A Walk With Darkness

Darkness has always attracted us in many ways. Here darkness is going to teem a breezy and beautiful evening which would give you jerk of earthy love.

Picture by Amit Chakraborty

It was about 8 o’clock in the evening at my maternal house, Balichak. To avoid irritation of sulky village summer we had made a quick plan to go outside for having the tig of neat breeze. Without any hesitation we set out in a hurry.

The surrounding was dense and dark with a heavy silence. The path we had taken from the forked point of the way was filled with tall bamboos. The evergreen bamboos turned into everlasting black and they created a gloomy mystery. If I have to compare the existing darkness to something I would like to compare it to the darkness we feel with our closed eyes. However, we did not have enough bravery to walk through the deep gloom; so we lighted flashlights of our mobiles to reach our destination but at times we switched off them to witness the flickering fireflies that were intensifying the beauty of serene evening. Then we crossed a narrow road and entered the vast field. The darkness was less vehement there and we could see the banks with our own eyes. However we sat on a temple for a while and were enjoying the specks of beauty. Everything looked pure. A flickering light was coming from a distant hut. Without wasting time we decided to further walk and reach near the hut. We walked headlong through the bank of the field. The breeze was bending the brambles and bushes in utter happiness. Suddenly a foul smell came from the bushes. Probably it was the smell of indian fox. Nevertheless we walked on and stopped near a big tree situated adjacent to the hut. My maternal brother said that a family hanged themselves from this tree and committed suicide. The gloom of evening and the unexpected story of hanging created a psychical after-image. From then and there I took hold of my brother’s hand until we reached home. He told me more horror stories of this area when we were returning.

These feelings can not be experienced in an urban area because there is neither natural darkness nor the rumor nor the breezy wind.

Sprouting Spirit

At some point you shall find your orderly life turning into an unkempt dynamics. Of course you would have bruises of scornful days but they would make you learn a lot. They are going to ignite you until you come to the verge of the listlessness. Then years will pass by and gradually the unsolicited pains will dwindle. Your life will teach you to be stout and strong. It is your realization which teaches you to back out from hideous truth. Our will power totters, for we are common but do realize as it would help you to gain that lost vigour again.

Beginning of Summer Days

Summer has not yet unleashed its presence fully; still the weather is sultry and stuffy. Sometimes the northwester unveils its scurry and the sky appears to be sombre with the foreboding of disasters. However we can not prevent it and we have to rely on the nature for disproving our agitation. Nevertheless, for a person who is protected well in his shelter, the storm turns into weal tempest; whereas the stray people become pensive.

When clammy sweats are tenacious, sleet blissfully epitomizes. Heart feels contented and the city showers perfunctory simplicity.

City Of Joy

Whenever I sally out in the heart of the city I evince rife steps engaging in endless journey to mollify the inertia of saunter. If you reach here you would also join the brisk speed of life. The gestures of the city seem perfectly royal and match themselves with twirling tinge. However, aspects differ when my city shares winsome rapport with tradition and desolation. I vehemently cherish my city where alleyways are ‘handfuls of sweet memories’, and the adjacent archaic buildings are ‘curiosities of childhood’! Here aflame golden rays give a mere tig in my world of emancipation. City’s solitude tickles me as well!

Wishes

Wishes are dangling amaltas

And leaping picturewings ;

Idyllic and free indeed .

Hoarded in intangible layers often ,

But not always .

Day after day they enamour us
In search of the fabled interlude .

Sometimes brewing tenaciously
Deep and deep .

When doom bloom with faltering paces ,

They tiptoe having no graces .

Keeking-glass

A keeking-glass showing the face of you ,

Not knowing what hidden inside you .

It can’t ask , can’t say , can’t pretend

It can only particulate you ,

Perhaps intentionally or unintentionally .

Sometimes rubies glee ;

When it comes across a tidy magnanimous person ,

The stupid mirror unleashes an elated chuckle .

When a black face stands up in front of it ,

It also chuckles .

Again and again proving the harmony

Of “no separation”.

If you try to get a hold of the hands of your mirror image ,

With your own hands

You can’t .

Here comes the silent allusion –

What you can see you may not touch ,

You may not feel its entity !

In the world of variabilities

A keeking-glass is constant .

Orbs may differ ,

But the glass won’t replace you with me .

Oh magical paradigm !

You bag tidbits of every household

And metaphors of lives !