THE PARTING GIFT

She saw him from her window,

Every evening,

In the dying light of the fading sun,

Sitting in the park,

Under the shade

Of a giant sycamore tree--
Hugging the corner of a wooden bench,

Meant for lovers.

There was magic

In the profusion of colors

On his patchwork robe --

That flashed like flames

Weaving dreams of tales

Long, long forgotten.

His faded hat,

His shaggy, unkempt hair,

Caught in the last rays of the sun,

Blew feverishly in the air

As he sat there --

Guileless and forlorn.

From their hollow pits his eyes, 
Glistened like glinting embers.

He gazed on the kids,

Prancing around 

In a war-like frenzy.
He sat in a stupor

Like a Buddha in meditation,

Mesmerized, 

and in a deep, deep reverie.

She came down quietly,

With hot soup in hand.

He looked at the offer

With vacant eyes stunned; 
His lips slowly

Breaking into a lazy smile.

Eons later,

Those pit less eyes

Sought out what he treasured,

From the holes of his blazing mantle

A Havana,

Illegal and banned.

With his voice cracking,

He held it out
And said woefully,
'I have sinned,I seek penance.
Only this keeps me from breaking.

I come to look for my childhood here.’

Without another word he left,

Leaving on the bench his little gift ,

And his footprints

Trampling the blades of dead grass;

His frail and crooked body
bent with remorse,

Diminishing steadily by distance ---
Never to return.

***********

Calcutta      21,10,2014

The Phantom City

The road before my house

Runs its serpentine course,

Like a river in motion.

Its capricious curves in the far distance

Reminds me

Of the midriff of a teenage girl,

Eager to explore life.

The denuded trees along the way,

Lean with time and shame,

Speak of the rage of savage battles

Fought between man

And nature.

In my wheel-chair,

I stare out of the window

Making friends with the sounds

That fill the evening air;

Sounds

Of a mindless, noisy game

Between a sea of humanity

And an over-zealous traffic

Clamoring for a bit of space

On a little strip of

Decaying tar.

I take a deep breath

And smell the sloppy savouries served

To hungry, faceless commuters

At street corners,

Before they surrender to the mercies

Of fuming,

Whirling wheels

Carrying them to a hole

Called - home-

In some unknown, unseen

Suburbia.

Gingerly, as dusk settles in,

And the evening

takes a deeper shade of purple,

Fickle street lights

Keep their promise to alert

men in uniform on a stroll,

And lovers,

In search of a few

Secret moments of truth.

Much later,

When the blinking lights

From neighboring homes phase out,

And all sounds have been muffled

By the droning of sleeping bodies,

I long for the wind

To take me to the end of the curve

To view the lights and take in the sounds

Of a world

Beyond this winding road.

Tell me

Is there no world

That has no aching fears

Of a scorching hue of red

That severs man from his soul!

A place where the air doesn't cringe

At lust preying on flesh

While parents sell emaciated bodies

Of their young

For a few pieces of silver.

Is'nt there a world

Not torn asunder in the name of God

By reckless greed,

Anger and fear?

A  city that

Doesn’t bleed or sneer;

A city that doesn’t hide behind

The indigo sky

And sheds no secret tears.

Dola Dutta-Roy

Oct.2003,Calcutta

Sleepless Nights

These days I sleep less

and stay awake more often.

They say it is a sign of aging.

But when I lie in bed

I think of nothing.

Actually.

Fleeting moments of life

in sepia tones

appear and disappear;

fading-- before they merge together.

I think of no one in particular.

Not even you.

There is a strange longing for smells from the past.

Smell of brown-paper

wrapping new school books;

of  parcels received from  distant aunts;

of uncharted roads traveled

together with a wild bunch of friends

looking for life.

Many of them I won’t see again.

Not even on Face Book.

Taste of items tried at street corners

from an endless race of vendors,

in my delirious youth

fill my mouth.

Sometimes…

Lines from letters 

etched in ink

in the dark recesses of a mind

going half blank,

moisten my eyes.

.

My sleepless nights are not filled with fear.

Fear of death or the unknown.

I fear nothing, not even dying and

the pitless void the soul hovers in.

Nor do I pray.

As I have nothing to ask for.

It is just an endless search for a person

I thought I knew,

a person I wanted to be;

a person who had many dreams.

They say

life is just to be experienced

with the good and the bad;

and that

it is all about staying alive

every waking moment

because there may be no

Tomorrow.

That is why

I sleep little these days and

keep awake most  nights.

