A Voice in the Dark | Shubhodeep Pal

Stand on the air open your arms feel the earth rotate on its demented axis— you’ll smell the breeze, the flagrant verdure, the glory of life, the passion in love, bliss promenading inexorably through the stunted trees, grief ebbing to inexpressible multi-layered joy of being, a gazillion blessings…. Reminisce those unforgotten halcyon seconds… Taste this earth: there is happiness in being who you are, for joy masquerades in the unlikeliest of charades. Touch yourself knowing that your skin is enthused with eclipsed passions and a long-forgotten tenderness. Feel the whispering leaves, Tame their chlorophyll tongues: you’ll hear what you want to hear, you’ll know what you want to know. Sense the dewed grass burgeoning under your naked feet— drench your soul in this macabre, senseless milieu. You’ll know there’s joy in living yourself— in living as you want to, in loving whom you want to.

scattered poesy grains now shimmer uneasily in the parquet light

He holds his pen, poised, sedulous, For the tarmac conflict, to strip His dreams from bloody, circuitous Biers of thrift; his sweaty grip Wavering under the red, fermented Smell of clay - monsoon soaked - Beneath the gray outside, shirted With the overwhelming, cloaked Odour of gutters overflowing - As with the shreds of limpid sunlight - In conflict, he senses the burgeoning Night through his forty-watt sight.

Well, it's the season of sequels, so I offer here my very own 'desi' sequel. This story is a sequel to Delirium : hope you enjoy it!!! And, pardon the length!!! Murky sun-rays sink into the evening dust. The dust fuses with the bars of my window. I sit and stare into bleak oblivion. Disjointed thoughts overwhelm reason. The world appears a hateful blur. Slowly, the sky turns from indigo to violet to a stellar black. I keep sitting—unflinching, unblinking, unmoving. I gaze at the unrained, undusted sky. Consoling hope seems to rain from it. I am lost in my thoughts, not hers. I try to come ashore… ~ Three months have passed since she left. Hesitatingly, I have tried to fill up the immense void of her charmed non-presence. She had called up once after she left. That’s the last time I heard Tanya’s voice. That’s probably the last time I’ll ever hear it again! But what do I do with the memories of that voice? Still so clear, still so true: ‘Hi, it’s Tanya,’ the v

Some day, when you return, that which you feared, that which you knew would happen, will occur and you’ll remain stranded on the grimy asphalt of life— stuttering, muttering, grumbling. Your home will be empty, the door battered, windows barred, and chairs untenanted. The house will cry for glowing souls to warm its milieu—to make it sublime… You’ll stand outside the gate, banging on the rusted iron: hoping, waiting for some seraphim to alleviate this incandescent distress. You’ll stand on the lawn, having broken through, the grass will burn your feet, flowers will singe your atrophic core. And you’ll still hope the house isn’t dead. You’ll gaze through the cracked panes, a veneer of false sanguinity shrouding your senses and feel the house wobble on its foundation. Your fingers will be glued to the glass and your hands turn to therapeutic liquid. But you’ll know that you still have the pack of currency to console you, that which you earned in lands afar, that which lends you your men

Recently, I went to Calcutta to attend a marriage. The journey by rail took about a day and a half. It was tedious yet enlightening in a bizarre sort of a way. I tried to capture this experience through a few haikus. Hope you enjoy them!!! Any travel/observance haikus that you might have written are welcome. I. THE JOURNEY A blur of colours —camouflaged with my weird soul— glimpsed in black and white II. A.C. 2 TIER The insomniac train charges old, tired landscapes— rails warp in the sun III. OUTER SIGNAL The weary train chugs out at last: one latecomer does a final sprint IV. NOCTURNAL VISIONS On platform no. 10 rabid dogs accentuate their puerile choler V. THE TINTED GLASS The yellow-green land— unwillingly soused in heat burns to thin red dust VI. IDIOSYNCRACIES The branded morons plunging into compartments without rhyme or rea’on. VII. THE CLOCK STOPS At night, the violent serenity murders rude, callous wakefulness.

