Asylum Peep

Unreason

or ‘reason dazzled’

Foucault laments

is long lost

‘madness’ location

discovered ‘space’

madness renaissance…

Shakespeare, Cervantes whispered


discourse delirious

trapped chronic obscurity

ritual exiles

of semi-ambiguous figures

tales and fables

of madman’s truth

self-perfection

…or vain presumption?

tamed emotions burped…

Don Quixote, Ophelia…

hummed with Lear the King

grey lull …

and I hummed with them…

To err

…is human and human beings err. We believe we all have an image (public rather) and once built we try to protect it at all costs. We expect a winning, pleasing personality everywhere. Image? What is that for? To hide our vulnerabilities and play the right cards at the right time. Why is there a constant scrutiny of hopes? Why our intentions are weighed and talks dissected? Will there ever be a day when we would be brave enough to be ourselves? Laying everything bare (chuckles)…no fear of being judged by the world (basically my family, friends, colleagues etc.). I started it on a serious note but halfway down I realized its futility …so here I am with yet another incomplete thought…

The Last Sight

The green curtain fluttered

a dream-like fragrance

with outstretched hands

She came in…

I gently put my hand on hers

She ran her fingers

…through my tangled hair

I looked at her kohled eyes

shadowy lines merged into emptiness

reminded me

…of the dark forest grove

and the name of Rana Uncle

on the flyleaf of her book

middle parting of the hair

and a tight bun behind

highlighted the broad forehead

I looked out of the window

…a purple haze

lights shone like glow-worms

She came up to me

…and stared with helpless eyes

She drew me close

and on my feverish cheeks

put her cold, dry lips

light breeze and her saree trembled

She slept in the next room bed

morning a feigned knock…

the maid said…

‘your mother passed away last night…’

Sky and its halves

Someone once said that she often felt an intense desire to return to the womb. Do you feel so? I often do…but if you ask me why then I will have to say there’s no rhetorically graphic answer to that…but when I see bound by their tradition a section of women still eat last and least throughout their lives, even when they are carrying and lactating. Perpetuating the cycle of malnourished moms’ dying in childbirth or giving birth to malnourished babies…I do feel the desire…

Be it your newspaper or your cell phone-open display of reassuring messages that women’s day is all about freebies and gift coupons…clothing ranges, movie tickets, spa packages, restaurant deals. Oblivious of the existence of this very day when I see Meena, Korobi, Lashmi in purulia, nalbari, Agya (just to name a few) are working hard like any other day only to listen to their husbands words that "women, like children, eat and do nothing." I do feel the desire…

There’s nothing new to talk of daily rapes, assaults and dowry-related murders. Female infanticide and sex-selective abortions nip the little aspiration left right in the bud. Amidst these when I see women in rural India (even a section of urban) lack power to decide whom to marry. And women inheritance rights…legal loopholes deny that too… I do feel an intense desire to return to the womb…and sit peacefully under my rainbow coloured umbrella…

Tale of a Morgue

1021…

lying at the extreme end

you must be thinking

of popcorns, Sherin, bolster home

or love in the time of cholera

oblivious of your present identity

you must be thinking

how beautiful your name sounded

when Sherin uttered

on a random night-out

whispers around

they said –

you are a medico legal case

1021-against it

the length of your body

breadth across the shoulder

weird mole near the left ear

finger impressions…

all recorded

in the unfriendly register

I wondered

is 1023 too is thinking

of popcorns…

The Traffic Stop

The red light flashed
nothing
but a routine traffic stop
the drivers’ honks’
and the passengers’ yawns’
busy, crowded and urban
amidst these…a little girl
in a semi-tight top
clung to her hips
was a long torn skirt
displaying young curves
more than it should have
glimpses of lascivious stares
how long would she be safe
knocked a faint thought
but the blank look in her eyes
echoed…
maybe it was already too late
the green light flashed
speed, time-lapse…
and a hurried thought
all in a not so routine traffic stop…

The Mad Wife

Relationship…he said
necessitates an irresistible involvement
involvement? What kind of involvement? I asked…
is involvement a mystery
just confined in the contours of our bodies
or is it my wild eyes
when I feel your lips…
is it your touch
which loosens something at my chest
or is it my fear of masks
in the bedroom and bath
is it your biological presence
diminished by the volume of your Armani suit
or is it my inflated ego
with an open neckline

‘Oh! You question a lot’-he said.
his hand wandering over my bare arm
waiting for a second at the birth mark of my neck
…the me-questioning again but in silence…
is involvement the smell of Cartier...
the perfume he is wearing…