The Silent Canvas Of My Mind, My Heart

It's like a dream bubble. Whether I sit still in a chair by the window, or cross legged on the floor in the balcony, by which tree branches rustle and wave, where crows come and perch and peer at me curiously, or a squirrel darts across, its fur the colour of the bark where it races up and down all day long, or a koel calling long and sweet. And my mind begins smearing, green, gold, red, blue, creating vivid, vibrant pictures on my silent canvas..

I try and make alive the colours that I see, the voices that I hear, in my world outside, in my world inside..fusing them both together..in my silent canvas.

I've been existing.. Being born and reborn.. Life after life, age after age.. Carrying my silent canvas in my heart, in my mind, in whichever direction my life lines twisted and turned. I look up at the sky and see clouds skidding by, the paintbrush in my mind paints them in their greys, in their sunlit golds and pinks. I walk on the cracked footpath, where each day I exercise my body, my mind, where an old man sits crunched, his claw hand emerging hesitantly, his rheumy eyes looking expectantly for the coin I give sometimes, while the paintbrush of my heart paints his yellow eyes, his worn teeth, his beaten face, his crumpled limbs, all in a heap, by a scatter of fallen leaves as withered as him, on the silent canvas of my mind.

I turn into a busy street.. Everyone is rushing, moving, pushing, scrambling.. Only the trees stand still, rooted to their stony spot, ignored, forgotten by the throngs.. I stand rooted with them, slowly watching the sun setting, sprinkling its crimson dust in the sky, on the leaves, on the ground.. And, while another day dies in its blood red hues, the street lights come alive, one by one in rows, spilling their yellow pools of light on the passers by hurrying home.

And I am the tree watching their faces shrouded in the half lit dark.. My silent canvas hurries along with them for a while, wondering which path they will take, wondering what their destination will be. Wondering what destiny I will give them in the silent canvas in my heart, in my mind.

I pause for a while, then take my solitary path into the silent canvas of my life... The dream bubble where I exist... Green, gold, red, blue...  Life after life... Age after age.

Curtain of anonymity

He let her in
Suddenly, one day
They speak to each other
Through the curtain
Of anonymity
Like explorers do
Of discovering new
Unknown lands

He opened the door
Suddenly, one day
Inviting her into
His unknown world
And she walked
Right in

She didn't turn around to see
If he had bolted the door behind her
Or had left it wide open
She was engrossed in learning
His unknown world
Through the curtain
Of anonymity

Reaching for the sky

You steal into my thoughts
Like the patter of raindrops
In the silver of this monsoon night
Gently awakening my senses

Wet earth, wet boughs, wet leaves -
I breathe it all in
Letting them envelop me
In a quiescent embrace

The trees sigh, letting out
Their breath, so long captive
Within their hard bark
Now peeling, discarding

Revealing renewed limbs
Shimmering in the rain
Dancing in the breeze
Reaching for the sky

I Eye My I

I Eye My I

My I Eyes My Mind

My Mind Eyes My I

Wrapped Like A Rind

Around My Mind

That Eyes My Eyes

That Lives In My I

That Lives In My Mind

With Eyes That Eye

My I In My Mind

Which Eyes My Mind

In My I Eye My I

My Johor-Kaku... and, Shob Choritro Kalponik

A couple of days back, coincidentally, since Rituporno Ghosh was a topic of our conversation recently, while searching for a passably good movie to watch on TV, my Ma and I chanced upon Shob Choritro Kalponik by Rituporno Ghosh on one of the Bangla channels. A 'must see' if you haven't seen it... Apart from it being a good movie, my Ma made an interesting comment about it.. She said that it seems the movie has been based on my uncle's (my father's youngest brother, Subrata Chakraborty, who was a poet) and his wife's life story.. Here's a good review of the movie: http://se7enmm.blogspot.in/2009/09/shob-charitra-kalponik-lost-poem-in.html - In the movie the character named Indraneel, played by Prasenjit (he's such a good actor compared to his father, isn't he?), is the poet..i.e. my uncle, his wife, Radhika, played by Bipasha Basu, my uncle's wife, Maya, and Radhika's friend Shekhar, played by Jisshu Sengupta, is actually Buddhadeb Dasgupta whom my aunt Maya had had a close relationship with, much gossiped about in my father's family.

