Introspective Mind

Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 05:30:00 +0000

Where moist clouds are ginned upon wide floor of an azure sky

Where a mirthful forktail dances with an unnamed stream

Where the newborn Sun showers an orange smile upon grazing fields

Where fires of colours paint rainbow upon mountain crests

Where life walks on holding warm palms of joy and sorrow

Where expressions turn into whispers inside the soul

Where the finest tunes of the world take refuge in silence

There lies my freedom

The paean and the pyre

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 04:30:00 +0000

He had never seen gentle smile on his mother. Never had he known his birthday. Since sensing the beauty of this world, his only own and known person was Father Brown.
Father Brown was a clergyman who had spent several years of missionary service in his native place. Devastated Europe after two great wars had a handful of people of ability and sincerity to work for the society and after his successful attainment of a degree in medicine, he wished to spend rest of his life in social service. When he opted for serving lepers in some remote Indian village, a great society of missionary colleagues had considered it a huge loss for Europe; but he travelled thousands of miles with a sacred smile spread over his face like wings of a springtime butterfly. He was soon seen cycling around a few small hamlets—bulged with numerous humans of diverse age attempting to sustain with primitive superstitions, poverty, and ignorance. The soil of civil society was yet to be irrigated with moral values, education, and basic living conditions. It was long past when the man of fifty-four years started residing in a small hut at one edge of those clustered darkness.
The boy heard long after about how he had come to stay in Father’s hut. Soon after marrying his mother, his father moved out to other city for work and was heard to have died of some unknown illness. He had still been in the womb while his mother stayed with her leper father in one of those hamlets. Headmen of villages sat together, heard what his paternal grandfather had to say: Witch, she is a witch !
The punishment was pronounced. She would have to leave the village. Her father pleaded, but none heard. The night the boy was born. Not even a week passed when evening sky seemed to prepare for the storm. Darkness swept over with enormous clouds descending like a giant roc. Trees began to dance wildly enough to welcome gushing wind and thunderous lightening. Through a ghostly veil of dusts and jungles emerged a faint glow of light. Now, much distinct, split into several balls of fire dancing in unison, in rhythm of some hidden words of anger. The leper sensed the storm; he pleaded now to his daughter, to flee. But, she was too ill to move. The leper looked at her face—her destiny, her innocent child, his fate and the storm. He ran strong, vanishing into the darkness like a memory of his long past. The witch was dead; her bludgeoned face could not hold its last smile for her unfortunate son. Amidst flames of burning home, there remained an absolute silence in her eyes, only the baby cried on—unheard, unconcerned, and unnoticed.
The morning was bright. When Father heard of the incident, he went straight to the burnt house. Someone had brought the baby out; but even a touched soul had courage to take him home. Father looked around. His roving eyes met with only some vacant looks. His trembled hands held the boy. A new life traversed through hardened soil losing and gaining without deeds—good or bad—yet done.
It was long past. The clergymen continued to care and cure more and more of those underprivileged—never preaching over any gospels. The school he started had only a few students. He was revered as an individual, for his service; but was never considered a part of the society he had served. He continued to belong to them as an island.
The boy grew up slowly. He learnt to love the world. He learnt not to utter a lie. Neither the Father ever taught him to be so, nor was he ever preached of any spiritual doctrine. A solitary cross and the figurine of Mother Mary holding Jesus on her lap remained hung on the wall of that thatched house. He loved the Father for the world he had made for him. He taught him science, literature, history and played with him. Still he missed his mother; sometimes, in dreams he saw her face.
Twelve years of togetherness took them into a new world that flourished with sacred love, trust, and concern for each other. Father had become quite old and feeble. With years of progress, the society that he had served for so long was also far more cured of recurring incidences of leprosy. Yet, he continued visiting houses of ailing people. Nevertheless, newer interpretations were also gathering air—seemingly infused with newer doctrines. Father felt the absence of warmth, but he was happy with his boy and the society that he truly felt to be his own.
Hidden flickers of a raising fire could not hold it for long. Another pensive dusk was waiting for another storm. Inside a small hut, an old man and a boy were closely seated. A sudden gusty wind blew a few pages of the book—the history; the history of civilisation. With his little hands, the boy tried to collect them, but they floated above, swirling around in uncanny swings. A few more sounds accompanied the roaring thunders. The trembling flame of the candle was smiling at the boy. A few bangs on the door. A few words that the boy never heard. He never saw a war. Neither did he ever see a battle. His world of peace was swept away in a frenzied tempest. The Father opened the door. The boy could see some faces shining in lightening and those flames of torches held in their hands. Before the old man could speak, the army barged in. The boy saw what war was. The flames remained while the men departed. The old man and the boy were having their last bath together in that red pool of humanity. Windows, walls and roof were all furiously hailing victory of the achievers. The flame engulfed those blood-soaked human existences as ecstatically as newly born snakes would seek liberation.The boy pressed his weak palms over bearded face of his old friend; a few drops of blood oozed out from those lips that smiled for its last time. The boy wept for the first time in his life. Through a hot smoky curtain, he could see Mother holding her son; burning and melting, still holding. Within his swollen eyes he held that image so long he could keep those open. He stared at. His body, soul, blood and existence—all were melting along with his dreams—his mother. She held her close to lap, comforting. He could see that divine smile on her face. The boy smiled for the last time in his life. His eyes were dreaming—closed with pain, sorrow, and joy for being through the life; it went on dreaming until darkness evaporated into the eternal slumber.
The next morning was bright. The peace was perfectly pervading all over while a burnt hut and a bundle of charred life inside reflected its muted existence in life, in its entirety.

