Friday, February 20, 2009

Boyfriends and Books -- An Analogy

Boyfriends are like books. In every possible way. They are my real friends. Friends of solitude. Friends of loneliness. They bring calm and comfort to me when I’m disturbed. Restless. Impatient. Boyfriends always bring me shelter. In times of agitated frustration. And fury. Towards the world. Towards people who suddenly seem to be utter strangers. Yes. Boyfriends never fail to serve. They stand through all the turmoil. They are not only the best way to kill boredom but are also genuine buddies who induce catharsis. Thank you boyfriends, for being just like books.

Boyfriends are like books. They are a pleasure to read. No. Not all. There are some like S.N Dey and stuff. But then there are many of you I’m sure who love Maths. But to me boyfriends are like Haroun and the Sea of Stories. Or Animal Farm for that matter. They help me fantacize. Wildly. Ah… bliss bliss bliss!!

Boyfriends are indeed like books. I feel the same satisfaction in unraveling them. From their external self. From their layers. As in turning each page of a book to see its end… to see if there is anything more that it can offer. Not all of them are equally interesting. Some are fat, yes. Probably they assume that, we might mistake fatness for depth. Poor they! Poor at cheating. The moment I realize that its only paper and no content really, I put the book away. Lack of story repels me. For some strange reason. I lose all interest. Good lines are always preferable to blank pages. I’m sorry boyfriends. Truly.

But then, of course there are jewels. Like Foe. Like The God Of Small Things. Like Pather Panchali. Even after many years of finishing the read, I think about them. They capture my breath. They wring me from deep inside. Still. And will go on. And on. And on…
Unforgettable. Some boyfriends indeed leave their mark. Forever.

Boyfriends are like books. And some of them are really classics. Resembling Anna Karenina. Or A Farewell to Arms. Or Gone With the Wind. Or Shambwo. Or Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I love coming back to them and find them still as fresh, as charming, as powerful as they had been when I first knew them. Cheers to you, guys!

Poetry. Umm… to be honest, very few of my boyfriends could reach the sublimity of poetry. They just lack the musical flow. Easy, yet mysterious. Within, yet imperceptible. Plenty, yet rich. I wish I’ll find someone really poetic some time in my life. Poetry is my favourite art.

Have you ever felt the urge to die to get certain books? To have them? To own them? To make them yours? I have. I still have. I will have, I guess. So I feel for some of my boyfriends. They are extremely few (I’m too choosy, you know!), though. They are like Complete Works of Shakespeare. Or… say… Sanchaita. Totally irresistible and worth a store. I try all possible ways to get them. To take them under my possession. It has… I mean this whole process from desire to possession… a strange pleasure, believe me! Almost an evil pride that’s satiated only through complete control. It's not my lust, it's all in the books. The boyfriends.

Boyfriends are like books. They do not retaliate. They believe in Gandhigiri and distribute patience among each other. They never bug me on their own--- the very same way in which they never refuse to provide me a pleasant refuge in times of psychological mayhems. They absorb my soul.
Okay… I admit… at least for sometime!

Err… I mean for… a… a considerable period of time.

Anyway, the chief point is that I love books.
And so… I mean, of course, I love boyfriends.

Long live the two!
Hip hip hurray!

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

The Little Girl

She whispered in my sleep,
A plaintive strain,
Careless : windy : black.

She visited my dreams
Like a torn fairy,
Broken wings : withering light.

She obstructed my thoughts,
Clogging the sunlit joy,
With sick, ringing laughter.

She touched my hand,
The bones rending apart the clinging flesh,
Glassy eyes ; matted hair ; groaning bruises.

I saw her today, again.
Asleep in her mother's arms,
Playing on the crowded street,
Tugging the ignorant man,
Smiling at the star-studded sky.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


Darkness evaporated into dim light,

Silence gave way to musical chirps,

The cold, damp wind created a vapoury surrounding,

The sky changed from black to ashened blue,

Slowly the first scarlet streaks became visible.

I gazed at the changing hues of the eastern sky

In ethereal amazement.

The dazzling light seeped through the cloudy mazes,

Showered like rain : crimson, orange, golden.

I closed my eyes;

As the heavenly light poured in me,

And touched the rusty chords of space and time,

For once, it became real!

I sensed it through the dew drops, the soft leaves, cuckoo’s notes

The wet air, the cool breeze, the dirt at my feet :

Mother’s caring fingers and loving lips,

Taking away all my pains :

For once, I felt, free.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


She whistles along the railway tracks
She hugs the chill of wintry blues
She loves to live some time alone
She enjoys life’s unsure cruise.
She stands on toes to gulp the sky
She digs small holes to taste the hell
She dances with the restive seas
She spins around a mystic spell.
She paints her thoughts with teasing rains
She smiles as clear the first light sun
She gives my soul a sovereign mind
She leads those works yet undone.

She dreams of a Motherland...
Where they and us can evenly stand.