Black

Bullets 27th Jan

1. Bukowski’s poems
2. Hemingway’s prose
3. Beksinski’s art
4. Kaczynski’s essays
5. Trotsky’s philosophy and
6. Water’s musings 

are six bullets I keep loaded 

in my revolver at all time!

For you never know 

when one might have to

pull the trigger on some kafir!! 

LSD 23rd Jan

I have heard that it

makes you hear echoes of a 

distant time, 

distant echoes, 

distant,

till you hear your mother cry at your funeral, 

in your previous life..

It sharpens your memory, I am told,

So much so,

you can feel your mother’s labour pain 

as you were born into this life,

as a continuum!

And once the colours fade and the smoke recedes,

it makes you see, I am afraid,

further, deeper into the dark abyss of your nightmares 

and into the hollow emptiness of your soul !

Adjective 10th January

Old

Fat

Bald

Poor

Immoral

Pessimist

Indisciplined

Trotskyist 

Wayward 

Diseased

Lazy

Unfocused 

Non serious 

Foolish

Weird

Bong

Oldskul

Analog

Bukowski reader sums it all

Mother 24th December 2018

You,

Yes you,

Do you know what medicine 

your mother takes, since when, what dosage, frequency?

Have you ever seen her delirious, staring at you with a faded smile but blank eyes?

Have you ever waited outside the critical care unit of a hospital 

while inside chemicals and machines worked its 21st century magic on your mother?

When was the last time you realised what you stand to lose is more than what will fit squarely in an econometric equation

And woke up shit scared soaked in sweat? 

You,

Yes you,

I am asking you !

Hasta Siempre Kolkata 22nd December 2018

And like the final act of the play, 

before the final curtain,

from an almost peeled-off wall painting,

a lone Guevara stares frustrated,

at all those that once spoke of 

collective farms and promised equitable distribution at gun point.

They all seem to have swallowed the blue pill.

And yet in one of those old grey derelict houses,

With leaky pipes and discoloured damp walls,

In an even older, grey-er non-descriptive by-lane,

Resistance and enfranchisement 

still gets debated in hushed tones,

between an old hardliner father and a young aggressive son,

on an empty stomach ! 

To Naxalbari 26th November 2018

Battle drills on unknown battle fields

Empty bullet shells like rhododendrons lay scattered in grey abandon 

Echoes of betrayal ring across bereft houses 

While clouds, heavy and dark, grow darker in secrecy behind unnamed hills

Question is will you bloody your hands for a fallen comrade? 

To Ayub Bacchu 18th October 2018

For those of us who have a slight inclination towards arts and music, growing up in kolkata during the 90’s was dull and directionless. We had missed the revolutionary 60’s & 70’s by a few decades and the 80’s was perhaps the worst decade socio-politically speaking, creativity, music, art, cinema too was at it lowest point... we had no icon to look upto, nothing to identify ourselves with. But then we discovered Bangla Rock.. a vernacular expression of an international format. We embraced it with open arms and suddenly you had a great enthusiasm gripping us young school and college goers with dreams of all kinds of possibilities. Bangla Rock- listening to bootlegged cassettes brought in by our friends from Jadavpur of Bangladeshi bands, Miles, Souls, Renaissance, James, warfaze and of course Ayub Bacchu and LRB we were mesmerised! Closer home Cactus, Abhilasha and of course Mohin were leading the movement..Those were the days of learning guitar chords and singing in unison in the college canteen, Nandan premise .... “Sei Tumi” by Ayub Bhai was an anthem, sacred and not to be fucked around with, chords had to be perfect..!! 

Today when I heard the news that Ayub Bacchu has passed away it’s like a part of my growing up has just died! He might not be well known outside of the Bangladesh and West Bengal but there is little doubt of his immense talent as a guitarist and singer. He tamed the six strings like no other.. Rock at its melodious and heaviest best! The Bangla Rock movement just lost a true Icon! I know I have lost a hero! A sad sad day indeed! 

Radar 24th September 2018

Desolation lies strewn across the runway,

Dark rain clouds hang still overhead,

Only that wise, lazy, monolithic radar 

goes about its daily business.

Idyllic but foreboding a young girl in frock

Awaits news of war from a distant land

Cries with her head buried in her hand! 

