What about our melody?
Do you remember,
How it goes?
Do you know your way
Back to it?
Back to where we got stuck,
Back to me.
Will you be back for beginnings?
I’ve asked time to wait.
Hearts to be patient.
Pain to evanesce.
For the smile,
You wear in eyes.
For a love,
You weave in silence.
We had serenaded.
In each other’s shade.
In the market, after years you appeared,
I saw your lips, moist, trembling, distressed,
We both had stuff for our respective children, to take home,
The touch of warm honey christened my soul,
Your meat was still cold.
Sometimes, I just forget to love people. They ride upon a moment and appear, and like the moments, I let them go. It’s like the task feels so difficult at times. They rush in too fast, wait for no permission, smile past, breeze past, like that dialogue from a movie in a theatre you couldn’t pause at and savour.
In hindsight, you fall in love with their memories. You smile back. A little late. A point in time a little distant. In a space where desolation has slowly but inevitably grown around you. Into you. Staring steadfast. And you let the tiny countless lights of regret blink on, like the ritual of festivity in a city of love. It is all so inevitable. Like every trinket of failure in life, we fail in life to emanate just enough love.
We fail to love more times than we manage to fall in love. Then we forget when.
And then after months of separation, sometimes starkly felt and sometimes just indifferently fleeting, there we were, as if waking from a long sleep, again, back together in a room. About two yards apart. The view my location allowed made the tip of her nose look fairer. It marked the beginning of minutes held together by strong impulsive emotions, washing up the crookedness of a few dry waiting arid valleys. The nose shone in white and made way to the curve of the cheeks to its left, made profound by the bulge of the round cheekbones. One eye was visible, blinking now and then, attentively focused on the lecturer in front, adding a curious aloofness to the fairness of the face, its glowing tenderness, and the radiation of a half-baked charm. A beauty that takes its time to sink in you, slowly and slowly, allowing the leisure of details, yet confident of devouring victory. With its soft roundish curve, the nose ends to form the smooth whitish space that rides a sharp slope towards the dip of the lips. Pink, bright, bold with a natural tinge of rouge. The imagination of which sets you wild. I closed my eyes and released my breath. Flushed with warmth and its soothing rage, I noticed it all together, the singular eye, the left of the nose, its fairest tip, the tender cheeks and the unsettling, pursed, slightly moving lips, all taking a hide now and then behind a few lingering strands of black-brown hair, the fan overhead making them rapidly sway, as if nervous to decide on their best positions beside the face. In all their years of service, they know, beauty rests all on their performance. Obliging with the slightly-tilted neck and gravity, the hairs on the left chose to hang loose, ending just beneath the neck, hiding most of it, before the beginning of the arched back. From time to time, parts of the guarded neck showed in whimsical glimpses, fair and curvy, yearning for the feel of warm fingers, disturbing its warm covering, gently, slowly, repeating, lasting a forever. You’d then take your eyes gradually over the curve of the shoulder covered by the short feminine sleeve of her white cotton top, and find again her skin, bare, embellishing her arm, running all the way down to the fingers, smooth, the upper part fairer due to longer sleeves worn in the past than the bottom. The naïve pull of the tender skin, my eyes that have traveled and touched, my heart that resounded in deep distinct beats, a feeling that was rising and deepening like the ticking of watch. The simple bodily beauty, bereft of and beneath the fabrics, forming a piece in whole, thronging for touch, my eyes that have memorized that, my heart that beats fast. In the space between us was nothingness, empty space and no abstract existence; just my being overcome by flames of longing and hers, sitting quiet, unawares. Two worlds, disturbed and calm, two yards apart.
July 26, 2016
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A Silence that was in between,
Was walls, was solid bricks keeping us apart,
In every which way,
And there I used to see you, I used to pack my heart with presents and set out.
My eyes would voyage through the silence and find you standing unawares. Uncaressed.
They used to find your heart hidden under the creases of down-turned eyes, and got used to waiting by your eyelashes.
The silence that kept very quiet. The silence that slept like a monster.
The silence that grained deep in the pauses when we spoke, and that never burst the tears in either of our eyes.
The silence that lacked the drama the eyes craved, my eyes. The silence that swallowed deep the smiles that spring promised.
It then, led us to the moment when we fell strong, and we felt the void tunnelled to the centre of two souls. Two imaginations. Two lives.
We fell strong. We fell like buildings cracking, collapsing in a quake.
Only there was no sound.
– Subham Basak
(March 30. 2016)
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.
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.
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.
(Nov 19, 2015)
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?