One story my Ma recounts is how Buddhadeb Dasgupta had told my uncle (his dak-naam was Johor (Jawahar), so I used to call him Johor-Kaku) to write the script of one of his movies, which my uncle did, but felt cheated when his name was not there in the movie's credits. And yet my aunt Maya continued her close friendship with him.

Anyway, nowhere in the movie 'Shob Choritro Kalponik' is it said that it's based on a true story..but my Ma is completely convinced it is my Johor-Kaku's & Maya-Kakima's story. At least the bare bones of it.. such as the constant strife there was in their household because Johor-Kaku, like most artists, was completely impractical about money, disinterested in earning a living to run the house, or take part in various household duties and needs, and would instead be either immersed in his poetry or do "adda" and booze with his literary/artistic friends at the famous "adda" place of Calcutta, the Coffee House, while my Aunt not only worked to make ends meet, but also had to handle all the household cares..such as the kids, the chores. And of course my aunt's relationship - whether it was platonic or a full fledged love affair is not known by the family - with Buddhadeb Dasgupta. Plus, neither has Johor-Kaku's poetry been used in the movie.

The interesting thing about Johor-Kaku is that nobody in his family knew that he wrote poetry, and that he had made quite a name for himself in the literary/artistic circles of Calcutta. It was only when he suddenly died of a heart attack at the young age of 38, and when his death was announced in the radio and newspapers, that his family discovered it. In fact, my Ma says that my father had exclaimed in surprise to her when he heard and read tributes to my uncle.. "Hae?! Johor ki kobitha likhto?" To which my Ma had replied caustically, "If you didn't know, how would I know.."!

On hearing this, I felt quite sad, and also felt a sudden affinity to my Johor-Kaku.. I too keep my poetic side of me hidden from my family.. I feel shy to expose that part of myself to them, though, paradoxically I don't mind strangers reading them. Since I used to always doodle/sketch in every bit of paper I got hold of, my parents knew that I could draw, but never knew how important it was to me.. neither did I ever tell them. Likewise my natural singing voice.. my parents came to know I could sing a bit when I sang a song on stage for some function at Singareni Collieries, where my father worked.. But they never thought it could be a serious pursuit for me.. It was much much later when I would ask my father to write Tagore's songs in English script, which I would learn from records, that he would say off handedly that I should pursue music as a career..

Getting back to Johor-Kaku.. I remember him as a bespectacled - with those thick black rimmed square spectacles that were pretty common those days - dark, brooding faced, yet with a pleasant smile, good looking young man. Since we used to spend most of our time at my Mama'r baadi on our annual trips to Calcutta, I am more familiar with my Mamas, Maamis, and Maashis, than my Kakas and Kakimas. But I distinctly remember once when I was about 10 or 11 years old, we had gone to Burdwan to visit my Jethu, Mejho-Kaku and Johor-Kaku, all of whom lived close to each other, and, being a voracious reader those days, my delight on spotting the stuffed bookshelf at Johor-Kaku's house. I of course made straight for it and after riffling through various hardbacks and paperbacks, both Bengali, which I ignored since I couldn't read it, and, joy of joy, English, which I devoured insatiably, I chose Nabokov's Lolita, much to the consternation of various grown-ups there.. They thought it was not a book a 10/11 year old should read.. But Johor-Kaku just smiled languidly and told me to go ahead and read it.. It was beside the point that I didn't quite get what the hell the book was about anyway, at that innocent age..but understood when I read it when I was a little older.. (Which brings me to the point how male writers like Nabokov falsely fantasise about girls/women and create Lolitas).

Anyway, ever since the topic of Johor-Kaku arose, I've been dying to read his poetry. Sadly we don't have any of his poetry in our book collection, many of which are remnants of my father's, who was also a voracious reader. Hence I tried to google, hoping to find some online. I did find a couple of short poems by Subrata Chakraborty, but I don't know if it is my Johor-Kaku, or some other person by the same name. Nevertheless, here are the poems.. Do tell me what you think of them.. I think they're beautiful..

