A Certain Winter Evening

The angels are traversing the rainbow of his mind,
all in pure colours of love,
the old man sits quiet on the park bench,
staring with weak eyes at the clouds above.
Quietly the dusk is breaking into his eyes,
the tears can hardly be seen
the passing wind that has no faith diverts at the neckline of this quiet being.

Breathing air in one corner stands the nomad of our age,
smoking endless cigarettes he dreams of being a sage.
Now he could wait and watch his fate,
moving slowly in an uneventful rate,
but the crowded group of sane men who laugh at him with a cheering roar are unaware of his scheme and his invisible bait.

The girl, she walks slowly,
she is unsure of her love so she pulls out her trembling hand to brush her hair from the glowing silken glove.
She has that glitter in her eyes
just like the dream girls of midnights,
and she has been leaning on a wall with her heels stamping on all the psycho babbles that once threw some light.

And somewhere close by a group of young men call out a strike,
the leader who is screaming with passion has a cloth that is covering his face,
but soon enough the police will get there and shoot some dogmatic bullets at the protesting human race.
The leader he is pale with grief,
the bankers have taken the money,
and do you ask the reason for this crackdown on this formidable group of men?
Remember that group in history!
They are called Communists my honey.

Then the evening invites some cold wind freezing the marrow of our bone,
and while the fire is being lit over there,
my sense of life is suddenly gone!
The nomad he picks a bottle of rum and the girl she watches as I pick a glass,
the old man sits beside the blazing fire,
the leader he is bleeding on the grass.
Then I get drunk with my arms wrapped around the night,
someone reads letters of yesteryear while a few pick a fight.
And while the nomad speaks crazy and the old man listens with care,
the girl finds it romantic to tend the bleeding leader and make his sorrows share,
then I sit on my weak haunches trembling in the wind and watch the fairies descend on humans like God's marvellous rain.

Calcutta

Calcutta, I have left my heart hanging on the black wires of your tram lines at Park Circus,
the ancient wires that hang loosely against the hue of great blue sky has managed to keep my thumping heart with it, and now I am heartless.
Calcutta, I have left my mind and the bit of vague intellect on the stairway of Coffee House,
now and then when occassional poets stand by the steps to share a cigarette, they can hear my lyric cry out in pain. I am mindless now.
Calcutta, I refuse to get loved unless it is designed by your anachronistic idea of romance, I still want to walk on Red Road and watch children play on Maidan.
Calcutta, do you remember when I yearned for you and made love to you in lonely afternoons with my music? And later I walked past your flowing river smoking and looking at your naked self.
Calcutta I have tried to write a lot about you, but I couldnt, so am giving a last try, tell me if you dont like it but dont throw me out of your heart, I will not be able to bear that.
Calcutta, I still find your midnight silence very holy and the way you scream out in silence, I dont like these corporates here, they are making you look sick.
Calcutta, I have thrown out my political sentiments, I will never want to understand politics unless its yours,
they are pressing on the poor and killing the idea of revolution,
Calcutta, when will your womb give birth to a new red flag? The one that is true?
Calcutta, it is funny how my senses do not get aroused with anything other than that of your streets, the sound of your chaos and the smell, yes the smell of your alleys.
Calcutta, I have taken numerous trips to your China town and have watched the crazy madness, or the lights during Christmas and how they always excite pavement dwellers at Park Street.
Calcutta, I have seen your rallies and how young men scream out for justice, but that is lost and they say it should be peaceful. Funny, it is only them demanding peace not you.
Calcutta, Sankar's Chowringhee has almost entirely become Esplanade, wonder what he has to say about that.
Calcutta, I am thinking what is the meaning of modernisation? Is it demolishing you and killing your style? Does it really have to be that way?
Calcutta, I dont see Tagore's dream of golden Bengal anymore, oh yes! Of course, you are a part of that same dying, decaying Bengal.
Oh no! You are lucky, you are the cover that they like to decorate so dearly.
Calcutta, it is half past two at night and I still dont know what to do, do you have a plan?
No, we are both immersing in a facade of hopelessness but Calcutta I will be by your side.
I will stand on bus stops smoking, I will hide in your dingy lanes doping, I will sit by your river drinking whiskey and I will sing with you.
When the world changes and the roads are being built,
When the peolple go forth and your style is being killed, your buildings demolished and your name changed forever,
when they bring down my heart from your tram lines and kick out my lyrics still lurking at the steps of Coffee House,
I will lye down with you under immense sky with God as our judge and stars in the depth of our eyes,
We will make love in the gutters of human disgust.
And you will still be beautiful,
Calcutta. Dear Calcutta.