POEMS OF A MUNDANE LIFE: Piku Chowdhury

Piku Chowdhury

1. THE KITCHEN

Turmeric glow in a bottle on shelf, and

Ruddy rage in another jar

Shallow green and diffident ochre

Trying to match the riot not far.

Riot of hues on counter shelf

Verdant greens and orange and cream

Carrots, spinach, leaves and mass

Red bell peppers in silent scream – 

The fire is lit

The ire splutters

And rage and love and scars and fear

Mingle in the oily voyage

Telling tales to the hand that steers;

The bottles add to counter stuff

And blended are they by the fire,

The hand keeps moving the ladle 

and hears the tales of joy and tear

Tales of life and tales of death

Of myriad hues and evolving faith

Burning is no option here

Raging red should add to flavour;

The kitchens blend the hues and churn

Ever new tales of regeneration.

***

2. THE WASHING

Will it be washed away with the blue

Fragrant liquid poured in cups

Into the mighty snowy machine

That whirrs into an active life?

The stains of deceiving conniving souls

The marks of envy, labour and pain

Will the machine wash the stench 

Of heartbreaks, betrayal and all such stain?

We add one more cup of detergent 

With hope and yet with resignation,

The machine whirrs and churns the dress

That we have stained with inclination 

For profit and sadist joy of victory 

Winning over moral indignation.

We keep adding the washing potion

We keep alive the comforting cycle

In the hope of forgiveness, and

In the hope of a miracle.

***

3. DUST

The stealthy morning rays of sun

Creeping through the summer blinds

Create a vista for the dust

That swirl and dance in unison.

The duster adds to the merry crowd

Little rainbow gossamer beings

Twirl and swirl in a bizarre dance

Amidst the scheming metro bling.

Blaring horns and heat and cheats,

Dying honesty, unscrupulous feats –

Threats of death and poison touch

Defeated by the magical dust.

Promise of meraki in the dust -

Rainbow wings that spread a hope 

Of dust that may sail through dust 

Of the modern existence.

***

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Setu, April 2022

Poetry: Piku Chowdhury

Piku Chowdhury

THE EMPTY PAGES

Empty pages are like seas

One just needs the guts to jump

And lose forever the predictable.

Once filled up they lose their charm

In certainty of articulation,

Suffocating the thrilling wait 

For what can be and cannot be.

Fairies swing in crazy glee

Over the light that lies askance 

On the pristine page of moments

Epics are born and wither perchance.

***

THE CONJUROR

The quivering leaves would whisper soft

Tales of morning dewdrops lost, 

Sporting sunrays create a song

On the leafy veins and boughs.

A half-clad boy would dance in glee

Beneath the cavorting singing tree, 

Unaware of the frown of hours 

And loss and gain of ticking clocks. 

The joy creeps slow in a vacant heart 

As I stand and stare at streets

Drenched in nascent noontime glow 

After dark and drizzly desolation. 

A thousand radiant suns rise now

In the smile of a slum boy poor,

Siesta of a unicorn, 

Shattered by the conjuror.

***

WHEN YOU MUST GO

When you have to go 

On a long journey towards a lotus 

Of a thousand petals safely enshrined

In a dewy slumber and hesitation, 

You look around for a last reminder 

To proceed without expectations. 

While the steps are still strong enough

To hold your frame that would descend

To the vistas shimmering soft

In moon-blanched dreams and ruminations, 

You step down with a vacant heart

Beyond all endings and new starts.

The lotus holds the secret drops

Of fragrant hues and nectar true

of certainty and meaning bright,

That may be touched or perhaps not;

But the journey must be made

Beyond the last frontiers crossed.

***

---

Setu, August 2021

Piku Chowdhury

Piku Chowdhury

Assistant Professor, at Satyapriya Roy College of Education (Government Aided Post Graduate College). Ph.D. (English), Ph.D. (Education), Author of 9 books, Translator, Editor, Resource person - national and international seminars, NIEPD, State Resource for SSM in collaboration with UNICEF, Project Director in Research Projects funded by UGC and ICSSR.

