Aritra Chakrabarti

Out on the busy road You live in your lonely dream. Walking among the frantic rats You can’t hear them scream. Far away in a good old town Life is still at ease. In the world of fretting souls Your time’s but on lease. Humming to your favourite tune You dream of that old town. While bumping into busy men You’re greeted with a frown. Walking on for a few more steps You trample on a zebra’s face. It hasn’t got any eyebrows yet. You may pass with grace. In that town they sing old songs, They eat and drink and make merry. While you cling on to the few more steps Before the walk gets weary. Another block before you stop And look at the building ahead.   Where they dig up new stones with digital drills And pile them up on your head. A few more walks and internal talks And the walks too will lose their worth When you will carry the weight along And the burden’s what you’ll carry forth. Right beside you there are a head

Up there in the mountains You will find another world Where a chosen few may reach. The path is fraught with perils And the mind is put to test One step at a time. But there’s always a choice: To move on or to turn back. But there’s also a call That one needs to answer Once it finds him In his land of comfort Where the mind is lulled to sleep Till it wakes up to the call- Soft yet steady, ringing in one’s ears That others cannot hear. A chosen pair of ears at a time. It gets frequent. It gets loud. Each passing night And then during the days. It begins to beckon The feet towards the higher lands But there’s always a choice: To move or to drift, to hide or to shift. From known terrain to the new. He too had heard a voice Deep in his sleep On one of the lazy nights After a lazy day. First, he thought it was a dream. Then it grew louder Stronger, deeper. Until he couldn’t ignore it. Wherever he went whatever he did It

An ethereal corporeal footstep Added to the multitude of thumps A monumental mechanical drift Diffused through a temperate corporate pump. Oft in a room full of caffinated keyboards Tapped with the same resonant feel One of the normalised overheads Fails to respond to the drill. As the glass lets in the sunshine It does well to keep out the rain But what would the good glass keep out If the room becomes a marshy terrain? Yet after a moment of murky silence The nervous fingers get back to tapping again. Aritra Chakrabarti, 8.45AM, 15 th July, 2017.

Out somewhere at the edge of the world A man in my dreams did I see, Deep in his eyes beneath unknown skies I could feel that he well knew me. Beyond the burning days of the world and its ways He had ridden over oceans and waves. He rode out wide against the stubborn tide Of thousands of pyres and graves. Beyond the walls of time, across the fields of rhyme, I could hear his voice call me. My dreams have I sold to world dry and cold To refuse him to set me free? Aritra Chakrabarti 5 PM, 23 rd July, 2017

Darkness. Out in the distance A morbid pile of motley waste- Refused and forgotten. Time piles on And the pile grows too. Often at night it looks back At the world where it once belonged. One item at a time Refused by one at a time. They all meet there. The pile greets them. They all live there And they learn to care. Care that they were denied. They were too old Or frayed or out of fashion. Here they have no use. Here they needn't have one. They all pile up. Out of use. After ages of looking at the world The world never looked back. But tonight the world stares. Why do they see smoke Spiralling up from the pile? Dark clouds of smoke. Tonight the pile will burn Tonight the pile will breathe. Tonight the eyes will bleed And tonight the world will recede.

Countless faces everyday Moving with another nameless face To places where dreams are rolled In pieces of paper to be burnt to ashes By the end of the month. The ceremony of drifting To and from the workplace. Some with vigour and some with pain Some with hope or utter disdain. They move on till the end of the month. Another month rolls in like the local train Crowded, sweating, gasping for fresh air In the distance he hears a copious refrain Seeping through the gaps of hopeless walls of bodies In the beginning of the month. Amidst the toil and the ritualistic drift His universe defies universality As he moves towards a dream wrapped in silk Which he keeps in an impenetrable vault Where neither the crowd, nor the aching back nor the sweat can reach. His month begins and his month doesn't end As his time is paused till his own time he launches And launches himself on its waters Riding with the breeze in his face And the su

They had set out to walk Together on a road That had caught their eyes. The road to an unknown land A land with its unknown ways That neither had ever seen. Yet the rituals along the road Pulled them further still As they got so far That they knew not of time Or place or the space That between them had once stood. Time rolled on as they became one With the ceremony that led to the land. As the years did pass The land itself did tell Its age old tale. For years they took the tiny steps Each one at a time... They never knew when The land became their own Where the customs were old And so were they. How happy they were To have finally arrived. Years gave way to days As they learnt of other ways And one day a newer land did call. Would they answer back With a common voice? Could either one linger back And pretend not to hear? Will they walk that way Or choose to forever stay In that land that felt like home?   

I woke up one morning Found you had left the bed. The single cup of coffee stood unmoved, While the second cup had moved on Beyond time and all repair. A choking feeling- It got harder at night. I clung onto the pillow Hoping that the night will bury The flames that my words had lit. Night gave way to day And the days rolled on in a languid way But the fight only got harder. Still no sign of you… The single cup did slide Towards my lips as I took in the smell The coffee returned a void That was so hard to avoid. Not even a call… Did I have the face to face you? Would you ever know that I wanted you so?

