tales of summer (1)

Neem Alu Makha


— % &My boroma (aunt) used to make this simple dish for me, whenever I visited her on summer vacations. She would pluck some fresh neem leaves and stir fry them in mustard oil. Two dry red chillies and half an onion would go next in the frying pan - a minute or two was enough. Then she would take out the boiled potatoes and mash everything into a pulp.

It tasted amazing. Simple ingredients yet full of flavours. I had always been obedient, never really objecting to eating bitter dishes. But I never truly enjoyed them. This Neem Alu Makha - bitter and spicy; was a game changer for me. I have always preferred a simple fulfilling lunch and she somehow understood it the best. Neem alu makha, daal, alu posto and macher jhol - the best lunch for a hot humid day.— % &I vividly remember the lazy summer afternoons at her place. After lunch, I would either watch an action Hollywood flick on Sony Pix or munch on Bengali novels. She had a soft spot for me and I doted on her dearly.

It has been years since I last visited her on a summer vacation. Summer vacations these days feel like mere pit stops, with most of the time spent preparing for what comes next. As I grew older, her frequent calls urging me to visit dwindled. I am no longer a wide eyed, curious teen and somehow we have grown apart. But interestingly, every time I have a bitter dish, it reminds me of her.

Nostalgia is bitter.— % &

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Michael Jackson

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There's a severe case of damp in my bedroom wall. It has eaten a third of the pink paint and is slowly sinking its teeth on the wooden door. It's quite ugly. I sometimes lie on my single bed staring at the walls, chasing a moment of odd silence. The damp breeds an odour - pungent yet irresistible. I ought to get it fixed but I don't. Lazy and passive - my days melt into a greyish pink hue.

Huffing and coughing, I wriggle on the bed. They say the damp walls are consuming me. I don't pay heed. One fine day, while I was outdoors the walls got repainted and an oil painting adorns the worst affected area.

The new paint is lavender scented. The painting, bought from the local fair has too many sunflowers and rainbows. It is quite suffocating to be surrounded by such repulsive portrayal of beauty. And one fine day, I scrap the paint off the walls with nails - unearthing the bare walls. I take the painting off and the naked walls laugh back at me. I cough a little and smile.

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Prose.pdf

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I shouldn't have shared my favourite song with you.

Your eyes twinkled, "You know what, that is my favourite song too..."

"Ohh", I said, surprised.

I have always considered myself an elitist with a peculiar taste in music. And you come with your dreamy eyes and childish smile shattering my superiority complex. It hurts. Music reveals an awful lot about a person. I hate that - being paraded naked, my entire persona lying bare for you to figure out. What is a man if not a little aloof and mysterious? Alas, now you know me.

Now every time I listen to the song, you make a Shah Rukh Khan like cameo appearance in the movie playing in my head, stealing all the limelight off the background characters. This is bad. Like a full blown zombie apocalypse level bad.

You could have been just another interesting stranger to base off a decent story on. Now you feel too familiar, like home.

I must deal with you swiftly before you take over my poems and my entire being. I'm trying.

- Phoenix's Ashes

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Twenty Rupees

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The Boy who
sold Sunshine

~in caption ~

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কাঁচাপাকা দেওয়ালে আজ হাজার জোনাকির ঢল,
মধ্যরাতে কোন নেশাতে ছুটছে কবিতার দল।
বুঝলে নীলা, বড়ই আহাম্মক আমি -
ওই ঠুনকো প্রেমের বিড়বিড়ানি
ভেবেছিলাম খুব দামী।
ফাগুন হাওয়ায় গা এলিয়ে ছুটলাম কবিদের দলে,
গদ্যের অব্যর্থ প্যাঁচে তুমি দিলে কানটা বেশ মলে।— % &
পচা কয়েকটা শব্দ ছন্দের ছাঁচে ঢেলে দিয়ে
ন্যাকামি করো না তো,
ছন্দের বেশভূষা নয়,
দাও আমায় অকৃত্রিম নগ্নতা।
কি হল? পুরুষ সিংহ কাঁপে কেনো?
ও বাবা - ছন্দের প্যাঁচ ছাড়া একেবারেই প্রতিবন্ধী যে।
প্রেমিক? দূর ছাই - আগে বিপ্লবী হও।
বাঁধন খুলে এলোমেলো করে দাও জগৎটাকে।
ছন্দের লাঠির বিরুদ্ধে গর্জে ওঠো,
দু এক ঘা পিঠে পড়লে নাহয় আমি মলম দেবো।— % &
আহা, নীলা, আমি যে
ভাত ডাল খাওয়া মানুষ মাত্র,
ওসব করতে হলে এখন হতে হবে যে
revolution এর ছাত্র।
নেই অত বড় বুকের পাটা আমার,
প্রেম করতে গিয়ে হবো নাকি কুলাঙ্গার?
তার চেয়ে এই পুরনো ছন্দই আওড়াই বেচালে,
আমার ১০৩ জ্বর বাঁধা থাকুক
নাহয় তোমার আঁচলে।
— % &

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How I end up writing fragile poems

I begin my poem by saying this clearly,
"I'm no writer" - yours sincerely.
But I have acquired this sickness,
I need to scribble words to seek forgiveness.

~in caption~

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