Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Doosro ke jay se pehle khud ko jay karein!

I wish, before pouring out words from my rust-endowed, stubby fingers rendered mute for the past couple of months by a rich gravy of thoughts doing rounds inside my ever stringent, unfathomable mental labyrinths, I be not arbitrated. Obnoxious, contentious, cantankerous thoughts Alert.

Wandering cognizance elusively stare at me, caravan of the vast expanse of the clear, blue sky blanketing the minuscule fraction of charted universal existence, threatening to burst out of the very bars that hold them in place. Ghosts of the poetic pasts, leaders of the spiritual mass, and the relatively new ideas of selflessness strewn widespread in the society, negating the very concept of the virtue of selfishness surprise me. Shock me, to be fair. Examining human behavior throughout history and focusing on their choices between alleged morality and selfishness, the pattern of wielding power for personal benefit emerges distinctly. Personal benefit has always been an innately humane trait. But instead of being trained to nurture and channelize selfish desires into productive causes, which appears to be a Herculean task at hand by the sound of it, we have been taught to suppress the gargantuan source of selfish desire into oblivion, lest it becomes too handsome to handle by the non-capitalistic elements in the society. 

We have been led to believe by renaissance authors and compellingly beatified examples, that the sun burns tirelessly to nurture life, that rivers glide through bellicose, prickly terrains to quench humane desires, that altruism assuages the essence of mankind. Undeniably, it's led to leaping strides in humanitarian fields, and not completely circumscribed to mortality either, but it's swept much more under the rugs of in-afflicted, stoic excellence; it has destroyed Tesla's vision of an infinite power-tower, portrayed parental love into an unexplained selfless act of love, slashed down NASA fundings, boomed sweat shops churning out illicit, lovely artifacts into throes of unquestionable business and incarcerated the common desire to stare at the stark imagery of rationality.

Selfless love is an unattainable mystery. The sun's been burning since millions of years to conclusively cringe into a little white star, it's simply outliving itself. That life's bloomed in its course is a happy bypass of age. Arguing that it sends out UVB rays nevertheless would be engorging the argument into ludicrous proportions. The glaciers would have molten and deceased into their own pools of carcass had they not fractionally melted and created rivers. If parental love had been as puerile as universally acknowledged, there would have been a sharp surge in misery, heartbreak and the perception of "expectations" and "falsifications" would not have ripened in the first place. 

Patriarchal inheritance, again not an act of selflessness, is the sole reason why the concept of marrying for love has not originated in its truest essence in this country. No matter how much a person loves his betrothed, the smallest iota of malintentional possibility still holds. The evolution of exponential proportions of respect for vocational degree holders has created a dearth of conformity, and the echelons of selfless love has been thrown out of the window. Last I checked, it was decaying in a marsh of unrealized outcrops, contrary to what was promised by the pallbearers of charity.

"Women have been found to find altruistic men to be attractive partners. When looking for a long-term partner more conventional altruism may be preferred which may indicate that he is also willing to share resources with her and her children while when looking for a short-term partner heroic risk-taking, which may be costly signal showing good genes, may be more preferable." Ambiguous?!

Cellular slime molds conforming to Darwin's theory of survival of the selfless, perish. Paradox, huh?!

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

About that

I write today, not as a backwash of boredom, but because I owe it to myself, to my words, as Plath only put too familiarly, not to let them rust and rot, of lust and thought. Penning them down before they are lost amid the deluge of the atrocious threshold of acceptance that The Almighty has so generously bestowed upon me; before they plunge into the deepest abyss of my subconscious, returning only to torment me in my dreams that I once again, blissfully, forget in a trice, unless they are spiked with images of paisley debutante actors, Alladin-isque jewels or a Lamborghini.


Strangely, the cue to wander away from gloom, entranced pretty strategically up there fails to make my mind take a predictable detour. But then again, some things are harsh to write about. When something happens to us, we write it down, either underplaying it or over-dramatizing it; exaggerating the immaterial, ignoring the essentials. At any rate, you never quite write it the way you want to. It’s poignant Chaitali, a crushing, lamentable insight that people you thought shared the same wavelength as yours, don’t. Perceiving people and letting go of expectations are like trying to find one’s reflection in pieces of broken mirror inside the water. One realizes they exist only when they see their own time-worn faces staring back at them. A moment ago, they had just been an imagery of illusion. But the instinct of holding on to the past, to the unreal, non-existing statuettes of disgruntled intentions is but puerile humane. If you linger too long, they prick you and you bleed. All of it happens in a surreal universe and you don’t feel the ache. That’s the beauty of it. You trudged dreary, hurtful paths in the past and the pain saunters still, but you fail to notice. You have accepted it and have got accustomed to it. You have lugged along the baggage for too long to notice the slack in your pace. The past doesn’t belong to you, and by extension, neither does the accoutrement it entailed. Don’t give in. Don't give up, Chaitali.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

শ্রাবনী সন্ধ্যা

আমি আত্মদর্শন করে পেলাম যে তোমায় মনের ক্ষণে, অঙ্গের প্রানে
তার ঝিরি মিরি শব্দ সকাল বিকেলে ঝরে পরে সেই কানে,
মল্লিকা পৃথ্বীর সেই জ্ঞানে, তরাতল মাটির তাকানি,
চারে দিকে বরণ করি তোমারি গানের শব্দে সকাল,
বাঁশির ধুনে ধুনো, মেঘের বডির রাত,
প্রেমের আলাপ শ্রাবনী সবুজ পাতার মত পাল্টে গেল
সন রঙের সন্ধ্যা প্রকাশ তাকিয়ে বলে পাত!

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Lurking Woods

Had my words ebbed into wishful musings,
A manic humdrum of fluttering dewdrops,
Bursting by bambino pride of new lifing,
Senile fore, fading away, the sun atop!

Fledglings of the morning beauty,
Savage bells of evening jingles,
Famished are woods of abundance,
Perilous waters preen caving dens.

Creaky cliffs, ripe with must
Leather boots and all that dust,
Masking threats of fortitude,
Copious girth of hostile argot.

Decked on thrones of avarice,
sits crowned the peaks of mapled bliss.
Whistling pensive songs to self,
Living the air of common turf.

Vibrant whirls, sacred thought,
Placating the rush of touch-me-nots!
Afresh from dusky dowagers,
Scented droves of moringa lingers!
Hum of the rare sun-kissed yellow, 
not a musing but mere parlance!
I spring to read every card that adorns the myriads!
Pretending to mock them still, with a wistful eye,
I blink back the rush of felicity, with delirious grins sky-high,
The crook of my eyes shrink in frenzy, smiles slightly holler!
Dreams of blackbirds, ravens and rye
Chickpeas, vintage taller!
I live my days, not just trudge
My smiles and beams, no more a grimace

A bow-decked furor, 
O! Word-wrecked love!