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Authors A-Z

Guest Editorial: Piku Chowdhury (Special Issue, July 2021)

Piku Chowdhury

Post Graduate College Teacher, Editor, Photographer, Author, Poet, Painter, Mental Health Facilitator

SETU BILINGUAL JOURNAL [ISSN: 2475-1359]. June, 2021

Bilingual Monthly Journal published from Pittsburgh, USA

 

THEME: FLAVOURS OF CITIES, TOWNS OR VILLAGES

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“Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.”

― Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

We thrive in the perceptual manifold offered by urban complexities and constantly shifting perspectives, that more often than not, reflect our own eternal journey through the meandering vistas of life. Sometimes we feel taxed and seek escapade in pristine nature, but if we pause to wonder at the perspectival plurality of the cityscapes, we discover a narrative as rich as a tapestry woven with mystery and magic. In abrupt notes created by a roadside musician amidst peak traffic hours or the reticent wizened balcony of an ancient building standing grotesque amidst modern blatant urban skyscrapers, there are silent yet eloquent threads of wonderous tales of love, estrangement, fears and hopes, that Calvino so beautifully points out, in the quote cited above. As we navigate the streets, roads or alleys, in cities of different countries, as a native or a traveller, the shifting hours of the day unravels marvels that invite us to pause and listen to a saga of myriad adventures engraved in every brick or stone of the urban aspirations for development and progress, interspersed with keen nostalgia for the fragrances of times lost and found. Glittering dreamy street lights or glaring infernos of monstrous constructions, hurrying strangers or a pensive beggar on the footpath, the cityscape relentlessly tells us a story to be heard, interpreted and enjoyed in our own way. Towns and villages too have their own hidden stories and magic to be discerned and unveiled by the inquisitive lens. Villages too have compelling tales to be heard by the perceptive mind. A photographer’s forays into nooks and corners of cities and sleepy hamlets in his native country and abroad, remains an eternal visual delight to all of us who are perennial travellers in our own ways, and who keep negotiating magic in every turn of the metalled road in the concrete jungle or sylvan shades of rural corners. 

So, here is an album from a true traveller at heart to unfold the drama and magic of our worn out, blatant and blazon cities of the world. Be it a splendid blend of overflowing soothing melody and speed of racing citizens symbolical of the “sick hurry and divided aims” of the modern urban life (to borrow a phrase from Arnold) in Berlin or a strange lazy gathering of contemplating chess players in the heart of a super busy rush-hour-stricken Singapore, the lens captures the magical contradictions that define the cities and life in general.  Another magical moment is captured in Stockholm where days are short and frost-bitten dark days succumb to the shadows pretty soon. A spot of transient elusive sunlight illuminates a flower seller braving the frost and winds to earn her living as a lone passer-by approaches towards her in search of flowers amidst such gloom. The strange circle of light amidst the pervasive shadows that magically illuminates the flowers and the two humans buying and selling flowers, denotative of life, love and hope , and not some petty mundane necessities like groceries or gas, touch our hearts with awe. The stage had been set by some greater force, the parting rays had fallen askance with such numbing grace and the strength of human hope, love and desire for life was captured silently by the photographer who remained the silent spectator of the meraki on his way back from office. Another photograph shot in Furj… portray a spontaneous flash dance where, the photographer asserts, the partners are total strangers and paired up for a spontaneous jig with faces reflecting pure joy and elan vital. Amidst the depressive gloom, inhuman self-centredness and recurrent instances of death of humanity everyday, such moments of pristine joy and spontaneity remain frozen in time as timeless instances of hope and joy. The London street-procession on RONPA too capture a ritualistic fervour exuding joy amidst a mad professional rush – in the ever busy streets of metro that thrives on cut throat competition and ruthless business. Spirituality is captured beautifully in Then we have a glimpse of a busy street of Japan where well dressed men are seen supine on the pavement, gently crawling towards a monastery in an act of penance. The Indian photographer captures this gesture of penance as he discerns a strange similarity between the ritualistic self-torment in Islam or Hinduism and Buddhism in a foreign city that is identified as a hub of technology, economic development and relentless professionalism. Hauntingly beautiful are these moments and frames that freeze revealing and profound contradictions hidden in renowned cities of the world, otherwise ignored by the busy passers-by. The dying art of Band party and an old gentleman with a twinkling smile in a photograph in Kolkata churns up childhood nostalgia. These men in gaudy attires and musical instruments are gradually going out of business and they stand like a chunk of fading old photograph with a strange flavour of bygone days, in the heart of a modernised metro that utilizes technology for music in celebrations today. Pure magic unfolds in the unadulterated glee of a tiny street urchin as she savours the drops of rain at the Hastings area under the second Hoogly Bridge in Kolkata. We really do not need lengthy spiritual notes on the meaning of joy in life as we look at the pure bliss on the face of the destitute kid revelling in the magical silver raindrops pouring from the grey Kolkata sky. The camera captures spirituality amidst dust and mud in that candid frame. Folded hands of praying old Kolkata ladies during “Bisarjon” or immersion of the idol of Goddess Durga in the twilight splendour of the ghats of the holy river Ganga, again captures a moment of spiritual tranquillity and depth in an ever busy and ever conniving Kolkata, the gasping metro of modern India. The power and depth of silent prayers reflected in the candid shot, narrates a tale of hope and seamless perseverance against daunting adversities of the modern world and the blood red sindoor or vermillion ritualistically smeared on the faces of the praying women symbolises immense strength to stand reticent but resilient against the Asura or demon slaughtered by the goddess. The goddess too is smeared in the red vermillion as the women pray and the idol is immersed, with the goddess imagined to be on her way back to her heavenly abode, giving a parting gift of strength and resolve to the women of the city. The endless humour in human aspiration amidst the urban ennui is well captured in the dumbell lifting candid moment of a local labourer, funnily flexing his biceps for a spectacular muscular physique amidst the shabbiest of shanties reeking of abject poverty. The Eid-special Handi Biryani dum cooked in massive pots in central Kolkata too captures the backstage story for the drooling biryani-loving citizens, irrespective of creed, in an essentially cosmopolitan metro like Kolkata. The festivities would touch every soul, irrespective of religion, and the pots would be emptied fast in the huge cauldron of Kolkata, that accepts, assimilates and blends with magical dexterity. 

