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richasmukherjee.com

love, laughter, pain, joy, life and its lessons, one word at a time

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Musings

Hand in hand


It should make me jealous but it fills my heart with joy.

It really should make me jealous but when I see you two together I just can’t stop smiling.

I see how those tiny hands find their way to you in the darkness, when my unyielding and fatigued body has tuned out her plaintive cries.

Those big brown eyes darting nervously to the door every few minutes, when the sun starts to set.

She will follow your footprints in the sand for miles till the tide finally consumes them.

She never tires of stroking your head when you surrender it to that almost invisible and tiny lap.

I’ve seen her hugging your t-shirts to fill her nostrils with you when you’re away.

That desperate moaning wail that stumbles and follows you to the door when you can’t stay.

Drifting in and out of sleep, so often she calls for you, a determined , demanding voice that I cannot tame.

That happy dance she’s choreographed just for you, the first man in her heart’s hall of fame.

I made her heart inside me, and I know for eternity I can stake my claim.

But that same heart has a beautiful, colourful, throbbing piece, with only her daddy’s name.

Noise


I feel like a misfit sometimes.

Like I’m a pair of trousers one size too large or a glove too tiny.

In this world full of strong and heavy opinions, so many of them, of all shapes sizes and textures, where do my ambivalent, amorphous, wafting thoughts and ideas stand ?

I think these opinions stalk me.

I wake up and open the newspaper, there they are.

I’m making my hearty breakfast and they come floating in through the window from the neighbours yard, right above my crispy bacon.

I switch on the television and they fill my nostrils.

God forbid if I ever pause at the coffee machine at work for more than a second, they’ll hunt me down.

Without even being mine they weigh me down,crowd my mind.

Everyone else seems so decided on just about everything that moves on this planet.

Why must I remain fluid then?

Maybe I still have more to learn.

Maybe I still have more to see.

Maybe I still have more to hear.

A time will come, when my mind has all the answers I seek, even as I sit aimlessly, perched by the windowsill.

A wise man once said that a glass half empty is much better than when it is too full.

Red Bosphorus


Every part of me aches.Racked by a nameless fever or rage, despair, hopelessness.

I was infected by tears, mutilated bodies, lives torn asunder and ashes of hope.

Hope that were dashed against walls by terror, guns, knives, bombs.

I look at you gasping for breath now, clutching , grasping for composure and it breaks my heart.

I walked your cobbled streets, walking to nowhere, breathing in the industriousness and determination of those fishermen selling hamsi every day. Served with just the right drizzle of salt and smiles.

My heart rose and fell with the tides of the Bosphorous.

My eyes glazed with wonder as they swallowed the grand mosques and minarets dotting your Crimson skies

How my aching feet danced away with those little childrenin the streets of Grand Bazaar.

Rows upon rows of twinkling chandelier studded lanes lighting up sparkles of hope.

My hands are now still. Sometimes wringing in wretched frustration, sometimes in prayer.

Look what they have done to you my poor darling.

Those warm smiles , embraces and chatter have dissolved into tears and are flowing away, turning your shores red.

Let our prayers, memories and love be the raincoat that shields you from this storm of hate.

Let them lash, let them rage and spew hatred outside.

They will never get to your golden soul, but one day the world will get to them. And they will have nowhere to hide.

Dark Skies


There is something that brings out the melancholy when it rainsIn the sheets of blinding rain I see faces, of people loved and lost.

Pouring onto my window pane, questioning, thundering, complaining, how life flowed along like an ebullient little river, without them.

Wasted sinuous streams find their way to the gutters, gushing out of sight like the trips and plans that never materialised.

Pregnant, voluptuous waves crashing onto the shores, frothing, seething, venting a nameless rage.

Blinding lightning stokes unknown fires buried deep in the dark shadowy recesses of my heart.

The pitter patter on the porch through the night, competing with the ticking clock on the mantel, a constant reminder of the never ending race against time.

Tick tock. Tick tock.Tick tock.

But then the next morning a cool breeze hits my face, the clouds turn white, the slight drizzle is like a warm embrace.

I breathe deep and fill my lungs with a beautiful, bright day,

Oh I know you’re there, rumbling in the distance, but you’re still some miles away.

Vanish


What will happen on a day when you want to be nothing?

Not a frustrated employer with repetitive instructions.

Not the earnest employee trying to save the world from nuclear catastrophe by shooting off that one last email.

Be gone the anxious wife constantly casting the web of a healthy diet onto a reluctant soul.

Be gone the constant mother with that constant spoon full of food, running that daily marathon.

Be gone always the little daughter, terrified of what might take them away.

I don’t want to be a friend , foe or relative today.

