Aritra Chakrabarti

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 Remai...

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 so...