As I always say, you're special. For me, for Mirakee and for everyone else. I'm so glad that I've a friend like you. We don't talk much but whenever we do, it never feels like we ain't good friends :"))
Exactly a year ago, on the same day, at around 3 AM, I started writing a birthday post for the first time. To be honest I was a bit nervous because writing prose was (is still) never easy for me. And it's nearly impossible for me to write for someone I love and admire. Tho I tried to gather everything I had to ink, in my mind and heart. I won't lie, I was smiling all the time while writing it, thinking about the smile my small present would bring on your face. I had only sweet nostalgic aroma around me at that time. I had nothing to give you honestly, except some childish words and imperfect verses. So I gifted you some moments. I stuffed pauses between lines with laughters we happily spent and filled the spaces between words with smiles we shared. I always had a void in my life for an elder sibling (being eldest sucks). And that void seemed to be filled by your presence. Did I ever tell you that even my younger sister calls you bhai?
I remember how you helped me once to learn writing prose. You inspired me each and every time. I remember how I used to send you my poems to check before posting them. I remember your reply "bol" on my text "bhai". I remember each and every time when you helped me to get rid of some hard situations. Can I ever thank you enough for all these things? No. Doesn't matter what happens today, I would always be grateful to you for whatever you did, for me in past. You were always a cool brother. The coolest I should say. You never got angry on me, not even for making jokes or memes on you. Not even on making edits of your pictures. Not even for spamming your posts. Like an ideal elder brother. You supported me everytime. Told me what is wrong and what is right.
Today after a year, on the same day, at the same time (writing at 3 of night), I'm writing for you again. But instead of smiles I've tears in my eyes and a weird pain in my throat. You know what bhai? I miss the night when I was writing first birthday post for you. When I was a naive sister and you were my super hero. We didn't talk since days now. Maybe we can't anymore, like the way we used to. I swear, it takes all of me to accept this thing. But I'd always thank universe for letting me meet a soul like you, and call you my bhai. You can't imagine how much it means to me. No, you can't. You just can't. No one can. Only my heart knows what you are to me.
I'm writing this post for the person my first dedication post was written for. And that's for my bhai. Not for the person I and we all saw few days back. Whoever was he, I don't wish to see him again. I hate myself for holding things way too hard and denying changes. I still hope that everything would be same, happy like before. I miss old days.
Pardon me for being so silly and stupid. I never wanted to hurt your feelings. I just don't want a blot to ruin everything, we both have cherished so far. I still love and respect bhai.
Rooh se behti huyi dhoon ya ishare de Kuch mere raaz tere raaz awara se
Kho gaye hum kahan Rangon sa ye jahan
Tedhe mede raaste hain Jaaduyi imaaratein hain Main bhi hoon tu bhi hai yahaan
Khoyi soyi sadkon pe Sitaron ke kandhon pe Hum naachte udte hain yahaan
So gayi hain ye saanse sabhi Adhoori si hai kahani meri
Phisal jaaye bhi toh darr na koi Ruk jaane ki zaroorat nahi
Kagaz ke parde hain Taale hain darwazo pe Paani mein doobe huwe Khwab alfazon ke
Kho gaye hum kahan Rangon sa ye jahan
Happiest birthday bhai. I know I ruined your b'day post this year. मला माफ करा भाई :")
In the summer of 1905, along the borders of an obscure village in the remote areas of southern bengal, amidst the clanging of temple bells, the dhuno-filled air and small bushes full of red rukmini blossoms, did i first gain consciousness—in the form of a banyan tree. Decades have passed since and today, to break this unbearable silence, have i decided to narrate to you seedlings, my ancient tale. The earliest memories i have are of the village ladies, young and old, carrying trays of offerings of flowers and sweets for the local gods in the old temple near me. From the fresh smelling shiuli blooms to the auspicious marigold flowers, from ghee-seeped mihidana to carefully prepared sweet yoghurt—the fragrance of the offerings was mesmerising. The young girls would wear bright glass bangles and giggle as they lithely carried the trays while the older women walked with their bronze anklets ringing softly as they gossiped over the newest piece of information they had obtained from their sources. The village men would gather around me in the twilight to smoke a pipe and discuss events. Over time, i attained a sacred status. The women would occassionally offer water and various other forms of pleasing substances and circle around me, tying a red thread while chanting auspicious mantras for the well-being of their families. Birthdays, marriages, funerals—all began to be held under my shade. It was pleasant. Amongst all the villagers, Mrinalini Debi was my favourite companion. Married off to the young Bhawaniprasad Ray, at age 9, she used to spend much of her leisure time under my great branches writing or reciting poems with great passion. Eyes as clear and bright as a young fawn, skin as soft and polished as the earth, voice as enchanting as a cuckoo bird—she was my first true friend, opening up a vast horizon of lands and scenes I could've never experienced, to me. From the tales of young sailors exploring new lands to heroic men fighting for the peace of their homeland to the unimaginable palaces of kings and gods being invaded by malignant villains. She would also sing songs in her sweet voice describing heavenly sights and earthly pleasures and devotion and passion. She was the one who added vibrance in my dull routine life. Her young husband, Bhawani, as he was affectionately called, was a enthusiastic nationalist. He used to write in the local Bengali newspaper under the pen-name Ishwar. I heard the villagers say that his articles burned with the fire of patriotism and his sleep-deprived eyes filled with the dreams of a free India didn't betray those words. He was a promising lad,and so were his friends, and they tirelessly worked for the causes they believed in, holding meetings regularly under my branches for their future.
