my wicked sense of humour.

Excerpts from the ‘about me’ section –

Name - J****** M*****

Scientific Name - Nimo Sapien Narccissus

Age - 28 Permanently (I will not entertain any questions regarding this)

Sex - Yes

Height - Fairly Lengthy but not overtly so ( Psycho-analytic clue )

Weight - Perceived - 72.0 kilograms

Caloric - 76.8 kilograms

Brain - Dead

Horns - Amputated at the age of 4 (surgical scars present)

Eye Colour - VIBGYOR

Teeth - Retracting canines, one crooked incisor.

Hands - Two

Fingers - Ten (both hands)

Feet - Two

Toes - Ten (both feet)

Tail - Protruding Coccyx

Blood Group - L ( Lager ) Universal Receiver e.g. spirits, wine, liquor, liqueur etc.

This post was conceived while awaiting feedback (read polite reprimand) outside the office of the “Weather Witch” (Head of the Department - Marine School).

09.05.2009.

'Freyja'.....

I do not have sense of humour. My sense of humour has me.

04.05.2009.

There is this friend of mine who vehemently insists I smile….. always. This friend unyieldingly believes in my photographs and persists that I’m an entirely different man when I smile.

My argument that in those photographs – “the plaster of paris isn’t drying……. did I mix too much water?” is arbitrarily overruled.

This is for you.

I was once a romantic….. quite a romantic & a dreamer….. now vague in the misty whims of time. But every now and then I find that die hard romantic ….. and I smile. I have this 8 year old best friend in Calcutta who has no doubt that my name is Capt. Nimo and that I am a cybernetic organism, an android. I smile when I receive his emails….. and while replying with vivid descriptions of my travels to other galaxies and distant stars. I smile at his wide eyed eagerness when listening to the story about the time I attended Capt. Haddock’s birthday party in Marlinspike Hall or when I see his smile after I’ve fixed his malfunctioning machine gun. I smile thinking about the ‘Me’ that used to be when listening to nostalgic songs like ‘Tere bina jiya jayena’ or Ajkal paon zameen par nahin partey merey’ and the rest.

I smile when I remember how ‘The Sly One’ & I used to spend the whole night in my home listening to ‘Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought’. And then early in the morning sneak out and drive to Outram Ghaat to drink tea from the stall where ‘Congo’r Gongorilla’ had proposed undying love to ‘Dainty Fairy’.

And I smile for so many things….. and once in a while the rapid shutters of a lens freezes a smile into eternity.

I have my sorrows and my abiding grief….. but I’m also a happy man.

I smile.

01.05.2009.

I want to write and I can’t find them words….. worse I can’t quite gather what is it I want to write. Am not not not going to write another deep dark within post…. or one more wise wisdom wizard kind. Nay ….. I aint writing nothing like that.

I haven’t been to sea since last fall. Too long a time ashore makes me feel claustrophobic….. clogs my bloody mind.

I flounder for words….. for ….. for ….. dunno ……perhaps for that thing I’m looking for …..? But I know not if it is a ‘thing’ or what ….. am not even sure if I’m looking….. am I?

the scent of …..?

the search for …..?

the book named …..?

the restaurant in …..?

the wet tickets to …..?

strolling lazily past …..?

the faded pages from …..?

speaking of was & when …..?

and ….. and the smell ….. smelt like ….. like ….. a morning song …..

Time flies…. four long months and it seems as if it was only the day before. In retrospect they were devoid of anything extra-ordinary. Regular days….. to and fro….. college and home….. mad hatter Friday nights.…. lazy lard bucket weekends….. the making of a good friendship ….. the fleeting lady in red….. the passage of winter ….. the coming of spring.

Oh and if I may say so ….. for the first time in the history of my kind, there now exists recorded evidence of willful academic achievement. It is a good feeling, I grudgingly concede. But ….. a very big ‘butt’ …… Back Bench Bad was any day better ;)

And there are times when I want to weep. Mumma said you can’t always get what you want.

Yeah…..

My heart an organ of fire aglow …..

My soul the mountain brook aflow …..

My sorrows arrive in midnight’s guise …..

My hopes with the morning sun in tandem rise …..

I Jai