I don’t want to make phone calls, I don’t want to be devout and pray.

I’ve shed my skin, and with it all my responsibilities for the day.

I want my world to be restitched with a blanket, stormy rain, a piping hot mug of coffee and an old tattered book.

I’ll cover myself from head to toe, and imagine myself perched by a murmuring brook.

I was whole, but I know little pieces of me that my ‘everyday’ took.

I am nothing today but I’ve found my old self, even if for a moment, nuzzled in a cozy nook.

A faint sound


I remember how your hearty laughter always filled up a room.

How the cadence of those feet coming home would dispel a whole days worth of gloom.

I spent many nights wrapped in the comfort of those familiar snores.

How that tiny sigh would escape your lips as we hugged, making me crave for just one more.
The doorbell, phone and the neighbours now are used to my disdain. 

The deafening applause after our favourite shows, is soundless, like a shriek unheard in deafening rain.

After you’ve poured your tiring day into my uninterested ears,

It breaks my heart to see your eyes when I turn and ask ‘ How was your day my dear?’

I spend my days stalling, desperately trying to guess what’s been said.

I do my accounts of truly heard vs imagined words when at night I’m finally in bed.

Forgive me love. Your eyes I must forsake as your lips will now be my guide
.

Forgive me love. Your sweet nothings whispered have lost their way, this I can no longer hide
.

I know you wonder how I can be happy when I haven’t even heard much in a while.

I see you. I can still touch you. I remember these blessings, and that’s what makes me smile.

Imagine


I saw it. Clearly. And then it was gone.

A white fluffy rabbit jumped over the sun and suddenly became a reindeer.

Did you see that? Did you see?

There is so much I see that goes unseen.

When I look at the gnarled bark of a tree, a wrinkled old man always peers back at me.

A receding dance of spilt water on the table always leaves an anaconda in it’s wake
.

When the rain is splattering the windshield relentlessly, a liquid fireworks display breaks out in front of my eyes.

Just the other day I saw a battle unfold at the bottom of my cereal bowl.

With rebellious flakes of corn battling the elements on tides of tumultuous milk.

The tree behind my house, billowing in the breeze often guides me with its big leafy hand, when I find myself heading in no particular direction.

Coffee stains on important pages, so dramatic, so decisive, yet depicting myriad scenes from day to day life.

Do they find me or am I looking for them?

Isint it ironical though?

There are no boundaries to the imagination, in a world defined by them.

Stop

image

It starts with a churn.
As if the insides of my stomach were a blender.
Knots are tied, tighter and tighter,
Butterflies crowd together flitting nervously.
And my heard thuds, listlessly. Like it’s run out of fuel and stranded on a lonely road
I’ve seen this enough haven’t I?
I’ve been here often enough haven’t I?
But why does watching you leave every time, feel like the first time, hurt as much as the first time. Maybe I don’t even remember the first time but I have a feeling it wasn’t pleasant.
I’ve often wished that dusty old suitcase, as you pull it down, would part with a handle.
Or that rusty zip would finally finally stop in its tracks.
Maybe the soul of that departing shoe could meet its maker.
Or even that sputtering engine of the shaky old taxi downstairs could decide to take an afternoon siesta?
But the world now knows not to indulge my silly fantasies.
Alas.
That handle will stand firm.
That zip will run its course.
The shoe will purposefully stride away.
That engine will be waiting for you, warm and ready.
You will plant a kiss on my cheek, hug me till my core feels warm,
And then say a casual ‘see you soon’ with a smile that hasn’t seen a day’s worth of gloom.
How I wish I could be that way.
Why must I be so sad about a phenomenon that is recurring yet has no true permanence?
To the cadence of your departing feet, I shut the door, clear the coffee mugs, send the butterflies home, telling them not to return till you return, and leave again.
Foolish, hopeless heart of mine.

Perspective

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When is too much enough?
From the time we are born, it’s a steady diet of superstitions.
Don’t laugh too much, or you will end the day crying.
That’s too much happiness. Don’t jinx it.
I’ve had too much good luck, I’m in for a downward slide for sure.
Is it that we are scared of utter happiness?
Or is it just second nature to doubt normalcy and stability.
Why must our hearts be gripped with weary predictions of doom,
When it’s just so much easier to be happy and carefree?
Does an empty house with bare walls make you pine for what was?
Or does the resident laughter, the memories, the echoes that ricochet off the ceilings, rebound into your heart and light it up like a Christmas tree?
You can’t stop the sun from setting, the lights from dimming, the darkness from descending every night.
But what you can do, is welcome the rising sun with a smile, and tell yourself, that whichever side of the bed you get off, your glass will be half full every day of your life.

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