November nostalgia ©

Here I lay on my bed; filled with worries and thoughts up to the head;

An amorphous future lies ahead, filled with instances of the effervescent and the rancid.

Time passes by like fleeting images, wrapped in memories sweet and sour;

So many things left untouched, even more which lacked desire;

‘Coz the month is November, the month of nostalgia-

So much time spent together, forging bonds in the fire of trust;

House of cards facing the gust,

It will be difficult to say goodbye, tears rendered invisible under the black sky.

Cross your heart and zip your lip, swear oath on a promise you’ll keep;

Never to kill me in your memories,

For the month is November, the month of promises.

Who knows whether we’ll meet again? Who knows what’ll happen next?

We’ll travel the roads we’re destined to, there’s no reason being vexed.

This is the time to meet the world, to break open the chrysalis of misunderstanding,

Newer bonds will be formed, but it’s hard to tell if they’ll be forged by the trusted fire;

‘Coz the month is November, the month of hope.

As the day for departure arrives, I cling on to what is left;

And cherish every moment; good or bad,

Reminiscing,

With a heart of lead and salt in my eye, I try to ignore the urge to cry…

For the month is November, the month of sorrow.

Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra (guest)

The Heavens Above

Most days they are obscure, a grey of promises held back and of cleansing atonement yet to come, of autumn showers that wipe the dust of the mundane and prepare the pandals for pujo. Some other days, they are obsidian, alluring pools, tempests roiling in their depths with winds of pain, confusion and awestruck hurt tearing each other apart like walrus males i’ve seen on television, bleeding with the need to release and aching with the necessity of holding back. And then there are the days of crystal clear mirror-like oases, from which you cannot hide and which hides nothing from you, honest and open scoring lines in your heart like the achy comfort of a new toothbrush or a natural loofah. But the days i like best are black. Golden lights dancing on the black lava, almost what the sky looks like at the beginning of kali pujo, sparkling lights and soaring lanterns illuminating the vast depths into which you can stare, and lose yourself and use the tail of one iridescent cracker to pull yourself back out. The days they dance with mischief, quivering darkly with hidden mirth, laughing at the world’s fallacies at you at me at himself, peeking from behind the veil as dark as the winter night sky his golden soul, wrapped in strings of love and joy and merriment, in the apparent wonder of fun that lurks in every nook every cranny of the world and its crazy beings, the days when insanity is just another name for friendship, the days when eyes laugh longer and louder than words and indeed when words themselves recede under the radiant charm of his eyes.

Upasruti Biswas