virtual you are
like the ancestral homeland in the east of partitioned-Bengal
now identified solely on the google map
touch-pad mitigated navigation-skills take me closer to destinations, unknown
i browse the peaks and plateaus of far-off physical offerings
a speedy zoom-in breeds proximity
you keep me awake in the awareness of a touch-friendly-coma
in a divided state, where we shed nothing other than the burden of baggage, unwanted
***
the distance between you and me… four hours from now and a few more stations
sampark kranti is the name of the trail
scalding sips leave a scorch footprint down the throat
the tongue cells squeak like a just butchered animal thrashing by the blade
smear and soothe them in softness
let my savaged cells find some instant solace
***
an overnight train is all it takes to backpack and reach
i pick-up the shaving kit
the camera
some tissue papers
a bottle of perfume
and tickets to my destination
deep inside your cozy bedroom echoing with riverine sounds
you embrace the wrapped up physical package, just arrived
you reach out for your due
you appreciate that I am able, unhurt and intact
you cut the straps, pluck the vain, tear open my outer skin
be assured, the delivery meets the blueprint
and adjust me subsequently in positions desired
fluids flow
throats perch
elevation of the arousal is often swallowed by your pacific oral-depths
grinding wheels on metal tracks drown the sounds of breaking tide
orgasmic outcomes drench passing abundance
***
fragrant with your sultry sweat, your lingerie
constantly checks you out up-close
your repose, your slumber and the sudden urge
it witnesses the gaps, hyphens and pauses illustrated by your moist murmurs
it embosses its mark on your skin as you float in the limbo of post coital unfurling
that I can never match
envy forces my fingers to tear in
i morph into the innermost layer that you can possibly wear
***
i walk out
with nothing but fading memories in my bag
i break open a coke-can, open the cab-door
i land jaded at the office desk on a Monday morning
my pockets empty, not of wallet, loose change or the cell phone
but, innumerable rail tracks, overhead cables, rusting iron wheels
and buried under them all
a waiting-list
with my mention on it
***
invitations tempt me
i revisit my city on the sly
i find it shrouded in shades of fleecy cotton candy, spiced with the zest of bunked classes
infancy cloaks itself in a shroud of innocence
with one nervous gulp, it takes the center-stage
while the anxious youth hovers near the podium of allurement, curated well in advance
the holy river ride is stripped of devotion
we float on the river blooming in rain
and slip through the shivering shadows of iron bars on the water-weeds
the boatman poses on the edge
a crown of dark sweat adorns his brows
biceps bulge with each pull of the oar
***
after committing all the coveted crossing-overs
i seek sanctuary in a small town alley, dense with the puff of burning coal
deep-fried sounds of evening snacks span-out in dingy cow-shades
aroma of over-fried local-junk chokes the vicinity
nearby soccer stadium holds its breath, waiting for a maiden Messi-like-hatrik
with hesitant foot-steps, right then, an 18-year-old makes her appearance
near the door where dreams are sold
she dribbles her way through familiar masks
the penalty at the Dream Girl Parlor is waiting for her to score
***
i too must remain a stranger
here, a new face, sparks off a rally of questions
neighbors slip, into the grip, of irreverential curiosity
you egress first, i follow
at a safe distance
we meet, according to the plan, on the last steps of the deserted dockyard
shadowed and remote
chartbusters from recent blockbusters blare out from an unfamiliar window
“nijer mukhoshe nijeke dhaki”
another aircraft in the horizon lurches a sudden landing arch
we activate the bluetooth in our bodies
to make do with a minimum words
***
that the universe is made up of mysteries
doubts and evidences
strange beliefs and disbeliefs – is what the physicists claim
the curriculum, entirely covered by black holes of impossibility
drives a million dollar empire of doubts
on origin and extinction
***
i, the perpetual migrant
fuelled by curiosity, constantly seeking ever-new expeditions
out of expertise or experience, fire my rockets
send in space navigators exploring the labyrinth of known and unknown bodies
yours shake with tremors of explosive pleasure
the puritan reader avoids it with suspicion
sage parental advice borders on threat
asking my language to either autocorrect or face repeated ‘ctrl-z’
only you, the one among many others
reach for the wonders of a universe beyond
escalating on mindless cosmic pleasure
***
the shadows of hands cove closer over fruits of desire
blue-teeth-marks blemish the soft skin
parts of it are separated from its whole, and swallowed
the rest follows, in small, bite-sized, pieces
likewise, in small pieces, your hesitations come off
as I inflict my shadowgraphs over your bare grids
take a stroll around the deep-scar named desire and you may discover
innumerable seeds of intimacy
***
we wait for the night to grow even darker
you come closer and caution “let mom put out the lights in her room, first”
in dense darkness our fingers gather vision, bodies gain sight
on the edge of completion, we withhold our climaxes to stretch the visuals, longer
in silence, you swallow your passionate moans, and another i–pill
and yet another secret carnal campaign
***
then the bogey of craving enters an arena of momentary pause, correct to the second
and departs for the next terminal, true to the percept of non-acquisition
honest to an unending intended exodus
it approaches straight ahead with a supersonic roar
on parallel paths of yearning laid on the grounds of illusory apatite
towards the anticipation of a new frenzy
closer to another doorstep
where quivering apprehension for a touch holds more thrill than the touch itself
***
the corpse stiffens, exhales rotten smell
once cremated, turns to ashes
burial is a better way to deal with the memory of the disposed
read the sound of loose pebbles and memoirs showering on your coffin
clout of the firm timber shall salvage you from inevitable injuries
but I shall recur, nevertheless, to scare you in your own grave
and after I am gone, the roots of the daunting recollections will pierce
through layers of your stiff resistance
seeking sustenance
invading private creeks of your cold assets to satiate yet another colossal craving
