The psychology of Lovers

Cat, you are beautiful and I love you, but you don't care.
Dog, I love you and you love me.
Dog, would you be my
cat?

-The psychology of lovers

Honduras e Hahakar?

Recently, I saw this Twitter hashtag 'Modi in Mongolia' which reminded me of Lalmohan Ganguly (-a famous character, for all of you who have not read Satyajit Ray), and his apparently 'lomhorshok' novels that could be judged by its catchy alliterating names.

Nothing can ever surpass the sheer hilarity of the name 'Honululu te Hahakar', and I have often wondered what could the novel be about. (I do not remember Feluda and co. discussing its material, so as a geology student, lately I have been inclined to wonder if it were about some apocalyptic volcanic activity of the Hawaiian islands.)

Modi in Mongolia could be about an espionage agent send to snub off any future Mongol invasions that may threaten the Hindurashtra.

P.S. Honululu would be Honduras. Are there volcanoes too?

Summer Winter whining

In Summerlands, before the invention of air-conditioning earthly life indeed were pretty bearable with just cool water and Glucon-D, and a shade of a tree for instance. Some of you are too young, urban or posh to know a time like that. Also, before the invention of Facebook, earthly-life (me?) wasn’t smart enough to know that most people always whined over the same old things-summer, winter, winter summer, relationships.
One day life with all its ‘enlightenedness’ decided to whine itself, in retrospect it did sound smart, but you know life; with all its stupidities and verbosity it always overprints any of its witty traits. It kind of sounded like this-

“You greenhouse gas pumping puny things, in Earth I always try to rise, with you doing everything to make that not happen. When would you ever learn that the Universe is a fucking cold and dead place, it’s awfully huge and without any sign of my other siblings as you know, so least you sissies can do is appreciate me in silence and bear the seasonal warmth of your average sized- friendly-neighborhood star, that technically invigorates you all. If not, go live in Mars. (Or go off Facebook, please?)”

Gopalpur on the Sea

The hotel where we have checked in has a little staircase that leads straight to the beach. An old man who writes stories owns this place, he saw us last night while we were up on the roof singin and dancin merry songs with the waves. He was quiet and just sat on his chair. He must have seen many before like us- vain youths, aloof in our escape. Beside the hotel there's a ruin that once stood tall and wide and perhaps had arched gateways whose skeletal remains still stand inviting the best of the romantics.
Romance is mostly adorned with reality that we choose to ignore, you know, and this morning when I took my camera out to take some snapshots of the ruins, I found out quite a few people in there, answering nature's bigger calls- some were singing along with the waves, some were dancing (possibly), a singing-dancing latrine in the shore of the world- romantic in its own light,
no?

Dreams one morning

It's kind of funny how dreams make a mockery of my insecurities, how it always cooks up scenes of all the unlikely people I have ever lost, all the things that I am about to lose. Sometimes I feel, reality is much better than these images of falsified nostalgia that are set in a surreal landscape filled with the omen of loss and retribution. She was in there, reading her book or chatting up with a friend, she was in my dream sitting on the railway tracks. I wonder if she has ever done that in real life- sat on a railway track to giggle a bit, and so I wondered when was the last time we sat and talked- that's what these dreams do, they make you remember things best forgotten and so it happens for a while, the pain and nostalgia bit and then it's all over in flurry of reality that is so very unforgiving to anyone who dares to dream on.

No pain, no gain

My mother often said, that if
there in no pain, there is no gain.
Gain, what gain? I would ask. She would
smile and let me grow old, and then
one day when she would forever
vanish into the world of mirrors
I would wonder if that was pain.

Did your mother vanish too, in
the world of mirrors where words
are inverted and meanings are
seven fold,

did you love and lose?

I have often picked up a stone
and thrown it into the mirror
not to find lost people but to look
through the delicate cracks it made-
I would keep on pelting stones till it
would  break into smithereens- the
smallish pieces always made poetry.

I have walked on those pieces sometimes,
 to let my feet bleed the colors of
my insides, such soft patterns it
would make under the summer
moon. My pain would softly speak to
me and make me its friend, and
when the moon would set and the
crows shall sing an arbitrary
tremolo- I will carry that pain
as if it were a beauty, and I will carry it
through my apartment and into the
highways where love gets run over
and people get lost.  

Names

The ennui of home takes me far away

To a land where things swell and sway

I can’t name that land, I can’t say

These images sweeten in a nameless way.

But if you ever could name it right

Sure, it would be my divine delight

For names have these strangest ways

To remind us what we loved on long lost days.