Yet the boy was not favoured by the Lady Luck. At the ripe age of twenty, he and his assembly of nation-loving men were caught having a meeting for joining the nationalist movement, by a few local British policemen and in a bout of commotion, all of them were shot right dead on the spot. Under me. Under my own branches. The policemen left the corpses in the dust below me but i shall never forget the cold air filled with the smell of jasmine flowers and blood, as if silently shrieking, "Murder! Murder!". The next day, the entire village was horrified at discovering the bloody sight. Mothers and wives with disheveled hair wailed and sobbed and screamed and weeped bitterly. Fathers and brothers could barely contain themselves as they finished the last rites. The whole village mourned in horrifying silence, at the loss of their young, promising sons. And mrinalini—a young lass of eighteen now—was widowed. Perhaps it was her age, her unfamiliarity with death, her naivety, her uncontaminated mind—that made it impossible for her to accept her loss. She lost her senses, roaming here and there and leaning on my trunk, singing dully, staring into the distance with blank eyes. The villagers had a new subject to talk about and they distracted themselves, whispering of the young madwoman of the banyan tree, to help themselves move on. I would never be able to say, whether Mrinalini truly went mad or not. She had an aura of sharpness, like a knife, that had been made blunt with misuse. Perhaps it were her in-laws who drove her out. Perhaps it was the harsh life of a widow being thrust upon her which drove her out. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I could only speculate as the villagers did. Her face was a book written in a language we had never learnt. It was at this point, on a dull autumn afternoon that a rickshaw stopped a few steps away from my canopy. A man stepped out. He had a young face, faded by the worries of the revolution he had decided to devote his life to. His eyes reflected a caring personality and yet a man who could do anything, sacrifice everything, to reach the point he wanted to.A pair of thick rimmed spectacles covered his tired eyes and he looked at his distraught sister, sitting in my shade, staring blankly into the distance. As i would later come to know, he was her brother, Mahendro Chatterjee. "Mrinu!" Even the young swallow birdlings stop fighting at the call of the mother bird, and this was Mrinalini, hearing the voice of her brother after a decade. She jolted awake from her trance. "Dada?" Perhaps they stared for two seconds, perhaps for twenty— I fail to recall now. But it seemed to me an eternity passed between us as we stood in utter silence. The air was heavy with unspeakable words, unexpressed feelings, perforated with a silent, bitter, uneffable maddening grief. It seemed to me a silent letter accounting every injustice, every taunt, every sorrowful incident that had possibly occurred that was exchanged between them. And then, they cried. They cried, as the crows on my branches lulled their young to sleep, and i stood in silence. They cried. I would never understand what had passed between them in those few moments, or indeed, in their lives before this, but i believed even God Almighty must have shed a tear at this reunion of two siblings, torn between duties and desires. Mrinalini held his hand and went away. I later heard the villagers speak of her returning to Kolkata. She was gone, perhaps forever, flown away with the autumn winds. Weeks went by and then years, Mrinalini didn't return. As time went by, her name faded into an obscure memory, a bittersweet nostalgia, a folk song that lost its tune before being sung. I was abandoned too and declared inauspicious as quickly as i had gained my scared status. The weeds around me grew into a wee forest stage and i grew on, spreading my branches and roots, wider and deeper. Mrinalini, never returned. I did hear once, the words of a traveller describing the heroic exploits of a young patriot woman nicknamed Mrinal. She had become a barrister and helped defend the freedom fighters sentenced for trial and had even started teaching in a girl's school. These flashes of stories gave great relief to me. She was safe. She was happy. That was enough for me. A few years back an old couple were passing in front of me in a carriage. The woman halted the driver and stepped down. She was wearing a grey cotton saree, gold-flecked bangles on her hand and a light metal-rimmed pair of spectacles framing her deep kohl filled eyes. Her face was wrinkled and her salt-and-pepper hair was loosely tied into a bun and yet when i saw her, i felt a strange affection for her. She looked at me softly and stroked my trunk gently, asking," Do you remember me? It's me. Mrinalini. Do you remember me? I used to hide in your branches. Do you remember me? You used to lend me your shade for my poetry and singing. It's me. Mrinu. My, you have grown. I have become old too haven't I? Look there, do you remember my dada? But really dear, how could they let you alone for all these years?" . She smiled. If I were human, I would've hugged her. I wanted to tell her i was proud of her, that she was like my sister, daughter, mother and friend. I wanted to tell her i remembered her. I wanted to tell her that i missed her. But all i did was stand in soft silence, balancing the golden sun rays dancing on my leaves, amidst the two siblings and the bushes of rukmini blossoms beside me. And then, they left.
