Dreams, remember, are always true
From today,
I'll have a story to tell.
And I'd believe it had all happened;
that they weren't stories,
but reality;
that my dreams were not fables
but true stories.
So the next time I told you
that I spoke to sir
and he spoke to me
in the hospital bed
after he'd passed away;
that he was just as he was before:
humorous, with lots of stories to tell,
don't think it to be untrue.
... It's difficult to explain.
But I swear he was alive;
it's just that we don't see him as often
(because we don't dream that often).
And if you think it's rubbish,
that he's dead,
I wouldn't believe you.
Because I saw him last night in my dreams,
And dreams, remember, are always true.
The Rickshawala
The forsaken rickshawala sitting
in the corner of the alley
forces a smile when I ask, “Jabe naki?”*
“Na gele cholbe?”** , he replies, smilingly.
Trapped in the desire to exist
his melancholic smile a façade
to hide the pains within.
Seated on his wage earner
I wear my imaginary blinkers
only to become partially blind
when my eyes fall on his bandaged bare right foot
and the cut, bruised, wrecked
left foot decorated in dried blood:
casualties of war –
the war of everyday existence.
The partially, or probably, completely
blind eyes suddenly regains its vision
(what a miracle!)
and the dead brain comprehends
the destination has been arrived at –
Barrackpore railway station.
While giving the ten rupee note
countless thoughts criss-cross
across my vacillating mind:
Should I ask him about his injury?
Should I offer to pay for his recovery?
Should I ask him to keep the change?
Should I . . .
The banausic sound of the duty bound announcer
suddenly alerts my ears:
Pay attention please,
Down, Kalyani Simanta – Sealdah local
Is coming on,
Platform number 2.
I hurriedly take the change and rush there
*Jabe naki: Will you go?
** Na gele cholbe?Do I have a choice?
From today,
I'll have a story to tell.
And I'd believe it had all happened;
that they weren't stories,
but reality;
that my dreams were not fables
but true stories.
So the next time I told you
that I spoke to sir
and he spoke to me
in the hospital bed
after he'd passed away;
that he was just as he was before:
humorous, with lots of stories to tell,
don't think it to be untrue.
... It's difficult to explain.
But I swear he was alive;
it's just that we don't see him as often
(because we don't dream that often).
And if you think it's rubbish,
that he's dead,
I wouldn't believe you.
Because I saw him last night in my dreams,
And dreams, remember, are always true.
The Rickshawala
The forsaken rickshawala sitting
in the corner of the alley
forces a smile when I ask, “Jabe naki?”*
“Na gele cholbe?”** , he replies, smilingly.
Trapped in the desire to exist
his melancholic smile a façade
to hide the pains within.
Seated on his wage earner
I wear my imaginary blinkers
only to become partially blind
when my eyes fall on his bandaged bare right foot
and the cut, bruised, wrecked
left foot decorated in dried blood:
casualties of war –
the war of everyday existence.
The partially, or probably, completely
blind eyes suddenly regains its vision
(what a miracle!)
and the dead brain comprehends
the destination has been arrived at –
Barrackpore railway station.
While giving the ten rupee note
countless thoughts criss-cross
across my vacillating mind:
Should I ask him about his injury?
Should I offer to pay for his recovery?
Should I ask him to keep the change?
Should I . . .
The banausic sound of the duty bound announcer
suddenly alerts my ears:
Pay attention please,
Down, Kalyani Simanta – Sealdah local
Is coming on,
Platform number 2.
I hurriedly take the change and rush there
*Jabe naki: Will you go?
** Na gele cholbe?Do I have a choice?
