A Voice in the Dark | Shubhodeep Pal

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