All of this moments have cuminated into this point of time, where I sit among you all narrating my story. It is nothing great, and hardly moving. I have merely stood witness to these events and formed an attachment to my memories. Perhaps, since I've seen so much, heard so much, the silence in which i stand today makes me ache. But the Almighty has plans for each of his creatures and every dawn i can only pray for the peace of all his beings as i ruminate on the memories of the temple bells and dhuno-filled air amidst the summer sun and rukmini blossoms all around.
What do y'all think it's been such a long time since I posted here honestly feeling intimidated it was fun writing this though xddd
You've left me, Fading chemtrails While he gently crosses the state lines I shouldn't have knocked on the blues This hard. The clouds break into rains anyway He hates monsoons I love the rainbows We were supposed to watch the sunsets They're so gloomy in his city And so pink in mine, The stars pair into a galaxy While I await their fall.
Most people are like sweaters worn by winter skies, and pinafores by summer evenings, they are sunsets and sunrises, and fading cardigans with studded sequins as emblems of aftermath of war. I'm laden with footprints all over my scarred back, I feel perpetually tired from staying at one place. I miss you, I miss the way you used to blush and your whispery voice singing hopenotes to me. I've told all our tales to our children,(btw they've grown taller than me) they ask for you, I tell them you're always with us, above us, within us. I hope you write back to me, soon, or send us a sign, a smile. Please? Maybe meet me at the horizon.
उसे आईलाइनर पसंद था, मुझे काजल! वो फ़्रेन्च टोस्ट और कॉफ़ी पे मरती थी, और मै अदरक की चाय पे! उसे नाइट क्लब पसंद थे मुझे रात की शान्त सड़के, शान्त लोग मरे हुए लगते थे उसे, मुझे शान्त रहकर उसे सुनना पसंद था। लेखक बोरिन्ग लगते थे उसे। पर मुझे मिनटो देखा करती जब मैं लिखता। वो न्यूयार्क के टाइम्स स्कवायर,इस्तांबुल के ग्रैन्ड बाजार में शॉपिंग के सपने देखती थी, मै असम के चाय के बागानों मैं खोना चाहता था!मसूरी के लाल डिब्बे मैं बैठकर सूरज डूबना देखना चाहता था!उसकी बातों में महँगे शहर थे,और मेरा तो पूरा शहर ही वो! ना मैने उसे बदलना चाहा और न उसने मुझे।
एक अरसा हुआ दोनो को रिश्ते से आगे बढ़े। कुछ दिन पहले उनके साथ रहने वाली दोस्त से पता चला वो अब शान्त रहने लगी है, लिखने लगी है, मसूरी भी घूम आयी है लाल डिब्बे पर अंधेरा होने तक बैठी रही है! आधी रात को उसका मन अचानक से अब चाय पीने को करता है! और मैं....
मैं भी अक्सर कॉफ़ी पी लेता हूं किसी महंगी जगह बैठकर!! _________________________________________________________ इस पोस्ट को दोबारा लिखने का सिर्फ ये मक्सद है की पहले वाली खो गई थी।
Excruciating pain hiding beneath your obscurity Hope That someone Out there Might be craving To know you more A man For whom Khalid Hosseini Would write For endless hours Mysterious, Gaunt aura. Remorse filling your guts A bleeding heart Yet Not bleeding courtesy. If the fire Were to ever see you It would For sure feel low For the rage You contain isn't mundane And if The mystery Would ever feel arrogant Your eyes Would be enough To shut her blabbering mouth Every now and then I won't be Captured in your world Per say, But brain, Seemingly would Always be In your captivity.
There's a maddening desire A crazy fire To teleport to my 50's Drive through the country Alone Raining heavily Loud thunders, winter vibes For once, I wanna forget I have family Lover or friends I wanna be with me I wanna be against to me I wanna fight me I wanna ask me The reason I let My 18 year old self Ravage my esteem Devastating Every inch of my soul Now I'm all drenched There's wind blowing But my hair is wet. I urge to drink more But I'm all alone. Hi fiving the long lost nostalgia I come back Staring at my dashboard Realizing This is one of that Bittersweet moment, Where very second Of my life I was surviving, For once, 5 minute stay and 30 minute ride Taught me to live. I start my car Put the gear outright Now, To never come back again.
She unleashes her golden flesh and let the sun rays sieve through her soul. Freedom runs in her bare veins and hope is twirled around her bones.
Stars gaze at her twinkling face, the moon is envious of her smile. She wears beauty dipped in serenity, and galaxy in the pupils of her eyes.
And when she is around, flowers have a reason to bloom. Her aura is being raised by the day and adorned by night's gloom.
Her glance is the summer breeze and her touch is the monsoon rain. Her smile would never let you know that she rules the kingdom of pain.
Bhaisahab. I forgot how to rhyme and write poems. Nevermind. Jhel le ab thoda. To be honest, I don't really remember our first conversation par starting mein I used to think ki you're weird aur pagal types bandi (Narayan jhooth na bulwaaye) But later I realised that you're sach mein weird aur pagal types bandi :"))
On a serious note, Budhhi ho rahi. Akal se bhi badi ho ja. Pagal aurat.
Happy birthday :")) P.S. Animes are overrated. Tu *beep * agar Charlie is overrated boli toh.