Another eloquent photo album on struggle for survival in remote rural corners of India remains a mesmerising saga of resilience and relentless combat against nature and beasts. There are glimpses of pristine joy in frivolous children cavorting in the waters of the mighty Brahmaputra and then there is a heart-wrenching glimpse of a rustic daughter of India, clad in school uniform, bearing a heavy load of fodder for the livestock at home. Education and the struggle for subsistence go hand in hand for rustic daughters of our land. Candid shots of men braving fierce “Dakshinray” or the Royal Bengal tigers and choppy saline waters for fishing and other marine based livelihood unfolds unheard of tales of heroism, bravery and resilience against fate. 

My heartfelt gratitude to Mr. Madam Mohan Chakraborty, a renowned engineer by profession and an award-winning photographer, who has travelled around the world in professional capacity but has always carried his innate passion for capturing the moments of hidden magic and meraki in every city he has visited. I thank him personally and on behalf on Setu for sharing his priceless photos with us. His numerous prestigious international award-winning photographs and exhibitions have already mesmerized the viewers and we hope once again this lovely photo album would provide a visual treat to the readers and patrons of Setu.

 I am also deeply grateful to a young and enthusiastic photographer, Pooja Sardar for sharing with us some compelling and candid glimpses of true rural India that provides a silent yet resonant lesson in resilience in the most daunting of situations and the beauty of simple life fraught with many a responsibility and yet full of life-force, joy and dreams. It is indeed a visual feast for people around the world and a strong message on how life goes on with hope and zest despite hardships and adversities. The photos are endowed with a strong message of hope and strength and the beauty of simple living.

Piku Chowdhury

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Visual Art: Flavours of Cities, Towns or Villages:
Featured Authors

• Pooja Sardar
• Madan Mohan Chakraborty

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Setu, July 2021

Photo Feature: चित्रावली

Piku Chowdhury पिकू चौधरी

BIO-NOTE: Piku Chowdhury teaches in a postgraduate, government aided college and serves as a research guide, editor, Author, painter, translator, singer, poet, photographer, mental health facilitator.