APPROACHES Life is a dreadful disappointment if you don’t keep your appointments RECREATION Drops of sun melt and descend like fiery dew: I relax in water REFUSAL I wait in a queue stare at her questioningly She says, No thank you MISCALCULATIONS The needle goes in the errant slot, fumbles: the thread of time breaks and rolls away FUTURE The dim light shining bizarrely over the car about to be stolen ODDITY The red wall with the gaping void in the centre, and light shining through

When all our niggling conflicts are past This land will lie a sullen death Life will stutter on with its broken mast Parched lives will pine for moist breath. The wild winds will be presently hushed Grey souls will tremble with servile dread Even in the stillness, amity will burst Gnarled hands will scream for moulded bread. Animosity will range on far and wide Bloody waves will batter bodies through— This earth will become Satan’s bride Tears of blood will stain this land anew.

I met her at a club dinner one Saturday night. There was an odd sort of radiance on her countenance. I was helping myself to a fifth glass of chilled lemonade when I spotted her. She was standing alone—though not in a corner. I walked up to her out of sheer curiosity. Something magnetic about her seemed to be drawing me towards her—irresistibly, inevitably… Hesitating slightly, I sauntered casually up to where she stood. ‘Don’t you think the music’s playing a bit too loud’ I asked casually. ‘Uh…yeah, well sort of’ she replied somewhat warily. ‘So, enjoying yourself?’ I asked. ‘Yeah’ she said without enthusiasm. ‘Don’t sound like it’ I remarked. ‘Well,’ she said more freely, ‘I thought I’d meet some friends at least. But my luck seems to have run out.’ She sighed. I looked up and nearly gasped. For the first time I noticed how pretty she was. Fringes of hair ran down her face, and as she pushed them back I noticed her eyes—sparkling black—she looked bewitching. ‘Oh well…yeah it’s that w

This is the first (serious) poem I ever wrote, when I was about thirteen years old Under the greenwood tree I stand , I stand and stare into the darkness that overpowers and envelops itself around me. All is calm , Yet not peaceful… I cry out for release, mercy. But answer there is none. I relapse into dreams… Pleasant and peaceful times, these. The meadows are green, The Bird and the Leaf do sit on the branch. But an evil wind is blowing: Terror, Panic, blood everywhere Will there be no end? Light, at last! The meadows are green once more, The birds sing, the wind does blow. But I sleep on; never to wake From eternal slumber.

The cursor blinked twice before the screen went blank momentarily and the screensaver came into operation. The dancing figure of a nude child appeared on the screen… Antariksh heaved a sigh of exasperation and banged the spacebar. The cursor appeared once more – blinking away to eternity. The timepiece at the bottom right displayed the time - 10:35 p.m. ….A particularly depressing time of the night! Antariksh ran a hand over his forehead, wiping away non-existent beads of perspiration from his eyebrow. He reached for the glass of water kept on the far side of his workspace and gulped down the icy-cool liquid. Relief…for some time at least! It seemed cold in his dark room, even though it was early July. The all-pervading sense of aloneness seemed overpowering—as if smothering him under a mattress. Desultorily, he tried to type something…anything. Something to drive away the unceasing lonesomeness… Tonight, perhaps… He reached for the keyboard, and began typing. For sometime, only a shor

(translated from the Bengali of Rabindra Nath Tagore) On the banks of a river most calm and grey, There sat a sage deep in meditation: in prayer. There chanced that way a beggarly man; to greet The noble sage, he bowed low and touched his feet. Says he , “Lord, my home I have left far behind, “For some material bliss, wealth, I eternally pine. My life’s miserable: I make do with little or none; Wealth I had aplenty, today nothing—my lucky days are gone! The Gods, saddened at my wretched plight, have sent me To you. ‘With that riverside hermit’, said they, ‘will your cure be.’” The hermit is taken aback: he looks astonished at first; Then, suddenly, radiance from his face seems to burst. “Indeed, in that place where the weeds have grown, One day I chanced upon the Philosopher’s Stone. Because I might need to give away some day, I have buried the stone safely in the riverside clay. Noble sir, if it may be of use to you Take it! Yours it rightfully is: to you it should go!” The man hurrie

I sit and flip some Pages in vain— Outside, some rabid Dogs bark in the rain. Alone I sit and make sense of printed, bland nonsense. The room is numb— I hear nothing Except fear’s thumps: The clock’s ticking. An errant breeze Whips the glass panes Raw as I grease My pens and pains… My bones creak: An evanescent fear Awakes and speaks… Light is near— The last line is clear! Wish you all a very happy and prosperous 2006! H A P P Y N E W Y E A R !!