Every day, passing by,
Every thought without thought,
No meaning to a theory,
Passing, as if urged by
Material method, with reason without,
Into the other end of a tired daylight,
No gates to request permit,
A voice in the wind,
Astray, with no ear to shed mercy.
The rites pursued with dogged assurance,
Yet no fruit to feed off pursuit,
As the brides don the scarlet ring,
And the color on their cheeks swell,
And blush as the grooms leave for work,
Again!!
Waking through a music unsurpassed,
Battling with a semi-open light,
I, submerged, emerged,
Arms stretching to either level of my reach,
Wounded soldiers, surveying,
In loud protest, the aftermath of daylight,
Moments before the mutual truce,
One, ascending to higher retreat,
The other nursed, by cool ambrosia.
Feelings surpassed, wounds healed,
In ignorant conveyance of the cycle,
No meaning to the theory,
Yet in mute supplement.
Just a cursory glance upwards, a smile,
And the day had begun.
Wisps of gentle wind combing through,
Leaves rustling in rhythmic confusion,
Surya, his justice mitigated by my plea,
As if in unsaid congruence,
With all the thoughts that do not think.
Such wonders I beheld, I wondered.
Yonder, I see faithless sheen,
Fade in the shadows of that cherubic smile,
That grandma unleashed on my self,
Delight, such state of mind,
Not borne by one intellect,
That overtook the mild, hopeless reason,
To embrace my only reason,
My source through darkness of light,
My only dream.
Cold air, in tight embrace,
Voiding this moment of little justice,
Yet, a drop tethered, unsublimed,
That draws, with merciless mercy,
Other drops chained to other moments
Of like semblance, warm within and cold without.
Drops, that wet parched emotions,
Of a delivered existence,
Time in void suspension,
At the helm of a moribund daylight,
That yet shall not be muffled,
Victorious in dulled defeat.
Drops, that yet to me, dried,
In delivery of the volume it bore,
But, content in the smiles that replied.
Such morning bathed in delighted arrays,
The Roopnarayan, washed ashore,
Feeding the fertility of Mankur,
Little mirrors on its brow in deep conspiracy,
Throwing the Sun in such wealth,
Where eyes did fail to sight.
And at once, over the hills,
And around Chatterjee Lane,
I did see a life never lived hitherto.
Clothed in such audacity,
Loud colors, freed of monotone,
Frolicking through the Baganbadi.
The runts in deep conflict,
Over a bald patch of bearded track,
With beauty watching over.
The river licking away at the water steeds
Of the Majhis, slapping the waves of protest,
Donned in semi-nakedness, conjuring
Some long lost melody, riding on
the lilting notes of the Roopnarayan.
Kantababu, blending into the music,
Pan stained teeth, curving his lips,
To the best smile his age did muster,
Waved at me, and faded into the morning mist.
The day matured as the grooms returned,
Mankur, adorned in spots of little light,
Peeking through the many windows,
A thousand glowworms in congruence,
Slept to the lullabies of the Roopnarayan,
Even as I awoke, bereft of dreams,
That haunted me like the Majhis’ music.
Avishek Ramaswamy Aiyar: I was born and brought up in pristine Calcutta and lived the first 18 years of my life there before moving to Chennai for my undergraduate education. I eventually moved to the US, where I completed my doctoral studies in Chemical Engineering. I currently work as a Sr. Scientist at Illumina in San Diego, sunny California.