To understand poetry 16th September 2018

Till it hasn’t burnt down your moral edifice, your well cultivated prudency,

and every guarded lie you hide behind,

And stumped you like a deer in the headlight,

Till it hasn’t mangled up your entrails from within,

day after day, night after night,

Cell by cell, vein by vein,

Like an incurable disease,

Till it hasn’t kicked your balls, 

knocked off a couple of your front row teeth,

And left you bleeding,

Like after a bare knuckle fight with a prize fighter, 

half your age and twice your weight,

Don’t claim that you understand 

jack about poetry, 

you punk! 

A storm is brewing 26th August 2018

Come if you will

Let us sail through this storm

Brewing in the heart

To the distant holy city of Medina.

Hold on, fear not

For the prophet will steady your soul.

Why lazy around

Instead say your prayers

Have faith and let us call upon Muhammad

To deliver us from this darkness of the mind and

 ignorance of the heart. 

Black 27th September 2018

One dark quest 

to acquire an ancient and intimate knowledge of snakes.

One obscure forgotten curse

to unleash diabolical nightmares.

One colourless odourless poison

to cleanse the land of the undeserving.

One battle ax 

to bring the barbarian horde to its knees.

One whispered spell

to rule them all!

To write a poem 19th August 2018

You can’t possibly write a poem

Till you have been fucked and a half by life,

By your day job, by your bills, by your health, by your addiction...

Till u haven’t seen some lousy motherfucker make it to the top by simply phaffing hours on end!

And then 

You cannot just sit down to write a poem.

You need to participate in a riot

And have tear gas thrown at you 

While you light a Molotov’s cocktail!

And that’s when you realise that 

A poem just cannot be allowed in.

It needs to break down the door and barge in 

revolver in hand firing shots at you, your photos on the wall and even your shadow!

It’s only then you agree that

A poem actually cannot be written.

It can only be hammered down and nailed to the cross 

At 2 O’Clock in the morning

While your loved ones sleep without a care in the world ! 

Happiness is.... 27th May 2018

Nothing but a soda bubble,

A defeated magician’s final act.

A fading prime Madonna’s last octave.

The one-eyed pirate’s last sword fight.

Bukowski’s cigarette, Hemingway’s shotgun and Rimbaud’s absinthe

Happiness is..

A puncture in the continuum of sadness! 

Sadness is... 22nd May 2018

A mother who fakes a smile every single day,

least her son figures that dad is no more.

A son who dreams up a rocket every night,

to go find his dead dad amongst stars. 

L’équation politique 22nd May 2018

Biplob = Mukti r utso 

Bonduk er nol = khomota r utso 

However,

there is no Mukti without Khomota

Therefore,

Bonduk er nol = Mukti r utso!

Revolution = Source of freedom

Barrel of a gun = Source of Power

However,

There is no Freedom without Power

Therefore,

Barrel of a gun = Source of freedom

• Neelav Bose

What I want 17th May 2018

What I want is a good old fashioned duel

Or I may even settle for a bare knuckle

Fist fight in that cheap bar across the street

All I need is an enemy! 

On second thought what I need is to 

Earn money

Buy morality

Gain social status...!

It’s only domestic 15th May 2018

That evening

Tears tired of running down your bruised cheeks, now taste like salt on your disfigured dry lips.

Those beautiful thick hair now disenchanted, disarrayed, disheveled fall over your dark eyes.

Those costly specs you wear now lay scattered somewhere on the floor.

Those fine china showpieces lovingly bought on your travels abroad, now lie shattered around you.

That chic white dress now stained with clotted blood, hang on to your body like broken wings.

You try to scream 

but these four walls you call home, 

got your tongue, your lungs, your will!

You try hard to remember love!

You think of your friends, your parents, your phone ..... your child....

there he is, standing by the door, watching you, wondering, clutching his teddy tight.

You force a smile across your face !

But tomorrow how will you explain the marks on your face to your maid, to your colleagues, to yourself....

And yet soon those scars, those bruises, those screams, those helplessness will hide beneath make-up,

and the hurt, the pain beneath make-belief!

It's only domestic you say, but it's violence we know!

Narodnaya Volya (People’s Will) 6th May 2018

No the next revolution

Will not be twitted

Nor will it be televised or Watsapp-ed

Or messaged or e-mailed.

It will not be airdropped while u sleep     nor will it be shared via Bluetooth. 

