A Window

Tonight,
I've kept a window ajar,
a few feet from where I paint my dreams,
a tiny jump from where the solemn squirrel,
sulks on the old jackfruit tree.

A pair of owls stare down at me I'm sure,
All wise and sad,
Old, and together.

Tonight,
I've kept a window ajar,
hoping it will rain and storm,
and two droplets of foolishness,
will slowly trickle down the old jack fruits,
tickle the squirrel awake,
drench the sorry owls to happiness,
jump a magic of a few feet,
and find a place in my dreams,
forever!

Palash
July'2013, Lumding.

I have been a Wave

For years that have stitched themselves,
Into endless hourglasses over drops of time,
I have been a wave,
On the wake of million others like me,
Bringing different stories into the same plunge,
Those you wouldn't notice anyway.

For years,
I have broken the shoreline.

I have gnawed at your steadfast rocks in anger, those sorry forts,
and proudly etched my ego all over.
I have drifted into the depthless sand in despair,
Almost not returning back, all drained and frail.

For years,
I have held on.

Someday, and today,
I am losing my prayer’s conceit,
And I feel content,
For once I am not breaking any shores,
For once I got a ride,
A ticket to endless nothingness,
A sail out to infinity,

Simply,
To a world that doesn’t know you.

-Palash
July’2013, Lumding

The Echo of an Albatross

I am there, yet not there.

"No one showed us to the land,

 and no one knows the where’s or why’s."

I am in multiple splits this day. When each thought is a moment’s guest. You phase in and out of them, like closing and opening multiple doors, often to land up in the same alleyway.

Even in a night of morbid silence, there is this bedlam of noises. The ticklish mouse, the portly lizard and the bored to hell creaky fan, all whistle away to my mind.

From somewhere far, the strains of Echoes waft in. High enough that you can make out the music, but low enough that you can’t hear the song. You start building mental bridges, from one strain to another, from the bedlam around to the cusp of the music, from Gilmour’s solo to Wright’s piano.

From somewhere within those recesses, a form leisurely rises. Stark white in the glaring black around, overhead the albatross just hangs motionless upon the air. 

“Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me”

Slowly, every so slowly, she floats ahead, around those bridges you hoped to build, and unknowingly perhaps, you float behind her, rising a 2feet higher into a no land and no sky.

But, like the music you strain to hear and like the words you fail to colour, the albatross remains out of reach. You smell her feathers, glimpse her white wings and feel their flutter in between the clouds, but never ever does she steal a glance below. 

Unfazed, she guides and heartbroken you are guided.

“And do I take you by the hand

And lead you through the land
And help me understand the best I can
And no one calls us to move on
And no one forces down our eyes
No one speaks
And no one tries
No one flies around the sun”

-Palash

July’2013, Lumding.

High Hopes.

Life is never what it pretends to be. However much we prepare and anticipate challenges, one can never tell when suddenly a left leaning curve would turn right and then plunge down, only to rise up again some unforeseen day and time. Each of them experiences, each such turn, tears a bit into our rather simple and plain canvas of life. Often, embarrassed and fearful, we tie up such cuts by some rudimentary knots, hand sewn and imperfect, helping us to keep the canvas intact somehow.

Or so we think!

Gilmour's solos on the piece, does exactly the job we need done- he slowly and meticulously undoes and unties those useless knots we tied earlier. And once he's finished, we have not a torn canvas, but a fluttering flag!

Flying High!

-Palash
July'2013, Bongaigaon.