The End

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 09:36:00 +0000

The kite floats —just severed—

Seesawing leisurely

In rhythm of kissing ends,

Of promises and dejections,

Of remembrances and forgetting,

Of reliance and betrayal,

Of pleasures and angst,

Beneath dark eyes of monsoon clouds.

A tiny tail of torn thread twirls

Buttressing with a small memory

Of a bonded past

Of an yearning for freedom

Of a passion to soar high

Of a pride to be in seclusion.

The entity finds a flawless liberation

From a collection fraught with lies

From a society distressed in lust

From a quaint wholeness of wiles

From a perfect choir of vilification.

The kite floats leisurely

In swings of moist breeze

Before it meets the final descend

Far away from a faceless form of humanity—

A brimful deceit of mankind.

An element of renewal

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 05:05:00 +0000

I walk free. Yes, after quitting the job that I could neither enjoy being into nor could it enjoy being nurtured within dispassionate bed of thoughts of someone utterly oblivious to the needs and deeds it honours. I make it memorable in tearing of all cords of relationship. And, I walk free following narrow lane piercing straight through an overhung fortune of unemployment. In spree of pouring sense of liberty I had another journey of my own tonight in promising a faint dawn of hunger sooner.

Deep into winter the evening is slowly draping herself in a dark bluish veil. A soft moon would soon emerge. A few stars would peep through mists and twinkle. Nippy breeze binged on stinging with intense sullenness while faint tunes of Christmas chimes roamed in scrawny alleys of buried civilization of a proud city.

I walk on to embrace a new year—a wide new year of age-old hunger that I have so passionately desired for. A new horizon of freedom stealthily waits behind the faded texture of a nomadic life.

The sky blue envelope

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 11:19:00 +0000

It’s still raining here, my son!
The sky blue envelope sleeps in warmth of my palms. It’s yours, I know. I let it sleep, sleep for a while after miles of journey!
I open it up slowly, smell your sweet fragrance and run through the images in flashback—like a stream that never flowed before. Dear, I find you scribbling—pages used by—and sitting by a solitary window you look afar through drizzles of nature’s laughter. I can surely glimpse the face that lugs along the yokes of severance yet flashes in the mirth of ceaseless togetherness—I go on observing--smitten by bliss of absolute love!
You write, “It’s raining here, father!”
Every little drop descends leisurely from an unnamed cloud and enjoys pleasures of uniqueness and finally mingles into a pool of entirety. We remain captivated by its distinctiveness yet fail to delineate its pride of existence. We perceive of its sojourn that interweaves individuality with whole, still fail to behold of its meaningfulness.
It’s still raining, son!
Clouds meet above in hazy sky and greet each other with spurt of thunders—faces gleam in ecstasy of reunion and I sit quietly by a solitary window. Through the veil of cascading raindrops inanely I stare at— meadows and trees and mountains sitting speechless—the world pensively lying idle.
The drops trickle down the window pane; they yearn for what they know not, and rummage around to find ways deep into my soul. They walk past myriad ways that were never trodden before. They come out—drenching every bit of my innate pride with divinity—and bid adieu. I keep on wondering why they came and why they are gone. I remain captivated by such tryst, sudden although a certain one. I cry unsure of whether it is for pain or pleasure, but I cry aloud. Tears roll down my cheeks and drops find their way long, long enough through my soul, to meet into finality.
I could see only those innocuous eyes, which sparkle in thrill of delving into newer pathways—running deep into an unplumbed depth—that lead to the subterranean values laid hidden for years within, still uncultivated. I find reasons to believe in your eyes and start to learn why you wrote, “It’s raining here, father!”
I long to know why it is still raining, my son!
Let it rain, let those clouds roam around and meet in exuberance, let those raindrops fly down and find their ways deep into our souls and let us cry in joy of unearthing a true world of togetherness where only souls find distance annulled.
I close the envelope—a sky blue envelope—that I know to be yours only, my son!
I remain seated by a solitary window and find you by another, some hundred miles away.
It’s still raining here, my son!