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Setu, May 2021

Piku Chowdhury: Poetry (Voices Within 2021)

Dr. Piku Chowdhury teaches in a post graduate Government aided college. She is a research guide, editor, author, painter, translator, singer, poet, photographer and mental health facilitator.

THE SUBTERRANEAN 

At a juncture you would pause

With a vast stretch of arid sand engulfing your route

And you would turn back. 

If you see a river behind

Instead of the vistas traversed

What would you say?

A mystic silver stretch of fluid 

With suggestions of oblivion,

Secret sweeps of silver tails 

With tales of yore and gore and sore 

And much more, perhaps with 

Hints of salt and petrichor.

All the words and clever designs 

Inundated by serpentine

Bends of river and you are lost

In that spot of helpless quiet.

Strain your ears and catch the notes 

Bubbling in the deepest crevice of heart

May be they will tell you now

How rivers can flow beneath a desert 

With redemption of the subterranean. 

***

FIRE AND ICE

Burning coal on your tongue 

Would emit smoke with stench of pain

You would breathe out smoky tales

Of lies and pretense and deceptions. 

Icy caverns in darkness clad

In layers beneath the frenzied phrase

Preserve the silent truth forgotten

To be exhumed at the final showdown.

***

UNDERWATER

They say you don’t hear a word

When you are underwater 

A strange lull surrounds your brain and ears 

And senses, escapes, hopes and fears.

Pack up the sun and stars and cloud

Pack up every resolve loud

Pack up self-image in shroud 

Illusions of cruises, shore,

Verdant gardens, petrichor;

Let’s just drown to icy depths 

Of silent voices – ghostly, strange

Floating weeds and crabs deranged;

Madness in the gleaming scales

Your vanity hit by swishing tails.

There you hear a silent song

Of wonder, magic and meraki,

May be you then stare at you

And find your stranger reality.

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Life, Cognition and Creativity 2021 :: Setu, January 2021

Nature and Life: Piku Chowdhury: Poetry (Life, Cognition and Creativity)

Piku Chowdhury

1. Canopy

There's a hiatus

In familiarity and meaningless exchange,

When the recluse pulls in 

The canopy of dense verdant dark,

The blinding glare is shut out .

Only the hush intensified by cicadas-

Moments drop like dew

Clinging onto shards of grass

That pierce the facades with abruptness

As the truth germinates 

Gently in the dark moist earthen refuge. 

***

2. Clouds

The clouds enter the rooms with ease 

And drop a moment with facile grace,

The mist permeates the pores and bores 

an endless pit in a well masked face.

Pent up tears and concealed wounds

How touched by lulling mist flow free-

As woolly clouds soak pearly drops 

With oblivion and tenderness.

Steaming oolong blends with mist

 As clouds the newfound friends play on

Whispering tales of mountain snows 

And memories of a unicorn

That galloped in the innocent mind

 Now burdened with age, and disillusionments

Rainbows pervade teatales with

Fairytales of dewy scents.

***

3. Sky

A slice of blazon immersing blue

Through heat and dust, and fear or fest

Wedges between frantic pupils

Suggesting infinity amidst the waste.

Through the gaps of brazen skyscrappers 

Fleeting rendezvous with truant blue 

Clouds moisten the parched dying hearts

Droplets design such rainbows new-

Dousing relentless incinerations,

With messages of rainy rejuvenations.

***

4. Winter

Winter leaves are set on fire

With wisps of smoke perpetrating

The mellowed silence of morning chill,

Fevered eyes seek the dews 

And ride the smoke to distant hills.

Misty trails with trident lamps

 On either ways look strange forlorn

Fever and fear of Covid death 

Touch the drooping bulbul's song

And spread in thousand refractions 

Of sleepy notes of dreamy memoirs

In falling leaves turned letters of past 

Each dewdrop turned to a thousand suns.

Each dead fallIing floating leaf -

Eternity's weaving yarn.

***

5. The Mighty River Roopnarayan

How the mighty Roopnarayan now

sparkles in the mid-day blaze

Intimidating royalty in

 wavy crests and misty haze,

Silent threat of flooding rage 

And demolition of manoevours-

Sustainer of verdant life 

and refuge for the daydreamers.

