Walls and Thoughts Beyond

Walls. A feature of our modern lives. A life of closer connectivities and more confined lifestyles. Where we reach out to the world yet can't see our neighbours over the walls we build around ourselves. Cold and unsympathetic, the poor poet's mountains, that which was meant to secure lives yet sucks the life out. Walls can often seem imposingly dignified and often repressively violent. And yet, it is far-fetched for sure to think of walls as serving any purpose other than keeping those in, in and those out, out. Other than perhaps, providing a place to lean for the lonesome traveller from the north and the aspirant who wishes to see the world on the other side. So it is with wonder in my eyes that I stumbled upon the work of a certain Banksy.

There are those times when you wished you’d known certain things earlier and longer, and Banksy’s works certainly ignite those feelings. As dull, grey landscapes suddenly transformed into a work of art; as out of nowhere, the wall of your morning walks suddenly became a canvas for ingenious expression; as ordinary, mundane ideas were taken and overnight, turned into that which is significant and conspicuous; you wonder why you hadn’t thought of it first. It’s just so plain simple. And then you smile, for it is the work of an alchemist before your sight that transforms the ordinary into the brilliant.

Banksy says “We don’t need any more heroes; we just need someone to take out the recycling.” Stinging words in a world living in its own separate, walled comfort zones. Words probably not loud enough to hear over the din of the music systems and the traffic the other side of the wall. Yet words that cannot be ignored on your way back from the morning walk when they are inscribed silently and beautifully overnight, especially when you’re expecting a steaming hot mug of imported coffee instead.I'll call it quits now, but as I tuck myself into my blanket, I sure know who I'd like to have on the other side of my wall.

On the Boulevard

The night's orange and there are shadows everywhere. The dog stares into my heart, and the heart is black and the dog a shadow. I stare at the orange streetlamps, and my shadow takes me by surprise. There are assassins at my back, I turn around and no one's there. Shadows. Everywhere. Billie sings broken songs and he's a shadow. I'm a shadow. A shadow none but my shadow can see. He's the only one that walks beside me on the boulevard. But that's lame. The shadow screams. I sing like a mirror. Read between the lines, he says. The assassins stare as I pass them by, lip-syncing with the shadow. I walk on. And then, it tunnels through me. All crimson orange. I smile. It's cold. Everything is cold.

Stairway to Heaven

The roof lay strewn with
The remnants of forbidden pleasure,
Dark was the field out in front,
Dark with people, or phantoms were they?

The night, blurring the city for once
Humming a melody of whispers,
I look to the sky, and then to you
And wonder

A star, is that faraway?
Or a dot hanging in the in-between?

Orange Evenings

The fire burning in the tiny angiti,
Tiny hands stretching out to the warmth,
Sitting hunched on end
Like children around a tale-granny
Warming oranges, glowing oranges in the fire.

The warm sweet juice bursting forth
In one's mouth, the seed cast aside
And the home was such a warm, sweet place
And warm, sweet was the cold
And the heat.

Haunting Sniper on the Edge

A plane flies overhead, flies like a fiery dream...
A ghost stands behind my back, shadowy eyes poring into my scream.
He feels so close behind, yet distant like the plane.
He is my brother from an erstwhile age, and takes away my pain,
I wonder what it would be like...to be him and to be free!
So I look into those shadows...now which am I and which is he?

A Day's Worth of Thoughts

I hate see-offs at railway stations. The feeling of standing immovable as the train ambles out. Your friends wave, leaning out of the door. Plastic smiles on everyones’ faces. Then they are far away, ever shrinking. Then you watch the others, the strangers, stare with indistinguishable expressions at you and then the thing next to you. And then they’re gone and someone else is there. Coach after coach of grumbling, creaking, complaining metal and life pass you by. And then, suddenly, it’s gone. And you’re facing the semi-naked man enjoying a bath on the rail lines on the other side. Two puppies crawl in under the leaking pipes meant to replenish trains to have their own share. The man shoos them away. You look around. Life moves on. The train has left. The coolies shift base to another platform where yet another train is to leave. You look behind your back. Your friends are nowhere in sight.