The rattling of the chains, The resonating brains, The clouds of holy water Fuming behind the clatter... But it all froze down. All in a while A horrid, mangled pile Of flesh and bones and blood, Of hopes and dreams and mud... But it all froze down. From the bottom to the top They swore they would not stop. They pierced the lofty airs. They shook the mocking chairs... But it all froze down. Under the fateful tree There stood not two but three Daring to pluck the fruit To pass it down to their root... But it all froze down. A dream they now say it was- A dream fraught with flaws. A dream that had no hope Riding a downward slope... It all froze down.

Rain in my brain Friday night and an old glass- Full of sparkling old rain. An overworked brain Looking to numb the pain. Rain, rain down again Like the time when the world was young And the world was big Without a daily gig To impress them and depress the self. When the world had rhyme- A rhyme of ease, a rhyme of grace; A rhyme that left back a trace That now smells like rain That’s dried up under a life Of no purpose and a daily strife. Rain, rain down again. Rhyme, breathe and dance again. Brain, look for the rain. Two days of hope And two more after five. And again. There’s a lot to probe, A lot to find and a lot to win. Maybe again. Maybe again...  Rain... 

The young boy's eyes Catch sight of a pretty face- A charming lady With a beautiful smile... A closer look reveals A sense of style... Is she taken? Definitely worth a try... A few unsteady steps, A little grin on his lips. He approaches her, Breaks the ice. Up close she seems really nice. Two hearts talk, Two souls get tied. Life burns with years As their story shifts gears. Faster it seems that it had been Decades ago... That pleasant day When he had seen her first... It's now a race against time To cling on longer- When togetherness is on lease, When words don't come with ease... All those words- They form up a huge pile Of the remnants of what had been And yet so much missed... The fear lingers on As the intertwined minds ache For a chance to turn the clock, For a chance to be together For all of time to come... The fear looms large The pile of words grows But of their love no-one knows...

The tabula rasa, The black chalk… One step at a time- One stroke by man, One by woman, One by religion, One by fanaticism, One by politics, One more by artists, None by art… What is it now? An ugly, black slate of a mind Bereft of honour of any kind, Treading a narrow path Towards self-justification, Unfettered greed and passion And cosmopolitan fashion And destructive contemplation… A closure of a world- Where body rules the mind, Mind judges clothes, Clothes judge people, Money judges the clothes; Where judgement is casually sold And people have grown cold… A vicious cycle… A child is just born- Born to the world , Born to the demon And the she-demon Living in a high-rise With dark light sweeping the floor While the sun stops short at the door… Another tabula rasa, Another waste of a slate, At the altar of the human state. The artists of life are waiting The black chalks they are shaking At the face of the child Who is wet to go wild With

All the stars are sad As their princess Is behind floating walls. Lingering darkness, The frogs go on  With their midnight concert. Life is at a halt. The world is off to bed Like our friends up above. Inside the room The tip-tapping Of the keyboard Continues… A desperate attempt To remove the clouds And release the princess. Frogs will croak And dogs will bark And the men will sleep. But the heart shall weep Until the tears reach deep And then shoot up steep To reach the princess. Awake, my love! Shatter the walls, Sing out loud So that this dormant world Comes alive to your tunes. Come through my heart And come through my fingers Come through the keyboard And illumine the screen And the eyes beyond. The fingers still struggle, The keyboard keeps the beat To another pointless piece. The heart remains empty The princess remains locked And the frogs and the dogs And the world and the sky Remain al

Have you gazed out of your window? Of course you have. But have you seen beyond your little world of fears and losses and possibilities and refurbished hope? Maybe you did. You have a broad heart then. My heart, on the contrary, has always been of a rather unimpressive dimension. It has always locked the world away so that it can toy with its own compartmentalized issues. Should I blame it for what it is? Probably not... After all, this place that I live in- the town, the state and the country does not reveal too many encouraging pictures. I have stopped taking a look at the newspapers. Even when I do, it is mainly to read some sports or celebrity news or to see the economic developments, though the economic trend is generally negative. I hail from a business family and my job at present is to figure out relevant marketing strategies for our software-related services. In short, when everything around seems to be in shambles or at least going towards that direction, I am to look at

You came into my room, You stayed for a while. You played a song, Then another, Followed by a few more. Words they strung That in my heart had hung For years and years- Collecting dust. I don’t know you. But you hold me... Stronger than ever With those tunes and words. They soothe me, They caress me, And inspire me To leap up To write and play and sing.     The urge and the upsurge, The drive and the pangs, The throbbing fingers, The shiny strings, The swollen eyes, The smoky room… Thoughts taking shape Around the corner of a drape And songs peeping through… The reborn at work again- Dying…And dying anew To let it all out, To tie it all up- All at the same time. Thanks for the songs Thanks for the words. You have left my room. But never…Never again… Aritra Chakrabarti 2.45AM, 18.02.2014

I So many of them Saying the same things So many of them… For years they have felt The pangs of time, The sting of loss, The warmth of love, The heat of lust, The angst of failure, The joy of victory, The wisdom of age, The glory of words Coined and arranged Rearranged and exchanged… It goes on… What is there to say? What is left to write? What is yet to be thought Or debated or won or lost? All seems to have been done- Beyond any use or impact. Nothing makes a mark Nothing touches deep… An empty mesh of pointless chatter- Ideas and words done to death.                                                                        II But late at night, Just before the dawn There dawned some words- Words again they were, Loosely strung in a maze, A maze of smoky rays, Pounding against the ceiling Asking whether to erupt or to flow… The latte