Roopnarayan the mighty flow

Of human aspirations and fall

Sparkling tide a note of life

The elixir of dreamcatchers.

Piku Chowdhury: Assistant Professor, at Satyapriya Roy College of Education (Government Aided Post Graduate College). Ph.D. (English), Ph.D. (Education), Author of nine books, Translator, Editor, Resource person - national and international seminars, NIEPD, State Resource for SSM in collaboration with UNICEF, Project Director in Research Projects funded by UGC and ICSSR.

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Life, Cognition and Creativity :: Setu, December 2020

IMMORTAL IDEALS OF BAPU

Piku Chowdhury

Courage and Non-violence

A handful of native salt 

on sprawling shores of Dandi,

A silent blazing resistance – a discourse of protest,

Speechless charka spinning tales of undaunted resilience 

Resonant with eloquence of silent Satyagraha.

Sound and fury blown to winds with

Silent lonesome march to history,

The muted speechless oppressed aroused

 to a fiery timeless victory.

Nation’s Father giving expression 

To the muted numbed maimed nation

Eloquence of silent strength, 

Resilience of non-violence

Pervades every Indian soul with a hope of resurrection.

***


Equality

Populace a museum of macabre relics 

Of defied values and denied peace,

Showcased shreds of Dalit flesh

And brazen might of manipulations.

Winged herald of peace and love 

Flutters in dream hued national flag,

Melody flowing from Sabarmati 

Resonates dreams of Father of Nation.

Each eye lifted in silence

Against injustice, or pestilence 

Of inequity; rage flaming in hearts

Amidst the mindless exhibition - 

Drives a blow to the grandiose walls 

Of  museums of carrion hate 

Speechless surge of solidarity

Bapu’s legacy to nation’s fate.

***


Peace

In the global carnival 

of mirth and blatant holocaust,

Warmongers revel in obscene brazen 

show of mindless pyroclastics.

Candles lit in sublime shrines

Burst in sinewy sickened vines

Wrapping around unsuspecting minds 

Preying upon synergy.

Silhouette of an erect monk

Eyes aflame with frigid glow

Lingers in the horizon, 

with plaintive humanity’s flow;

Stuttering rattling guns and hate

Slaughtering, defiling defeated fate 

Infuse with the glowing mantra 

Of the omnipotence of peace.

Father of Nation wields the shield -

Lighthouse to the radar less vessels 

in the ominous wrecking storm.

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Piku Chowdhury: Assistant Professor, at Satyapriya Roy College of Education (Government Aided Post Graduate College). Ph.D. (English), Ph.D. (Education), Author of 9 books, Translator, Editor, Resource person - national and international seminars, NIEPD, State Resource for SSM in collaboration with UNICEF, Project Director in Research Projects funded by UGC and ICSSR.

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Setu Special 2020 :: Setu, October 2020

Memoir / Essays: LOST IN TIME SOMEWHERE NEAR PRAGUE

Piku Chowdhury

(Travel Memoir)

Piku Chowdhury

Like a dream in a dream, the winding vistas to the old graveyard rose in front of my eyes. I walked along the narrow winding trail with a vast stretch of verdant fields on one side and a few brightly painted log cabins on the other. One or two roosters stood petrified, like a rainbow-hued still life with strange dark pools of unfathomed depths in circular eyes…like puddles of rain that had collected in tiny spaces on the sidewalks after the hasty mountain shower, and turned into bottomless mysteries with slices of mountain sky reflected in them. The oaks stood as grand high minarets of tranquil green.

The log cabins soon made way for majestic rain-soaked beech forests on either way and suddenly a slope occurred on the left-hand side, separated from the winding trail by a low stone wall. Along the slope lay discoloured but sombre slabs with grey non-blatant, beautifully mellowed and drowsy tombstones with engraved Christian names of a bygone era. The thickening mist and the evening hush greeted by the parting dim light of the day transformed the old graveyard into a sacred sanctum of frozen memories beyond the dictates of temporality and spatial limits. The swishing branches grew stronger in their strangely synchronized symphony as one or two diffident stars appeared in the tranquil stage of a dusky, mist-clad splendour. The distant slopes were coming alive with sparse twinkling lights, red, yellow and one or two white specks twinkling amidst ethereal darkness.

