​চিলেকোঠা : The Room on the Roof

Why did you dress like you did when I fell in love with you.

Like a banker. Corporate man. My boss.

That's what I used to call you in my head.

When I was staring at you in the meeting room,

Your shirt at the waist was a little undone, and

little bit of your naval hair would peek put,

and instantly assasinate me.

Now, after a decade (or more?)

in the different universe,

in a different place,

with a whole different us –

you reminded me of our bonded illicitness,

our dirty little secret.

(it's gotten very neat of late and I had forgotten)

This city, our old dreams, and old lies we told the world.

Such excitement mixed with an anguish,

of why still why still why….

Sometimes I wonder if I will like this enough,

when it's all aboveboard.

Maybe we will be old and adjust again.

I am forcing myself, to be careless with words, again. because the best poetry is cruelty, that you wouldn't speak out loud, if you were in front of someone you love.. but you freely put it on paper. Scathing, cutting sharp words, like hearts are woundless things that can't bruise. Like wristbones cant break.

Some dreams are stuck in the throat

They cannot be spoken aloud

There's a chance —

they turn into prophecy,

All my dreams are worst case scenarios,

and nightmares use my power of manifestation

and feels very real, very fast

the good dreams are weak dreams

No pull, no aftertaste of sweetness

its the end of everything dreams

the you die I die dreams

the morning after they found my body dreams

those linger like alkaline in my mouth,

burning, acrid smell that's stuck in the back of my throat

ashes and bonedust.

In one such,

where you die so far away,

that no one remembers to tell me,

or they don't tell me –

or they dont want me to know

I am inconsequential at best in your real life,

I am the villain at worst.

Why would anyone tell me?

And, I keep sending you messages,

But don't call,

(as I am not allowed to call)

and I get angry, and sad, and angry

I think you are finally rid of me,

Abandoned again and again,

Left behind, again.

but it's a dream –

(I know it's a dream —

at the back of my mind)

A niggle is there -

that I know you are dead.

But dead without me,

Is also a kind of left behind.

Then I wake up

and choke down,

and swallow dreams whole.

Swallow entire realities,

digest the universe in which you are leaving...

Choke down dimensions of grief,

Wash my mouth out,

because if they linger into wakefulness,

they will be true.

Then I send out a message in the dark,

আমার হৃদয়, জেনো, চিলেকোঠাপ্রিয়।

সে কিছু বিশেষ চায় না। বিশেষণও নয়।

তাকে তো দুরূহ বোঝা। সহজ, প্রণয়।

সে যে আছে, ভুলে থেকো। মনে কোরো, নেই।

স্মৃতিরা সমাধি চায় চিলেকোঠাতেই।

~

শ্রীজাত

ঘোর বর্ষায় এসো

আধো বন্ধকরে ঢেকে থাক পথ

জল জমা রাস্তা পেরিয়ে এসো

ইলশেগুড়ি না,

আকাশভাঙ্গা অঝোরে এসো হে।

কাদা পায়ে এসো,

বৃষ্টিতে ধুয়ে যাবে সবই,

ছাতা অজুহাতে হাত পাবে ছাড়া

পারা বেড়াবার।

ঝোড়ো কাক ছাড়া

কেউ স্বাক্ষী নেই আজ,

বৃষ্টির আড়ালে এসো হে।

নাহয় হবে জ্বর একটু ,

গরম চায়ে আরাম,

গলার ভিতরে একটু চুলকাবে

ভাববে ঠান্ডাটা লাগলো কখন ?

উত্তরের উষ্ণতা টা ধরে রেখো।

তারপর পরের বার

ঘোর বর্ষায় এসো, আবার

যতবার নিম্নচাপ সতর্কীকরন,

বেরিয়ে পরো মাথা ঢেকে

হাওয়াই চপ্পলে এসো হে।

আমাদের আশ্রয় বর্ষা