DWITIYO CHITHHI

Mon Ami,
I wonder if Milton, Keats, Byron and millions of those envied minds could do a minute without their quill, their home? I call it home. It lies doggo at some niche, leering at my waltz with time and then when I bid goodbye to the perfunctory trail of the day, I can hear uproars mumbling. The oracular tympanum gets on the move. I almost give in to the twinge but I'm hugged with grace. IT is DEXTEROUS! Here I step into my Home Sweet Home- the unison of pastel moods, of ideas contradictory, ideas making allegory; to bewail mirth, rejoice grief. You make home my pen. It is at your tip that I learn to live, learn to live for, every moment every day.
" swapner neel khame,
ural aami bhorbo notun kore;
akasho kusumo choyone,
melbo pakha tomar torun naam e."

The above lines give way to an inspired rhyme.
Certain Bengali words have been emphasised with an 'O' just to make you pronounce them in that way so as you do not neglect the iambic pentameter.

PROTHOM CHITHHI

Mon Ami,
"Even if there were rains, it could never be green again."
Ekaki ami. Sokal theke sandhye, sob diner paanchmishili tamasha. Hain Tamasha! Din er sheshe raat aar raat er sheshe- jantrik sware bolte hoy- raat er sheshe sei din. Maajkhaner sondikkhongulo hothath baad diye, egiye jai. Nishpoloke, oghore golpo faandte bhule jai. Egiye jai. If I am Homeward bound, a distant home though;
Why do the roads refuse to lead me so?!
Let a wiser thought, a wiser faith dawn upon thy unleashed-
Kothay? Keno? Kisher jonno? ei prosnogulor uttor jeno, niyome bandha kathamote nastik monke, porihaash kore. Egiye jachhi, Egiye jabo.

Dear readers,

Some of my upcoming posts will be letters I have thought of writing to my Saviour ever since I have thought of thoughts. They keep me away from getting attuned to the hemlock and teach me to pick up the ' out of the ordinary' factor, now and then. That my piling up stack of gibberish has always been an extension of my soul and is no less true than the ones yet to come, comments on my spirit of driving or being driven; these letters are a bit more close to my heart. A bit more special. Just like last night's moist pillow.

Who am I?

What am I?

Has remained untold to Me:

Till in bed,

I lie unsaid,

And the Dreams are yet to be!

I ask Him as always, Can I tame the goldfish of poetic plenitude?