 I give my head a shake and try to get used to the idea. I walk. It’s a long way. People push and shove me here and there. I assume my vulture mode, head buried in chest. Long face. Maroon 5 is on today’s menu. I wish I could wear my jacket. I like hiding behind its high neck. Alas! I never thought November could be hot... anywhere.

 “How I wish... How I wish, you were here/ we’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl...”

 I take a bus. Not the one at the front of the queue. The one behind. It’s empty. I get a window seat of my choice. It takes its time to get filled and then grumbles across the Bridge like a wounded tiger on the Hooghly.

 There’s a lot in my head. I wonder how all of that can simultaneously hold my attention at ransom at all odd hours of the day, in all odd places. It’s like I started a slideshow on loop and lost the remote. How foolish of me to lose it! But I do lose it every now and then. The remote, that is! So here I was, presently descended from the bus, with a bitter-sweet-bitter-nice slideshow on. A tram buzzes past. So stoic, so dignified in its passage, unmoved from its path even in the maze of traffic. I try to do the same on the pavement, vultured. I fail miserably. I’m such a sucker for being the anti-hero.

 “...it’s not over tonight, Just give me one more chance to make it right/ I mean I’ll make it through the night, I won’t go home without you.”

 The traffic is like the train, and yet it’s not. For while the vehicles keep moving on and faces keep getting replaced, yet you’re never left stranded at any point of time. Somehow, the roads seemed to be filled with these herds of goats. I wondered why.

 After two stops to drink sugarcane juice and at Chini’s (where Thapa Da had raised prices post-Puja), I was at 68/9. That’s my room by the way. My own humble place in this great city. I like to compare it to the inside of a giant wave. Right there in the thick of it, and yet so remote and distant. It’s what symbolises me. It’s not perfect; for that matter, nor am I. Today, it is in a mess. Friends have left. The room is still suffering from a hangover. My entire luggage, my trunk with my name scribbled untidy on it, sits on one side. A couple other bags as well as my old NCC kitbag lie sprawled next to it. The bed has its legs up in the air. One look at it and it implores me to restore it to its normal position. Not yet, I say. Somehow, I can talk to everything in my room. The preserved bottles, the bookshelf with its ever-increasing load, the run-down table, the tiny mirror, my posters of Slash, Alonso, Federer and CRY, all have something to say. A betel-nut hunter climbs a tree on my home state’s calendar fluttering in the fan air. Quotes by Rousseau, Orwell, J.S. Mill, William Henley, Vikram Seth, Bismil and a certain Rajat Roy litter the walls. A mat is spread out on the floor which serves as my bed. I do the cleaning and sit down to surf the Internet. Through the window, I can see the University building with their gaping windows. The sight of that ghostly white building on a full moon night with vacuum-like arches can be creepy enough, even if you’re not sitting in a 125 year old hostel known for a bloody history. I have goose bumps on my arms as I write this.

 Mom calls up. I am promptly reminded that tomorrow is Eid. I just drop my head, knowing I had absolutely forgotten about the festival. After all, this will be my first Eid away from family ever. Despite the busy college schedule, I have always managed to sneak home for Eid. Not this time. So I go about the business of contemplating how to spend Eid. Going for prayers on Eid has always seemed hypocritical to me, for I hardly showed my face in the mosque the rest of the year. So on that front, a lonely Eid meant less double standards. I log into Facebook. Immediately, a friend asks me how many cows I am sacrificing tomorrow. I don’t feel the need to reply. There’ll be a lot more than animals sacrificed on my part tomorrow, I feel. Even if I can’t match Abraham’s standards, I do have sacrifices to contemplate that go way beyond animals (with all due respects).

 So here I am, sleepless on the mat, thinking of words to fill in the blanks. How tomorrow goes is another story, but I guess this will be enough for a day’s work. Wishing you all Eid Mubarak. Enjoy the festivities for those who are celebrating, and a happy holiday to the rest. Stay safe.

Two Mynahs

There's a sting at my back and a glare in my face,
A glaze in my eyes and in my mind, a daze.
Two singing mynahs would sit on my shirt and look,
While the weeping world around them shook.






*Written sitting idle in Sreeleathers, Esplanade.*