Nichhup
bhanga barir choukathe ekta bhanga frame
gacher pata sukiye o ekta kektas
dhusor bali te ore koaek tukro kagaj
fis fisiye kotha bole oder himshital pran...
-subrata chakraborty

Prakitik
basor ghore pradip nebhano chilo
hasnuhanar gandho choriyechilo
ek fali josna khujchilo aar bolchilo
chere dao amake
ami pradip jaliye asi....
-subrata chakraborty

As an end note, at the end of Shob Choritro Kalponic, there is a poem recited in the background, which my Ma says she used to recite in her childhood.. Here it is:

Amader chhoto nodi chole bnāke bnāke

Amader chhoto nodi chole bnāke bnāke
Boishakh maashe tay hnatu jol thake.
Paar hoe jay goru, paar hoy gaari -
Dui dhaar unchu taar, dhalu taar paari.

Chik chik kore baali, kotha nai kada;
Ekdhare kaash bon – fule fule saada.
Kichi michi kore setha shaliker jhaak,
Raate othe theke theke sheyal-er hnaak.

Aar paare aam bon, taal bon chole-
Gnaaer bamun para tari chaaya tole.
Teere teere chele meye nahibaar kaale,
Aar paare aam bon, taal bon chole-
Gnaaer bamun para tari chaaya tole.
Teere teere chele meye nahibaar kaale,
Gamchai jol bhori, gaye tara dhale.

Shokale bikale kobhu nawa hole pore
Anchole chankiya tara choto mach dhore.
Bali diya maaje thaala, ghotiguli maaje,
Bodhura kapor keche jay grihokaaje.

AshaRe badol naame, nodi bhoro-bhoro-
Matiya chutiya chole dhaara khorotoro.
Mahabege kalkal kolahol othe,
Ghola jole pakguli ghure ghure chote.
Dui kule bone bone pore jay shara,
boroshar utshabe jege othe paara.

Our little river

Our little river flows in graceful loops
The summer heat dries her to a gentle flow,
Both cart and cattle travel across with ease
Her banks are high, her depths are shallow

The sand bed glitters, no trace of mud
The far bank shimmers with Kash flowers white,
where flocks of mynas chirp busily all day
And jackal calls arise at night

This bank shelters sleepy hamlets in the shade
Of ranks of ancient mango and palm tree
At bath times, children swim and play
Splashing water at each other in noisy glee

Each day as their bathing is done
They catch little fish in nets of cloth
Women take home their pots scrubbed clean
Their washing all done, they return to their chores

When the rains descend, the river swells fast
Rushing waters raise voice in happy uproar,
The muddy torrent spins in eddies and swirls
Both banks uniting in joyous clamour
Awake, to join in the festival of rain

The bleeding bird

Things being
As they are
I must admit
I'm that lost bird
Who tried to fly
Before her time and
Fell flat on stone ground

So here I am
Covered in my
Bleeding feathers
Attempting to rise
Again and perform
My air dance
For a star
Which I'd been training for
All my life
And find my head
Reeling, lurching
Crazily

But, Oh, Incognito
A secret name
Carved on the wall
Of a bleeding feathered heart
You're the solitary star
The bleeding bird
Is tied to
Seeking the warmth
Forever hidden

A butterfly screams

As night gave way to first light

And the stars began to fade

Sitting by the tall tree

Near which the hibiscus flowered

With blood red petals

I heard a faint whispering

Of fluttering wings

Which caught my wandering eye

Hungering for a death’s cry


So with a quick twist

Of my nimble fingers

Its rainbow wings I tore

And when it fell to the earth

Twisting and contorting

Its ludicrous trunk

With a quick foot

I stamped out its breath


So there it was

That silly thing

With its rainbow wings

All tattered and torn

Its ugly torso

All squelched and squished

A little blot of lifeless butterfly

Baking in the morning sun


But then to my astonishment I heard

Caught within the sticky red bloom

Its silent butterfly scream

The hideous cry pierced my ears

Like a sharp rapier thrust

Which I found intolerable to bear


So with deft fingers

Again I swiped

With a butcher’s sharp knife

Now at the hibiscus bloom

That dared to dream

Of defying what I’d decreed

 And slashed and sliced

Until it lay torn to shreds

In red drops of fresh blood petals