The Dance

Pages of stories sailing in the air…

I caught hold of one and read on. You were born…

There was a space. I thought of writing a line.

Pages of stories plunging, again picked up by the breeze…

And i remember you just as incomplete, unfinished,

And just you and not the scent of the grave…

 

Pages of stories, all dancing in a gale,

In mine, I had wished you well—

And may the wind carry you to love, far and new,

O girl, tell me, once I too had danced with you.

 

Subham Basak

(November, 2015)

thedance

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The Infinite Mystery

To continue living– in a world sometimes dark by the drop of sun and sometimes bright, sometimes windy, sometimes cold or sultry, and to hover and saunter again and again in the search of happiness, fellow people, friends, acceptance; to think that in The End nothing counts, nothing matters, neither sorrows nor joy, and it is that End we are heading towards and yet can’t dash; to think of the uselessness of days, months and years, of building connections and castles but not ever possess Anything to take away; to consider Possessions and Power are but a social concept, made in the illusion of making a short stay worthwhile, I wonder– Where’s Some Rational Meaning In Life, or even Is There Its Need? What’s Hope? And Where does It Ultimately Lead Us? Are we not All Misguided? Misplaced? Are We Not To Elaborate To Be Accidents? Are We Different From Apples On A Tree? Or Are We a Little Too Dull To Solve Our Own Mystery?

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Infinities

Oh, this!

...my theatre of thoughts

Let me just write. Across infinities. Far into your soul and back. Let me just write my way into those places where words had trembled to explore, into the skin of order, and shake it apart. Let me write across your eyes and how they gleam of mystery, how the charm of their languor spins a malignant yarn. Let me write for long, for a time lengthy enough to equal the spell of the enticement. Let my words slowly gather power and pace and churn your bones in the dead of the night. Let my words be memory. Let them run down tingling your cheeks, let them untangle your fragrant curls, and hold them between alphabets, losing their way bewitched, bewildered. Let me just touch your skin in a way you’d feel mad. Let me write to confuse you, then to sweep you over with its beauty. Let me write…

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Poor Parades

He was running about, in the narrow passages of the busy streets like electricity through thin copper. He was out of breath. With hope. With a world within him resistant to damage, gritty in lonely convictions. That was his only struggle. Digging oases in a crowded desert. Incorruptible. Hence, alone.

He hoped that an encounter with Beauty will obliterate the Hunger in his stomach.

Today, his goal was to catch the Parade. The sense of orderliness in the March, the Music in the gunshots, the Hope in the Tricolour.

Happy Republic Day

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Infinities

Let me just write. Across infinities. Far into your soul and back. Let me just write my way into those places where words had trembled to explore, into the skin of order, and shake it apart. Let me write across your eyes and how they gleam of mystery, how the charm of their languor spins a malignant yarn. Let me write for long, for a time lengthy enough to equal the spell of the enticement. Let my words slowly gather power and pace and churn your bones in the dead of the night. Let my words be memory. Let them run down tingling your cheeks, let them untangle your fragrant curls, and hold them between alphabets, losing their way bewitched, bewildered. Let me just touch your skin in a way you’d feel mad. Let me write to confuse you, then to sweep you over with its beauty. Let me write to accomplish no love but to drool you over in the richness of the delirium, to tempt you into its incredulity. Let one million sentences accomplish what your eyes have. In one look, upon one call.

So let me just write. Across infinities. Far into your soul and back.

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Moths To The Fire

The talking was short, the fire was lit for the moths,

Pauses breathed of craving, us pulled and pestered by Silence’s gravity,

Longer rose the flames of warmth, two naïve souls

Trepid at the doors of Love,

Muscles fought Desire, Desire battling Morality,

And when eyes found home in eyes, and our lonely skins could no longer hide,

That night, I loved kissing the silence on her body.

 

moth-to-a-flame

(Nov 19, 2015)

Vacated

Man has always lived by emotions. To not emote was just another emotion. They change, men change. And we travel from one to another, in a day or in a less definite period like we travel from one room to another in a house. The mindscape readjusts some colours, and a new room houses us, lending our minds another form.

But just sometimes, we memorize a series of emotions to a set of stimuli in such a way that they become not rooms, but a house. Giving our beings as macroscopic shelter than microscopic shades. Give them long enough, it becomes who were are, and wandering through the city, we always remember the way back to our houses, houses that have now turned to homes.

And just rarely, sitting at a table, looking at a VDU, on just another of ordinary days, we are reminded of our old shelters. Who were we when we inhabited them? Who were we in its shelter? Who were we in a past we now have kept safe as a memory, guarding consciously against every tide of Time? And released by an unforeseen stimuli, the mind races back, leaping years and spaces and send us knocking at a door, a door that once belonged to our home. A old home. Deserted. Untouched. Unoccupied. And we beat on furiously at the door to set another foot, just another, in a place that was once ours. We beat on, and on and on. In pain, in vain. There’ll never be another response.