[ This was my first post on this blog in another June of 2007....reposted again here ]

Remembrances....

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 17 May 2011 07:03:00 +0000

Silently they sat in the rooftop terrace. Slender leaves of tall coconut trees were sweeping the silicon sky in gentle southern breeze while bathing naked in silvery moonshine. Their sunk faces were half-lit in faint glow of nearly-burnt candles—broken souls of twenty five soldiers arrayed in stupefying defeat of their fallen martyr—and half-silken in gleaming touches of the pretty princess of the Night . Upon a tiny stool stood an image of their little angel—their Angelica, their Anjali—lovingly puffing nine colourful candles elegantly placed upon a boat-shaped cake in dazzling splendour in blushes on her angelic face. It was another Full Moon evening....of the last ride together. Drawing sweet tales from hidden chest of remembrances tears went on whispering into Deepsikha’s ears—creeping into cells of her soul.

“Papa, don’t worry—I’ll sail it—we will cross all seven seas and reach the Dreamland. Mom, don’t be afraid of those monsters. See, I’m with you.”

An innocent child could not even know why was she kidnapped...and sold...or perhaps, killed. The seed that was just turning to bloom upon a solitary plant at the confluence of two streams of spiritual consciousness was nipped before one could even define it as a bud. All around remained dispassionate...proud society remained satiated in its progressive deeds while semblance of religiosity faded into faces of curses eroding essence of itself.

Inertly sat Robert and Deepsikha—alike figurines exposed to hidden giggles of destiny—counting days and nights and months and years—long twenty five years of holding the seed closeted only to wailing souls. Remembrances hum on dirge....

Along wafts of intoxicated breeze of the spring

All have gone to the woods in this moonlit night;

Nay, I won’t go out but confine myself to

Own silent corner of my room;

Oh No ! I shan’t go out tonight

Amidst revelling breezes of the spring.

I am to cleanse my home, wipe it with all care;

I will need to stay awake for I know not

When would she recall me and arrive

Amidst waft of intoxicated breeze of the spring.

(Poetic part is transliteration of Tagore’s “Aaj Yotsna Rate Sabai Gechhe Bone”)

Bless me with that silence, mother!

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 07 May 2011 09:09:00 +0000

Those droplets of tears, I still remember. I still remember those few words and a long silence following. Still I remember the last cast of that angelic smile. I only remember not how hours turned into days, then nights, and months and years while flowing stream of life went on aspiring for the unattainable; and, within dark irises of those unnerving eddies of gone-by moments, all treasures of memories are sunk deeper and hidden. Memories slid into sheathing of omnipotent time. The ring remained sucked inside that unknown fish. Yet, once it is held upon the palm, it resurrects; one after another, gems of life’s only possession dazzle in shining beams of remembrance. Forgetting is an art till it bears the passion for remembering; till it has innocence of truth and love at its core. Memories have no divinity if it resurface as matters of fact—just some routine errands. I enjoy this gentle summer dawn with one such ring held upon my stretched palm, my dear Mom!
I sit alone, face to face, with them—those last few moments of ours. I hear sweet tunes of its supple stream. I enjoy holding them long, smell fragrance of its guiltless presence, and get drenched in sprinkles of its innocence. This fascinating rendezvous let my dreams run wantonly seeking pleasure of juvenility. I fear not to lose it forever; yet, I fear that my sins are enough to smudge the painted past of virtues.
Still I journey through it—through them—through those moments immortalised by presence of only you and me. Yes, mom! I hear you! I feel you by my side, holding me. The worms of cancer crawl in, silently invade every castles in your lungs, liver and body. The marching army plunders every cell and burns each pages of life. Nero plays the tune. Tiny rivulets of endurance end up in few droplets of tears leisurely disappearing in glistened eyes. Yet, I see a gentle overcoming of all unendurable agonies slowly spreading its wings over those feebly thin lips. It hangs unknowingly there till you I hear you saying something. Yes, I hear it—“It is time now...., my son!” A long silence follows stretching itself to eternity. The sky looks on, so the trees and I. The life hides itself in life and its pains and pleasures. Words ever fail in paying tribute to a soul that only loved and loved and loved. Love, perhaps, only blooms in silence. Bless me with that silence, mother!

( A repost of original publication two years back )

Last words

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 13:05:00 +0000

Done is the play in this hall,
Time ripens for curtains to fall;
O the inmost of the silent wanderer of my life!
Turn back at close of an imperishable day.

In transient hex, moments dazzle;
Grant my eyes—filled in broken dreams—to explore;
Let me discern what you leave aside
And what is treasured in last savings
At the end impression of this pleasure

The vision has not satiated in sight of proximity,
I wonder if in introduction of distant horizon of severance
It will show up through spectra of a setting sun

In appealing shines and darkness
Upon the brim of catastrophe,
I know not if I would ever perceive
Why is this coming—and going,
Why is there so much of gain to lose only;
I know not if you will paint again
Today’s wiped up image
In new colours, O the creative poet.