     ********           *********      *******

DDR, Calcutta,  18.12.03

DANCE OF DEATH

Have you seen rings of smoke

dying languorously in the air

in a swirling maze

like the dance of death

melting into oblivion?

Is it another vision of 'life'?

Have you looked in the eyes

Of a man holding 

the remains of his infant

crushed to a pulp,

or those of a woman

bereft of her dignity

under the weight of

savage desires?

Yet they find no justice,

no sorrow 

for such unceremonious

dismissal of life!

Looking back

I see a different me

with eyes shining with hope

and the vanity of youth

to change the world

that could last forever!

Echoes of whispers

and slogans

rang in my ears.

The touch of warmth

from encircling arms

and the taste of freedom

sipped lazily

in euphoric frenzy

comforted me.

The feeling no longer lingers

and I recollect that

Eons back they were buried

amidst tremors and tears.

When I look in the mirror

I see nothing today!

Nothing of the flashing hopes

or undying vows.

All wiped out clean

Leaving a hollow shell,

a shadow that

I call ‘me’.

Just a survivor!

My hands are empty now,

my eyes, colourless.

I hear no laughter;

I see no smile--

only the call of temptation

lurking in corners

drowning the human soul

with vicious attempts !

And now

There’s nothing but waiting

for the real game of life

to end and

melt into oblivion

just like the dance of death

somewhere, someday, 

in midair.

****************

Dola Dutta Roy, Calcutta, May 22, 2010

UNSUNG WORDS

Did I ever tell you

that April is my favorite month

when the sky is clear

... and the air is hot

with flavors from days gone by?

When the touch of

ice runs through my fingers

with an ecstasy half forgotten

that lets them curl

like a leech in shame-

coated with a sprinkle of salt ?

Did I ever tell you

that sometimes

music from the neighbor’s FM

sings of the times we spent together

in the green woods

smelling primroses and

counting colors on the wings

of butterflies

in search of passion

among uncountable,

willing flowers

beating-- just to be touched?

But I know,

I never did tell you

that the first drop of rain in June

on my parched skin

still fills my eyes with tears

feeling those quivering moments

our lips met after an inane battle

when there was nothing left

to be said anymore...

but hear the beat of a longing

that throbbed

in the middle of my chest

running through the length of my arms

just wanting to hold your head

close to my heart ?

Always.

And today

when the mind

is growing rapidly senile

by the weight of loss and gain

in a world filled with noise and pain --

I stand alone,

brave and strong

with no shadow of yours

to envelop me.

Ever. Anymore.

I seek no words

to tell you today that

I have no regrets or fear,

no truths

left uncovered

as I know you can hear

all that is left unsung,

from wherever you are,

in your sleepless soul!

****************

Dola Dutta Roy, Calcutta, July 6, 2009

DIWALI

It is the time to give again.

Voluptuous hampers,

surprise discounts and

'Sone pe Suhagas' flood the market.

Kajus and barfis,

packaged in stylish

designer wraps,

cascade out of store shelves.

Candies coated with new flavours,

in shapes never seen before,

are tucked into heavy baskets.

Even eateries offer

two-for-the-price-of -one

while 5-Stars bring in

the swinging mood

for the swaying  hips.

Outside the bar windows

hungry faces crawl the streets.

Shimmering silks in passion colours

sparkle in the burst of  flames

from the fireworks.

At home

golden thalis laden with

blessings from

the Goddess of Wealth

mark the day --

promising plentitude

to the good and virtuous.

This could be the Day!

The little girl on the pavement

with eyes like tuni bulbs,

stretches out her dented pan,

delirious with hope.

At the break of dawn,

when the card games are over

and flirtatious glances

are darting no more,

a tiny body

resting on a piece of rag

is marked with a frozen smile

and,

tears that have dried up

on her dirty face.

A cold metal pan

lies next to her curled up body.

Empty.

Her only gift for life.

***************

Dola Dutta Roy, Calcutta, October 4, 2008

A WINDOW TO THE WORLD

I need a window

That helps me see

The world,

And the rhythm of life in motion

In the far distance,

Where I can never be.

All I see is the serpentine road

That blurs my vision

And beckons me to wander 'n fall

Like autumn leaves and snowflakes

So I forget my mission.

I ask for nothing but

The strength to hold on

To the dreams I had savored,

Woven with tears in threads of gold;

A secret I cherished, never to be told.

by

Dola DuttaRoy

Calcutta, India

Sept 17,2013