Childhood/Translating Dreams/Writing Life
Frog’s Umbrella and Dead Book
Cloud Walking, Book Cafe, Catching the Ray
“ I will place myself on their (adult) level. I would talk about bridge and golf, about politics and neckties. And the grown-ups would be very pleased to have made the acquaintance of such a sensible fellow” — The_Little_Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
When I thought I was dying
I donated my limbs to my mind
My mind grew muscles
and now moves like a
weight-y star
Jumping from a page is entering
a new universe
rotating the chair to envisage
forty-three enchanting sunsets
You turn a page
it becomes a new chapter
seeds wrap them in the dark and damp
they start a life
The damp leaves you tired but never
grows moss borrowed from the old
its summer yields mushrooms
I often entered this green forest as a child
wanting to collect these white, thicket
colonies of little umbrellas
Unlike humans they were not at war
And when the trees started walking
I walked with them
and when it rained
I shared the umbrella with a frog**
Every time I wondered what if they come
to the brim and fall off
tearing at their roots
loosening the soil and fall free to nowhere—
Will they meet an asteroid, crash on a milky way
wait in queue in celestial traffic, honking for a freeway
ignoring the statutory warning, ‘smoking kills’
A deafening thud and
the whole green forest, thick and deep
tumbled down the planet dangling from the boundary
as my forehead fills with saline droplets
waking me up with a startle
I stay worried for the forest the whole day
what if it falls and keep falling…..
I could easily fence my planet if it was rectangular
sweep the fire debris off the fence
a phoenix will flap its wings to the dance of flame
I will warm my breakfast of night’s leftovers
in its simmering rage
On days of light breeze and bright blue sky
I will sit on the perimeter of the sphere swinging
my tired legs dipped in the navy silk of vacuum
quilted with little distant solar worlds
wondering what’s on the other side
of the dark….
every time a dream is dead, a story
took flight from the folio of a book
every time I wanted to share my
absurd(s), you added language
to numbers.
I know. You must be an adult.
(**Mushrooms in local Bengali dialect is called frog’s umbrella )
Note Book : “ Grown ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is exhausting for children always and forever to be giving explanations” — The_Little_Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Spending the weekend reading this Petit powerhouse of a book “ The little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, a witty fable-esque story bordering on the absurd, from the book pile I carried back following an afternoon with books, made me ruminate on days when my own inner world dwelling on my absurd, scared me.
As a child I always had my mind running with imaginary scenes and often carried it into my dreams, specially on days I was immersed in reading a story book.
They were moments of exhaustion but kept a secret in our dinner table talks because a voice inside always told me not everything is for adult discourse.Who knew these occurrences will one day become premises for my poetry.
As adults we are always calling the child we left behind……
Talking of childhood, I wanted to share this musical favourite which we would hum at every opportunity: Jamaica Farewell by Harry Belafonte. Enjoy the call of the old :)