No the next revolution

Will not be led by armchair Maoists,

Nor will it be romanticised by jeans clad student leaders through rhetorical slogans

Nor by leftist fag-head Trotsky espousing poets.

No the rules of engagement

Will not be debated in the back alley cafes

Over cups of sugarless black coffee 

No the next revolution will not bring in its wake songs, literature, street plays, graffiti or art.

There will be no selective annihilation or land mines or ambush 

There will be no bloodshed. 

No the next revolution 

will not be called Narodnaya Volya 

The next revolution 

Will not be human! 

The Rise & Fall of a movement 25th Aug 2017

The Rise

The late 70's, 80's and the 90's were perhaps the most culturally and intellectually bankrupt period in the history of this nation. Quite literally a period of great void. Nothing really of any significance happened during this period and these were unfortunately my years of growing up. There was no anchor to latch on to, no event which would have played any kind of pivotal role in my life. It was a period when all that had to be said and done was already said and done. All the revolutions and radicalism were already over and or crumbling. Every aspect of life and its myriad manifestations through art, literature, movies, music even Bollywood was going through a period of great mediocrity and lack of innovation. The larger than life charismatic  leaders were all dead or just didn't care anymore, lamenting somewhere at the colossus betrayal of some cause or the other etc. It was a period of looking back at the golden days that would never come back and at the same time looking at the dark abyss that lay ahead. We were in a way doomed it seemed. 

It was therefore a period of unease, dissatisfaction and general lethargy. Many of us felt something had to give, give sooner rather than later... it finally did in the mid nineties. It was, as is always the case, with points of inflection in cultural history, through music. It happened in college canteens in Calcutta. It happened through the age old practise of banging the table and singing songs... but this time with a difference. The difference was the accompaniment of an acoustic guitar and a new lyrical format. Lyrics which did not speak of beauty, nature or unrequited love, but of the ugliness of day to day life in the city. Urban songs about urban struggle, love, politics... change in general and a post- revolution realism in particular. Suddenly I, we found an anchor, a pivot... it was positive, creative and gave us a cause to believe in and a movement to be a part of. The Bangla Band movement !Suddenly we belonged to a growing sub- tribe. A tribe of youth who had grown on western music, who were re-discovering themselves through vernacular but through the medium of western rock delivery.. guitars, drums, head banging, long hair, torn jeans, deviant, proud et al. Suddenly the Marx, Kafka, Sartre, Doestovsky fed Bengali boy was expressing himself very simply through the vibrations of six strings and it all made sense. We all genuinely believed in the movement and the change it was bringing. Finally the void was getting filled and it was a period of great satisfaction, sense of purpose and primordial joy. It was simple, pure and relatable then....

The Fall

The youth of the 90's gradually grew out of college and into responsibilities, family obligations, job, career ...the usual routine. 

The movement did not pay bills! Suddenly the insecure Bengali boy whose father was about to retire had to make a choice. He chose wisely as one would say!

But lo and behold there is a new generation of Bengali boys who now sing in the same college canteens, who grew listening to stories of the movement which happened while they were in kindergarten. Of Gautam Chattopadhyay and Mohiner Ghoraguli and the mythical band called Abhilasha and Cactus and Porosh Pathor ( the philosopher's stone) and the legendary Krosswindz and their cult album .. the movement it seemed would survive the passing of the baton. 

But alas... what was supposed to usher in change, stand against establishment, strengthen the sub tribe, provide a platform of expression and yet stay pure and simple is today just the shameful opposite. Rivalry, distrust, money it seems has found its way into our Camelot. Capitalism has reared its ugly head and meddled in the affairs of the movement. Expensive shows, corporate sponsorships, costly equipments and instruments have replaced the simplicity of singing in the college canteens with an acoustic guitar. Lyrics no longer talk of realism but of apocalyptic post- realism, of darkness, sadness and negativity in general. It is no longer simple, uplifting or positive. The youth of the 90's, now are almost all in their 40's, and through their rimmed glasses and excel sheets and PowerPoint presentations, with a great sense of disgust, are witnessing the collapse of this great post-revolution movement... alas it now seems to be imploding and falling through the cracks...

But I believe that the movement still lives. It breathes every time anyone of us, no matter where we might be, in Kolkata or Istanbul or London, picks up the acoustic guitar and sings "Runway jurey porey achey sudhu keo nai sunnota" ( desolation lies strewn all along the Runway) .... the movement is dead! Long live the movement!