Sohor Kolikata

charlam ghar bichana

charlam songsar o' bhalobasha

sudhu parlam na ekhono

charte tomar haath-ta

amar sohor kolikata

jano tomar saathe

nadi-r taan,

jano tumi-i amar maa

sitting by the ganga at princep ghat, watching the sun disappear beyond the horizon as if intimidated by the sound of ships leaving and entering port, was a weekly ritual. sunday evenings were spent like that- melancholic, alone, by the river. i would go back home as the traffic began to quiet down on the streets and find baba at the table reading raag darbari, and ma working on a her college journal. i would sit at the table for a few minutes, during which no one had spoken, i would quietly get up and tiptoe into my room. why i'd tiptoe, i never knew. it always seemed as though someone was sleeping inside the room.. the room smelt of sleep. i'd go into the balcony, gaze out at the skyline and eventually, find my cheeks wet. sunday was always the day to cry. to cry, and beg Cal to hold me close to her bosom and never let me go.

it has been many sundays since then. and now sundays are spent in ways that are rather.. delhi-ish. sundays are no longer spent drinking 8, 10 cups of tea, smoking cigarettes and talking to the river. there is no house to go back to, no, balcony, no invisible person sleeping in a room that smelt of slumber.

there is no longer a ghat, no longer a girl sitting by that ghat.

it is almost as if a shadow has left the place, without a sound and the city doesn't know of it yet. when it does, it will rain.

In this one you are a memory

In this one you

are a distant memory

in a green t-shirt and worn chappals.

A memory that is the color

of the setting sun

over the howrah bridge.

A memory that is the sound

of public buses and trams

on a busy thursday evening.

A memory that has seen

the two sides of Cal--

one, destitute, poor, hungry

the other, Victorius.

A memory that smells of fumes

wet earth, and a smell

that I cant quite describe.

A memory that has just

turned three years old

in a city that has nothing

to do with this memory.

Just as I, no longer have

anything to do with you.

It was an evening not,

out of the ordinary,

for the rest of the city--

For me, it was an

evening, when you

had licked salt off the air

in the City of Water

and travelled

to me,

to give me a taste of it.

The place?

I knew you'd ask.

The terrace on the 13th floor

of the 19th block.

The jagged cemented ground

beneath our soles scraped

off skin,

off our feet--

like it was trying to

scrape memories off

our minds.

Succumbing, was not in

our nature.

Or so we thought.

Ultimately, the

jagged cemented ground

won.

Shadows of

white picketed fence houses

in the midst of paddy fields,

wooden doors and latches

and a Jack,

danced out of the window

mocking me,

out of the reach of

my extended hand--

and you floated to some

place,

that was not for me.

But what does it matter.

It's a memory that

hangs,

on a grease stained wall,

that will be broken down

when she builds her home

around yours.

And I will walk on

sweeping aside the

fragments of my soul,

as though a mirror had

crashed, and someone

with a kind heart,

had fetched a broom

and swept the pieces

off the floor.

being fat

being fat is a strange thing.

for me, it beings with itching

that large piece of skin, that

does not get any air, because

your belly is hanging

till where it should not.

usually, that part of my body

itches at night.

when the chores are done,

the lights put out

and i'm thinking of all

the things i've done in

the day, that i shouldn't

have,

it begins to itch.

itch, like the things i did

that i ought not have done.

the sweat, the rawness of

skin, the fat and that

itch--

it is almost as if i am

paying for my sins.

You my love, fuck with my head.

an atheist--

a gospel songs

brings tears to my eyes

she has the words

i have the thoughts --

neither of us have the poetry.

to you both.

there are two women in my life. two women i love very much. they are two people with whom i've shared drunken pleasures, the cold of shimla and the pinkness of jaipur, the feeling of being perpetually broke, heartbreakes, car rides that made us feel like 'bad-ass' boys (!), regrets about the lack of men in our lives, good food, bad food and a lot of food in general, good times, bad times, and the last 8 months of my life. they are not people whom i can relate to much. they are not people with whom i have a lot in common. they like noida and clubbing, i like north capmus and the sound of a classical guitar. i like frank o'hara, they don't like to have much to do with poetry. they will crack very, very silly jokes and roll over laughing while i would look at them incredously. point is, that i am very different from them, and they, from me. but they are my friends. friends without whom i could not have spent the last few months in this unknown city, friend i can always count on, to make me laugh. friends who would call me over their place so that i get good food. friends who probably wouldnt understand what i am talking about or how i feel, but would nevertheless listen. friends, whom i love. of course that sounds like a repition in itself because if they are my friends then it is because i love them.. but well. so when i see a list of 'dearest friends' on one of their 'profiles', i expect to see my name in the list. and it mildly surprises me when i find that i feature nowhere in the list.and i realise, that the three of us are not really a trio. it is more like this- the two of them, and me. and while i cannot lie and pretend not to feel hurt, i understand, nevertheless. i understand the two of them are a source of solace to each other and their friendship extends beyond just college, and car rides and cigarettes. perhaps it is because of the lack of display of affection on my part, or perhaps it is because i like being with myself than anyone else, but what remains is this- to them i am not what i used to be. and that saddens me. but this post is not about me, it is about them. 'them'. i say 'them' because i can no longer think of each one of them in isolation. when i think one, the other's presence is immediately felt. like two peas in a pod. like two leaves on a flower. like two friends. they are not like my other friends. most of whom, are either writers, musicians or some kind of 'intellectuals' in their own right. these two women, are different. they are fun. that is the only way to describe them. somehow, it is very difficult fot to imagine them sad or depressed, for i have never, ever, seen them without a smile on their faces. on the hottest day, on the most upsetting day, on the most stressful day, on the most horrible day, they would wear a smile on their faces like its a part of them. like their eyes, nose, lips, the smile is just there.

so while i may not post kisses and 'i love you's on facebook, and turn up for college just to meet you, i love you. for you are two people in my life that i would not give for anybody else, anything else. for you two, are my friends.