Where are you, My Love? How far?

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The Tale of the Goddess

You are simply capable of watching her as you’re not her,

Safe is your distance, safe ‘cause she is burning,

And you don’t know what the fire is, what keeps it ablaze,

You don’t know what it is to be her.

Down on her knees, clenching the teeth, arms thrown above,

You see everything, and you see not the fire.

You noticed if the knees are smooth, teeth beautiful, arms pretty;

You noticed not the female, you know not the fire.

 

Ah! Your pleasure, your desire, your wishes,

Your rules, your world, your leftover in dishes,

You the tyrant hypocrite, you the pervert in masquerade,

Look at those eyes today invoking just pity,

She, down, diminished; look, you the one above.

She kneels at the centre, surmounted, surrounded,

Clenched teeth hide the scream, a smile hiding the teeth,

She stares at everyone in the circle, stares, only hysterical,

At the father, friend, brother, or a relation only legal,

Her silence inquires, of two-faced villainy, of a vanity brutal.

 

She deserved worship, all that she asked for was love,

And yet you could not let go of your sexist air, cowardly maleness,

You, who sarcasm only yourself, you the peace-lover, you the ignorant,

The Goddess patiently awaits redemption, the Goddess you call a cunt.

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(Pic Courtesy: lifeofmesheblogs.wordpress.com )

Subham Basak

(December 24, 2015)

The Film You Cannot Forget

Today, I watched Schindler’s List. Today, I saw the muscle of a movie, the delicate yet indelible ability of art.

There am I, writing posts in an ostentatious blog and there was Oskar Schindler crying out that he could have saved some more lives if only he had wasted some less money, after having saved not mere men but a hopeless humanity. A film that explores the change of a man against the gory backdrop of history’s cruelest war, and shows that the human mind is a work of such beauty that it has all the power and reasons to turn empathetic and kind, when all reasons apparently betray the notion, and maybe just enough to change the world. At a juncture when power was waging wars, overturning lives and instilling fear, Schindler tells Goeth that “Power is when we have every justification to kill, and we don’t.”. This legendary scene impersonates the movie, and seemingly implants the seed of the new Schindler and a new humaneness in Schindler and the generations of audience alike.

Schindler only had the power of money.With power comes responsibility, and in trying times, for a Schindler, often the responsibility amounts to saving a world by saving a life, even when you’re a German in a World War, and more so because you’re a German in the 2nd World War.

In the beginning of ninetees, while there were know-all’s criticizing politics, cricket and the degradation of movies, there was one man who was making this movie. This movie that is unforgettable, this movie that must leave the eyes bathed and generations moved.
Today, I begin to be grateful to him who planted anew the future of generations and to him who recreated his deed and made it visually immortal. Today, I am grateful, thankful and respectful not to God for this tiny inconsequential life of mine, but to the real Gods of humanity much before. We once had a Schindler, who was but a human like me and today, I watched his story.

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Movie Review: ME AND EARL AND THE DYING GIRL (2015)

So! Me and Earl and the Dying Girl…

Well, what would I say about this movie besides that it was the best teenage movie that I’ve watched so far. Well, I may not have watched many from that category but yes, this movie had a heart. You’d fail to understand when you’ve started enjoying the silly jokes of Greg and your sympathy for him might just have silently turned into empathy and liking as he has just gone to embody the unreasonable, irrational craziness in you. You might just realise that he was not making bad imitation films, he was only giving uninhibited vent to the furtive, unspoken desires of every movie-lover. A misfit, self-exiled outcast, it was only inevitable that he found a fitting soul mate in the dying Rachel. (In Olivia Cooke, I have found mine too, but that will require a separate mention.)

In their first visit, in Rachel’s room, she simply uses her silent stares to absorb Greg’s infinitely stupid antics and finds in him an amicable companion. Greg, too understands in silence that he has been understood. You’d find yourself equidistant between the two, enjoying and celebrating the movie, while wishing to have a relationship like this, of your own. They never quite become romantic, there never quite appears the inevitable puberty-fuelled kiss, and yet they love each other and value each other in a way only they could. The space that the movie leaves you in, wondering whether you’ve watched a story about two friends or a disguised love-story is the space the film owns, and proudly claims to be its own.

In many ways, the film reminds you of the more popular “The Fault in our Stars” and it is in all those ways, it also understates, what more it has achieved, which begins with you wishing yourself dead before Rachel and ends in instilling in you, memories, of the frames you loved with the people who loved you. The end speaks of all the ways in which a life can defeat the apathetic Time, sending you new meanings, new windows, if only you’ve loved them enough to be paying attention.

In ways more than it mocks sentimental squishy love, it will have successfully spun a spell over you, from celebrating the rawness of the craft of making movies to implanting deathless seeds of love and friendship. Simple words, simpler rendition, yet clinging faithful to originality, this piece of cinema will carve its niche in a heart willing to love, willing to be different. Me and Earl and the Dying Girl sure doesn’t die easy.

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