I'm back at a strange place
Half familiar, half forgotten
I havent been home, to this one,
In winter, for years ... and alone.
How could four walls and a patch of
green change so much in a season?
The mountains in the backdrop, that I have always seen austere and dusty, dry, are rain soaked.
The winds that roar outside,
are not hot enough to burn skin.
And in the sky,
float clouds: pretty, bluish grey.
I want to walk out to the mountains.
More than ever they call me.
In this season,
I can sit for hours on the old bleached beech swing,
and cut back and forth through
the cloud of memories we have wea\ved around it,
for 18 years ...
18 years we have inhabited this house,
every odd vacation
but it still doesnt feel like home
but then, 18 is less than 31, and still
this life doesnt feel like home.
sitting alone with him in the dozing evening,
i remember the time i first saw him,
its been 18 years
as times goes by all the memories fade
and grow less cool
leaving behind just the calculations
tallying time ...
'quiet desperation' is stuck in my head
and i want to go home ... and read it again
a find a smile as i sneak up on myself ...
thats all there is to it then
home is where all my books are
watched dead poets society, bluffmaster and binodini (sorry, chokher bali) again ...
i never understand
wish i could read bangla enough to read the book
why did meggie come back?
had he read the book, or is there a common thread,
found it in many others as well
she is so hauntingly familiar
she makes me shiver
greed is like barnacles
disgustingly, irresistibly ugly
across time and geography,
its never been allowed us
its dead poets that reminded me of quiet desperation
and why did that remind mee of 'end of ...'?
and popcorn, and rainy days, and shadowy rooms
and hiding in corners with words.
loneliness has a sharp edge of desperation
most of the times, we dont venture there
our eyes meet, but i turn away
i dont want to go your way
but what would turn out, i wonder
if i let it loose? what would the desperation do?