Prosaic

My Miss Calcutta

Mainak Bag — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 20:16:46 +0000

I loved you.
I looked back at life, wistfully,
just before it was cold.
That’s how I loved you.

In some place else,
May be with another name,
Some other time or night,
But with these longing eyes,
And these words stopping on my lips
and yours,
And time tapping on my heart
Dig dak dig dak,
I would have kissed on your shoulder
with love, fore sure,
And felt your warm breath
on my bosom and more.

But I let you go.
I had to let you go, you know.

You are there. Free. Green.
My pixel. My picture.
My Miss Calcutta.

Love-ly Run

Mainak Bag — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 20:09:43 +0000

Let’s say,
you are running,
as fast as you can,
but not as fast as you want to;
there you foot lands, and you lament
its an inch shorter, a moment slower,
than how your heart races;
your arms are stretched,
as if you want to swim in the air,
or hold the air and pull it back;
with all your might, you push yourself
forward;
you feel your nostrils,
you feel the air inside your lungs,
on your forehead there are drops
of perspiration forming into tiny
water dollops;
your heart is raging, pulling you;
your blood burning you till the tip of your fingers,
till the tip of your nose and your pulsing lips,
your ruddy ears;
your eyes frown in your struggle;
you gasp, hard, deep, desperate;
your veins swell, and your muscle
spasm with short, reckless rhythms,
as if your were a song.

Now, why would you do that,
If not for love ?

Kaya

Mainak Bag — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 07:15:59 +0000

This lovely soil color,
these two eyes, two curious
things, blinking globes,
naughty surveyor of all
your lovely moves;
These my ears, startled me,
with joy that was your voice.
And my hands gripped your
shoulder to turn you back,
my lovely arms had the treasure
best close to my bosom.
God knows delight was when
you sucked my fingers.
And I sprang off the the ground,
a light feather, an atom weight soul,
and each step was a romancing touch,
with soil, rock and water.
The pulsing sun,
inside me,
my heart,
in each breath a rhythm,
in each thought a spasm,
and a halt each
in joy or tear,
aloud in love,
silent in sorrow,
paining in your each
sad frown,
moves me toward you
till we are met
beyond bodies,
onto tomorrow.

Without.

Mainak Bag — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 07:13:39 +0000

I was tired after a long day.
I had walked long, and yet
had a few more yards to tread.

I had gone through the crowds,
motley faces had danced past me,
bodies waved, in quaint gait of
restive desire.

Through them had I pushed my way,
for I was driven.
There was, I was convinced, a purpose,
that pushed me, drove me.
Wind paced silently, heavy breasted
and cold, along the dark pitch road,
that reflects the gold lamps, even now,
far behind, into my long serpentine oblivion.

I had bought a pen, a notebook, a bag on the way.
I had taken the 1 rupee 50 paise change back.

I was not careful. I as forgetting something.
I searched my pocket, my bag, my purse.
I searched for something on the roads.
I was tired, as you already know,
but I still walked back down the road,
looking for what was lost.
Some asked me, “what did you lose”?
I did not know what it was,
so said I – its something I had since
long, I hadn’t taken a look at it a while now,
so I don’t know how it looks.
But I know its precious.

I looked again, there, at the long
serpentine, dark golden road, sloping down,
to a glimmering distance, from where I came,

I knew now.

There, somewhere along that dark-gold pitch,
I had lost my dream
or she lost me.

I am not sure yet.

North Country

Mainak Bag — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 20:32:03 +0000

Watching North Country (2005) was a humbling experience. The movie moved me. North Country doesn’t have mind boggling performances, nor does it have remarkable narration. But it portrays, within the set scope, a reckless, insouciant, impulsive, foolish, strong, romantic but a deeply moral character, that can inspire or humble. In many ways it looks at you, unashamed, and questions the pretentious moral highhandedness of a male dominated society. Is it okay to to be ashamed of an act arising out of sexual desire ? Is it okay to hate for sexual choices and preferences ? Is it okay to take a woman for granted and brand her a whore because she explored her own body and mind in the ways she pleased and not always in accordance with societal expectations ? Is it okay to demand that she be ashamed of herself for a rape ?

This is scary. A few days back I saw a 22 year old ad being republished by the Delhi Police. I instantly argued in the comments thread that the language of the ad is sexist. Yes it is. But I realise now it was my moral highhandedness which led me wish away a tangible, lowly practice by reasoning that the language wasn’t good enough. But what good language can express what is ghastly and bloody and guts you mind ? What language can have the patience to wait for a finesse so that it sounds or reads suitable to our pleasure-seeking, decked up taste? Not the language of truth. The language of pain and shame is perhaps too strong for syntactical sanity. Perhaps too strong an emotion can find only a scream or a cry or an insane rage.

In fact the only problem with North Country is its resistant to orderlessness in its narration. Because bones can’t crush in rhythm.

A Poem, Restless In Love

Mainak Bag — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 21:31:26 +0000

After much thought,
and a lot of love,
I have only
your smiling face.

I can not remember
all those grand words,
nor can I find the rhyme,
in my restless, untidy mind,
left with one singular urge.

I love you very very much.

A Conversation Between The Ocean and The Shore

Mainak Bag — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 21:23:50 +0000

The Ocean: Give me a word.

The Shore: Moon

The Ocean: Give me a thought.

The Shore: Far and away,
& mine like a sleep,
a waking touch,
a warm breath on my
closed eyelids.

The Ocean: Give me a rhythm.

The Shore: A kite,
a dancing kite,
fluttering , on its shoulder,
waving,leaning, resting,
on dear wind,
playing her favorite game.
The world under her feet,
her restless rhythm.

The Ocean: Give me a sacrifice.

The Shore: Your freedom and all
that lie behind your eyes,
beyond me, all that
were, are and will be
just yours.

The Banyan Tree

Mainak Bag — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 21:19:58 +0000

The wind talked to me first.
Incessantly, always the wind
came running and pointed
to the Sun.

The soil grew on me, bit by bit,
its ancient life, with all its
breeding strength, grew
in woods, petals and flowers.

And the Sun kept my woods
warm,
made my leaves lay in mirth
under his brightness.
The Sun made my sinews
draw all strength in them,
to reach what the Wind
told.

I spread my wings toward the
Sun,
and soared my soul toward light.
My legs were full of blood,
my hoofs hit the soil with
might and will,
my arms reached out for love.
I could not stand still,
for I had heard the trumpet.

You will find me toward the Sun still.
Sans my leaves and petals
but not without glory or beauty,
not without my sinewy arms still
reaching for the light,
oozing life, oozing frenzied love.

For I had loved.

I had seen an Ocean in your Eyes

Mainak Bag — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 17:43:07 +0000

I had seen an ocean in your eyes,

and the river had flown through my heart;

I had felt a storm in your breath,

when you touched me soft, wet, like earth.

There was a little pulse, a little life

between you and me;

not enough to hold you back,

just enough not to let you go.

When evening was balm on senses,

and your voice soft and musical;

one death drew me towards you.

There, in a kiss was our shame

and glory in a tear in love for you.

There was a little pulse and a little life

between you and me still;

just enough to hold you back,

and just enough to let you go.

A Nice Presentation

Mainak Bag — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 11:05:37 +0000