(A small effort to transliterate Tagore's "Sesh Katha")

Life--an impression

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Sat, 26 Mar 2011 05:13:00 +0000

What they say about life is not mine;
For me life is just an image—
Just an impression of my deeds and misdeeds.
I am the lone artist
I am the lone observer
Mine is the comprehension
Mine is the appreciation
Swings of brushes are mine, colours are not
Easel is mine, the canvas is not
I know not whom
The colours I draw from,
I know not who has blessed me with
The canvas I paint upon.
The image when done
Will only be my tribute
To that incomprehensible entirety.

Death

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 09:15:00 +0000

A pale face of grave
Once adorned—Flowers—
Dead and strewn ;
And a few torn memories
Kissing a passionless coffin.

The dirge mellows
The pain is burnt
Droplets weep;
The wan sky hangs
A long scythe of rainbow
Neatly drawn in colours of grief.

Rejoice, O Soul
Paint on seamless images of death
Upon placid pool of expressions.

Just an endless flow...

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 07:58:00 +0000

Just an endless flow--
To come and part with,
To be drifted by tide;
To smile and weep
In shines and darkness.
Just to have a few glimpses,
Just to leave a tender touch,
Just to look back in wet eyes;
Just to move afar with newer trepidation
Leaving illusory hopes behind.
Overflowing in infinite desire
Sustains the shattered verve,
In pursuit with utmost zeal
To be left only with a ruinous finality;
Clinging to flotsam of wrecked boat
Drifts aimlessly in boundless ocean
Just to leave wailing emotions
And a few devastated expressions.
Just to leave souls insatiate in
A few curtailed encounters,
Just to leave half-spoken words
In awaiting completeness;
Amidst thorns of shame,
Angst, horror and half-belief
Just to keep alive a famished love.

(Finding little time to write anything new, I prefer uploading an old transliteration of one of the finest poems of Tagore--"Sudhu Jaoa Asa")

Maybe

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 08:46:00 +0000

Some faces never fade,
Some moments never die;
For a war-torn life,
Those remain a symbol of peace.

They sat—the man and the woman, side by side;
Silently glow twenty five candles
To burn a few pages of memories
Of a little girl whom the angels brought for them
On one such day to shine on their eyes.

She would lie on his lap
Gently holding her mom’s hand,
With eyes broadened would endlessly tell
What amazing things she had discovered.
Every day, he would dream of a new tale
To tell her, else how would she sleep?

The candles burn
The pages burn
Burns the last glimpse of those innocuous eyes
Burn colourful wings of the butterfly
Burns a new school tunic.

The man dreamt of a new tale,
But the evening dug the grave for it.
The tiny bird was snatched away
From a tiny nest that her parents built,
Not even knowing, why...why?

None could see her again;
Maybe, she was killed
Maybe, she was sold
Maybe, she was rescued
Maybe, she grew up
Somewhere, in another distant moon.

The father still dreams of her,
The mother still sobs alone,
Maybe, she still too weeps
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Maybe, she needs to dance
Amidst smoke and stench
For to carry her father’s dream
Of feeling how precious is life;
Maybe, sleep evades her eyes
For a tale to be told by her papa,
Maybe, she is too tired of tales of life,
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Her papa roams in and searches for
Within faces of every girl of her age,
Ceaselessly guessing, “Isn’t she my doll?”
Maybe, if she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

The dream story lies hidden
Within moaning soul of an old father,
Maybe, to remain forever untold;
Maybe, destiny does not permit
Some promises to be kept...maybe!

At the crossroad of civilisation

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 08:27:00 +0000

Facing the moon and the sun
And the earth, I bleed;
Embracing mangled corpse of humanity
I bleed at the crossroad of civilisation.

Words are stale,
Expressions are stillborn,
Passions lie wounded on chariot of life
Racing on the wheels of destiny.

Seasons die and are born again;
In clammy tracks of history
Burden of hatred gets laden;
Treasures of futile escapades
Bury tender veins of innocence;
Trampled emotions sing a dirge
And I bleed in kisses of scathing moments.

I can’t carry the cross, yet I wish,
I can’t shed the chains, yet I wish,
I can’t lift me up to your nailed chest,
And, be hung along your stretched hands,
Yet I wish for to die—cursed, stoned,
Ignored and unloved; but I can’t
And, I bleed at the crossroad of civilisation.

O Lord, you had choices;
Yes, you had, my lord—to bleed and to die;
But, I’m left with just a lone—to bleed—
To bleed through an endless life and I bleed.

O my love, wake, wake, wake up

noreply@blogger.com (Saibal Barman) — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 17:44:00 +0000

In the deepest desolate corner of my heart

Silently you’re lying alone on the bed;