I felt the piercing cold stab of the mountain wind in the eerie chill of the evening, penetrating my flimsy shawl, partly moist with a hasty downpour. I stood still at the gate of the secluded sleepy space of silent memories, numbed and listless. I was lost. The partially soaked map in hand was useless to the unaccustomed eye. A strange sedative lull pervaded my being as I shivered slightly, so near and yet so far from civilization. At this point, the listlessness was all pervading and remained like the eternal stillness of the eye in the heart of a chaotic cyclonic storm. A stillness that inundates the mind as you kneel in front of the pulpit, lighting a candle in a silent desperate prayer carrying your meddled sensibilities, releasing your perplexity at turn of events in the whimsical world around.

 

My fervent hope to get a hired vehicle on the way back to the city, did not go well with the extra hours spent in marvelling at the glass-paintings of an old forgotten church in central Europe that does not boast of tourist footfall. There I was, a day after an invited lecture at the Metropolitan University, Czech Republic, venturing in the outskirts on my own, with a map in hand and a naive, inexperienced midlife view of facile urban navigation. As I stood alone in a partly drenched shawl and twelve yards of Murshidabadi silk obstinately hugging my shivering frame with nagging icy stabs of consciousness, moments of some other mountain mist and silence swirled in strange vividness. I could see us standing still on the steps of the desolate graveyard in Kurseong- just like it was yesterday, with the aroma of piping hot samosas bought from a wayside old wrinkled Nepali fellow whom we called “daddu” and who bared his toothless gum with a smile like the fading twilight, creating a strange concoction in the fern-scented shady corner. In the whispering sound of rustling leaves, in the inaudible sigh of a falling dew, congealed sounds of our laughter remained as we raced down the slopes with childish competitiveness only to tumble into each other’s eager anticipating embrace, earlier in the day. In the twinkling gem like lights on the distant slopes, the smouldering breath of desire remained congealed, the desire that pierced every dark chilly night in the hills during our sojourn.

It’s strange that I had those frozen memories preserved only in the rustle of the obscure pines and ancient moss on the silent tombstones. You had forgotten your cheap Kodak camera in some park where we had returned hastily in a futile quest for the gadget that must have been picked up by some vagrant localite. But that moment knew no loss.  It’s strange how the buried moments return with such vividness and invade with incredible abruptness in the oddest of hours. It actually made me smile. The togetherness and unarticulated certitude of commitment had filled the sanctum of buried memories. We had no money to possess a DSLR or venture into the city with fine dining joints with chandeliers sparkling with crystal splendour and gentle tinkle of silver cutlery, creating a symphony with mild sizzling sound and aroma of piping hot sizzlers. Nor could we enjoy a faint melody crooned by some live artist in the hall, and yet, as your cold hand clasped a newspaper packet of hot cheap samosas, the moment knew no loss.

I could see the moment on the pavement outside the glass-walled eatery where we, hopelessly naive and young, had stopped with our wistful eyes, our smiling lips. The moment knew no loss. The rich vermillion on the forehead and the tinkle of the sankh with gold bangles on the hand spread the warmth of the sacred fire that had witnessed the holy union of souls, sans feeling of wealth or loss. The silent sighs of the pines carried the contentment of the beginners who would travel thousands of miles around the world with filmstrips of memories to return in the oddest of hours. How the vortex of time revolves! I was here with limited euros in purse, trudging in the same chilly mist, albeit in a distant shore, towards a destination craved, yet unclear. You had been in oblivion for years, each of us comfortably snuggling into our newly carved nooks of familial bliss, millions of miles away from midnight dreams of ethereal hush of a forgotten graveyard in the mountains ,the stupendous failures in form of miserable deflated puris fried together on Sunday mornings , the collaborative fiasco of donning twelve yards around an inexperienced eager frame in a one-room flat. Miles away from the dreams of the luxury of a two-room flat with interior decorations achieved with cheap clay pots or self-made paintings on the wall.  And yet the moments returned in a distant graveyard, like ethereal beings from their peaceful oblivion.

