Deyasini Thinks

I went by your house last night again. It become a habit now passing by your place, drunk. Like it's some typical Bollywood movie. only it's not because I know what I am doing. I am in control and I'll never lose it. I looked up the window I used to always look up at. I saw me. Sixteen year old me. Patiently looking down from your window. There was a calm in her I know wasn't in her when I was sixteen. My breath grew shallow and paced up. There isn't anything the same in the both of us. You were right. I camouflage really easily and before I could know, I became this person. I think I gave in to the lifestyle; the parties booze and boys caught up to me and it's okay. I am not complaining. I won't say that that I detest the woman I have become. I absolutely do not think I should have been the way I was when I met you; fragile and easy to love. I don't want to be easy.  I don't want to love the way I loved you, like a traveller in a desert loves a mira...

I took a trip down memory lane today collecting all the poems  I wrote between 2016 and 2019. Its funny how mysteriously time changes our thoughts, our emotions and people who we couldn't dream our existences without become insignificant, their places slowly taken by bigger hearts. However, somewhere in the dark, the last remnant of the pain remains and out of a blue, on a sunny day, it pokes our peace, staggers its skeleton out of the repugnant and clandestine slimy web of our happiness and says: Remember me! I existed within you. This blog post is just a reminder to who I was and an unsaid letter of gratitude to everything that went wrong, everybody who stood with me through my woes, and everybody who left me in the murky cesspool.   #1 First to Last First, we kissed ’cause we loved Then we hugged ’cause we cared Then we met cause it mattered Then we called ’cause we still cared Then we texted ’cause we hoped Then we stopped ’cause we were tired And in that increasing count ...

The reason I never sing a Rabindra Sangeet is that I can never sing a line of it with a straight face. Tears well up in my eyes, my jaws feel tight, my voice gets choked with all the unsaid unknown suffocation that gags me from the inside. There is something about Rabindranath Tagore, something that will never die. Something that he has left in all of us and not just Bengalis but people around the world cherish him and bind themselves to him in an uncanny tragedy. Even the most jovial songs have a tinge of gloom and melancholy to them. And the sad ones make my heart beat slow. When Tagore said:  jodi puraton prem dhaka pore jai nobo premo jale jodithaki kachakachi, dekhite na pao, chayar moto, tobu mone rekho  (if your old love is lost in the web of your new love if you cannot see me around your you like a shadow, if you doubt Still, remember me) I could not believe how a man in the early 1900s could write something people will relate to a hundred years later or maybe five-hun...

In my life of 20-some years , I have had the opportunity of been taught by a humongous number of tutors. As a young child, my parents did not believe in sending me off to tuitions much but that thought quickly changed owing to the kind of people around us and the way they brought their children up. I am not complaining. I am just setting the record straight Having said that, I deem myself quite lucky because I did not have it the worst. Some of my friends were bogged down with tuitions from classes two and three. I started at six, perhaps. But a few teachers in my life have given me more than teaching their subject to me. A very few of them could give me something that I could carry for life, let alone cherish it. But when I was fourteen and in class eight, my parents got me admitted to an English class. I violently fought it. I was adamant and resolute that I would not take a class for English. I felt trampled, like my self-confidence was punched in the stomach. I don’t know what I w...