Reshaping music tastes

I thought I had left behind my love for Bengali songs back in my childhood. Growing up as a kid in Kolkata, drenched in the everflowing morning and evening songs blasting out from my neighbor’s home. Over time the loudness in the morning ceased to be music and more of an alarm clock, something of an annoyance. That was the first time I fell out with music.

I think I lived without music for a long time when that happened, I drenched myself in literature and forgot about the tunes that would inevitably play every single day.

Somewhere, along the way the neighbors stopped playing their music too.

I fell in love with the strips of Bollywood and English songs that came to me through friends. New shiny desktop blasting out songs from artists that made me feel like everything they had done had been to explain my life to me.

Through the muddy waters of metal songs that made little sense lyrically to the shiny abyss of psychedelia I travelled everywhere. I left behind the thoughts that plagues me before and entered into my own zone. I learned about myself from Pink Floyd, I pushed myself forward with Frank Turner and I discovered myself again with “The Cure”.

But, somewhere between the bridge from “Neutral Milk Hotel” to “Arcade fire”, I moved away…

Present day offers a new world view really.

Away from my home, away from the neighbors blasting Rabindrasangeet, I listen to old Bengali songs again and again.

When you are away from your home, you crave for pieces of it.

For me the pieces come from the pictures of my city that smell of steam. From music that describes the life there in moments. Even the wandering smoke from the chimneys seeks the flame that makes it. I seek my heart that I left behind in Kolkata.

I seek life.

I seek myself


Water at the end of the road

The summer heat rises to the top and there’s no space left to run. My home city burns in the heat and there is little shelter available. The tiredness settles in like a veneer and refuses to wear off. This is not the Kolkata I love.

Poems are hard to write at 2:30 PM at the bus terminus when your date has cancelled on you and you have little to return to. The nearest tea seller has not started making another set of tea yet, and the shoppers seem to have returned home finally after everything.

And then you walk, a little foot before the other. Your white uniform transparent with sweat, the bag weighing down on you with vengeance. That little child dancing before the rolled up windows of a car with the wish of some money. A washed up beggar looking up with hopes of some alms. A broken down city looking for hope.

These were the days when I found her.

Washed up saree with no romance in her eyes. A pot of water before her, some sweets by it’s soide.

A drink of water a handful of sweets. A thing that my father used to do when he was much much younger

A slice of romance in the sweltering heat

Next time we meet

Next time we meet we will dance to the songs from “Grease”
And I will try to not forget the steps I so easily forget
And in little increments, I would dance with little moments
Thoughts that have never been spoken would find expressions
Maybe, my feet will have a bigger voice than me
But, hey let us do the Time Wrap too. lets dance away the eve
Because to be true the morning would be too close for comfort
And with you comfort is what I really wish for, what I need
Heck, last time we met, I left my dancing shoes at home
My heart at the back of the car seat, for girl when you dance
Little by little, or fast like a lightning, whatever you do
Salsa to the night or the ballet splits at the beginning of day
This time I would be less ashamed of the little things
We would dance still, and I would remember the steps
When the disco ends, and the music stops playing
Burnt soles I would leave at the floor
But, my heart I will remember to take

Sometimes I look for love(Sometimes for Sex)

She was not the kind to leave her ashes on the path
It was strange with her, the lips intermixed with the blood
Blood that did not free flow into emptiness but remained
As an afterthought, a message that is never fulfilled
And I guess that is why her remains are not my way
Because what she cannot keep as hers she burns
And I burn still, with her thoughts assaulting me from all sides

With him, there is no thought as such
Perhaps a little glimpse of something resembling a thought
He leaves me with bones, he leaves me with carcasses
Some thorns that I could dismantle with hands
Some loves I cannot get rid of, some itches I cannot scratch
A smell of death, a smell of lust, a smell of rot

Then, again there is he. An ocean in kindness
A “tries too hard but, never succeeds”, left alone at crossroads
Burnt coffee in the morning and apologies, and escape
On my mind. Throat hoarse from the shouts and cries.
A love that smells of tears, a tear that smells of smoke.
A man who was always there for me
Someone I never wished to know more

Oozing sexuality in the mornings never
Leading into no end. Something that I could never decipher
The smell of her heart in the morning mingling
With the person he became at noon, escapes so fascinating
And yet, so limited in person. Dates ending too soon
So much romance lost in bodies meeting
Endless rush of nothing to be foun

Someone I loved before loving him was cool
An idealized person, an inspiration for all of the people around
Meeting up in spaces that are contained in hushes
Tears that could not find voice
Constricted throats, kisses made with salt
Love so bad, it made you turn better

Love breaks open barriers, oceans never meet ends
And you are left in want

Some sexism

Why is having sex with a woman?

Every time I have been in my hostel the main topic has often been about having sex with some girl. About how wonderful the feeling was. Yet, most of the times it is not appreciation that follows but, simple slangs. The point it seems, is to reduce the woman to her genitalia and breasts, and to erase everything else completely.o

How many times was it this time?

I think three-four, all people who met with women and had sex, and made it a point to brag. Heck, I liked the bragging but, then the inevitable slangs follow. The person they had sex with becomes a “Whore”, a “stupid bitch” or simply “that chick with boobs man”.

Heck, I don’t hate hook ups but, somewhere the fact that after sex women simply become bragging points and are put into the corner bothers me a lot.

Maybe, that shall change some day too.