I smiled. A gas station emerged from the mist like a flickering wick in dark. The listless girl at the counter stared incomprehensibly as I asked for a cup of coffee in English. Our pride in communicative English melted into thin air as her visage reflected tremendous boredom and impatience at a tongue she failed to comprehend. 5 euros for a tiny cup of black, bitter brew gained through relentless exercise of non-verbal gestures and yet, the two free cookies seemed heavenly to the famished traveller lost in time. The cheap samosas and the free cookies blended in a supreme collage. The map shown to the lady elicited no enthusiasm and calls to the hotel reception were futile. In limited English the receptionist advised to stick to the map and I was in no position to specify my location. I decided to float on, along the winding vistas lined by magnificent oaks and an occasional lone wild horse in the field, with a heart mesmerised by a psychedelic play of moments across time and space.

Disturbing the organisers at that hour was not a good option. Passers-by shared the same courteous incomprehensibility as I tried to communicate in English and I smiled. Specks of stardust are we, so eternally lost and separated by Babel, by desires, by vested interests- lost in a magnificent mist where love, lust, vows all swirl elusive in the imaginative forays of the mind. We carry our lives in our fantasy, our memories in our dreams and they play strange games as we trudge on to find our way. One or two lonely shops were closing. As I approached one, an old Chinese gentleman was pulling down the shutter. Amidst the unfamiliar tall and lovely Caucasian people around, the shrivelled up stooping Chinese man seemed so familiar. He was poorly versed in English too and yet like the Nepali “daddu” smiling at us in Kurseong, a twilight toothless smile lit his wizened face as I stood bewildered at the surreal similarity. Like some magical play of frivolous moments in time, “daddu” seemed to have reappeared in the dark misty night.

He walked with me with a comforting silence absorbing the uncertainty of the moment, like the silent certitude that had wrapped us in the graveyard, despite our middle-class means. It seemed “daddu”, from the long-lost moment, walked with me till we spotted a distant tram stop. We waited till the tram arrived like a dreamy vessel through the yellow fog. His parting words spelled the name of the station where I should get off to reach my hotel. Just then I remembered with a start, you had not mentioned the name of my destination when you boarded the train to your distant goal forever.  

Bio: Piku Chowdhury is the Assistant Professor of Satyapriya Roy College of Education a Govt. aided Post Graduate College]. She is also an author of 9 books and many articles in international journals, a translator, editor, poet, state curriculum revision core committee member, project director, non-clinical mental health worker and research guide. 

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Memoirs 2020 :: Setu, September 2020

Musings: Piku Chowdhury

Piku Chowdhury

Ennui

Milk tea and no wine for me
Ikebana good company
Movies, soaps and cooking blogs
Beauty in chequered embroidery.
I sip the mundane brew of life,
I sew and mend the straining lies,
I dust the rusty tales of love
In the shadowed scullery.
Lowercase my scribbled self,
Spelling mistake-dotted text;
Spinning yarns of myriad sighs
Joyful patterns of tapestry.
Someday should you just drop by
Savour the pastry, feel the lines
The ennui - the flowing poetry.
***


The quest

I keep scanning varied books
Pages turning inside my head
Texts in jackets bright and fade.
Understand some, skip some more
Remember none. Eyes get sore-
I feel scared but lives pour in,
Bounded texts with little to offer,
Clichéd acts of endless chatter;
Each encounter, a futile hope
For the meaning of the word.
***


Confession

Veiled priests to the sanctum go
Seeking the light, seeking Grace
High minarets of poetic truth
Sacred forays, sacred quest.
I confess I cannot seek
Salvation rom my holocausts.
I am not cut out for prayers
Nor for journeys put on show.
I can never don the veil,
To hide the fire, the rancid smell;
I can only touch the lines, that
Scrape some meaning off the mess;
Lines that trudge on mundane grounds
Amidst the grime, chaos sans grace.

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Piku Chowdhury: Assistant Professor, at Satyapriya Roy College of Education (Government Aided Post Graduate College). Ph.D. (English), Ph.D. (Education), Author of 9 books, Translator, Editor, Resource person - national and international seminars, NIEPD, State Resource for SSM in collaboration with UNICEF, Project Director in Research Projects funded by UGC and ICSSR.

Setu, August 2020