Bristi.... tui eli keno?

Bristi.. tui eli keno?
jodi na i parish mon bhejate,
jodi na i parish bedona bholate,
tui eli keno?

jodi mon e plabon ana tor chholona chhilo,
jodi moron bonya kora i tor motlob chhilo,
tui eli keno?

jodi metate na parish trishna amar,
jodi nevate na parish aagun,
tui eli keno?

jodi ghochate na parish ondhokar,
jodi jagate na parish mone alo,
tui eli keno?

bristi.. jodi tui ese thakis
moner dhulo na dhue,
ulte kada makhate,
praane sukher fosol na foliye,
ulte dukhorodhi baadh bhangte,
phire jaa tui, chole jaa tui,
e nishpaap bhuvan na bhijiye.
chaina amar e roop tor,
mithye jotil swarthopor,
shotyer meki mukhos pore
nijekei j fele haariye.

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Bristi amar proshner kono uttor deini.
ek jhaptay roktokhora nirmimeshe rodh kore
nijer choritrobose abar megh e mishe gechilo.
Tarpor ami bristi bheja maatir gondho peye,
Jholmol rod e gaacher sobuj paata gulike haaste dekhe..
Raastar dhaare jome thaka swochho jol e surjokiron er bichhurone,
bristir uttor lekha dekhlam --
ami sudhu nodi nala, mati r gachpala k
shikto, shanto snigdho kortei naami na,
Megher modhye jonmiye bohudin sukhe bondi thakar por
Mukto hote, sompurno hote jhore pori prithibite.
Tokhon ami bole uthlam, bristi.. tui aay,
ami sei prithibi j bristir aashay
akaasher dike cheye megh k khuje beray..
tui na thakle megh k keu bhalo bastona,
megher ostitter kono karon thaktona. 

~by Sayani & Sourangshu

Ami aar Ami nei

Moner kon gawhore, abchhaya ondhokare,
Lukiye rekhechilam gopone tomare,
Roudrotaap, bojropaat jate keho na chhoe,
Sudhu amar premer brishti jeno tomare bhejay.

Amar jiboner sukh dukkho utthan potone
Khonosthayi ei chotto jibone,
Sudhu tomar haath dhorei haat te chai
Karon eka lorte parbona bachaar lorai.

Ami aar ami nei,
Ami tumi hoegechilam.
Jedin amar mon tomay upohar diechilam.
Ami aar ami thakbo na,
Somajer saathe lorte parbona,
Jedin tumi chole jabe, ar phire takabena.

Bidaay

Sheemaheen sei tepantorer maathe,
Antaheen pothe se amar haath dhore haate.
Kaache ashe, paashe boshe,
Duchokh mele amar dike cheye haashe.
Ek chhoate amar shotta die nariye,
Chokher nimeshe kothay se gelo haariye.
Chhute beraai, khuje beraai,
Ojana ondhokaare haath baraai.
Bhanglo duhswopnobhora ghum,
Chaardik nihshobdo, nijjhum.
Bhijeche baalish obiram osrubonnay,
Dekhi bhorer surjo uki dei janlay.
Bhorbe to aaj ghor shanaiyer shure,
Bhorbe amar kopaal garo lal sindure.
Bor bolechhe amay sonay debe muure,
Niejabe bilete bohukrosh duure.
Ekhon to somoi notun swopno dekhar,
Tobuo keno smriti pichhu taane barbar?
Smriti? Naki bhalobasa?
Naki fele asha ichhe...protyasha?

College Street (Boi Para - A Colony of Books)

On this often trodden street,
In your hand, or at your feet, 
Stacked in a corner or a dusty nook
There always was & would be a book.
 
A sea of knowledge 
Wherever you peek, 
No dearth of wisdom 
If you know how to seek.

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An ode to College Street or Boi Para (Colony of Books), Kolkata - A cradle for book lovers for over half a century for Kolkata, a city of books and dreams.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/College_Street_%28Kolkata%29

http://www.tripadvisor.in/Travel-g304558-d311654/Kolkata-Calcutta:India:College.Street.Boi.Para.html

ALICE IN WONDERLAND

The little girl that once held her daddy's hand,
Wished for a prince and a magic wand
And vowed to visit the Magic Land.

But the gates were rusted, the earth was crusted,
The stalls lay wasted, where once candies were tasted;
The fair was devoid of a ride or a toy.

A murky sky, no bird doth fly;
The clouds were  brown, the shutters down
Of shops that once sold items of joy.

Her path is now weary, her heart dreary,
Her body aches and bleeds, an unknown world she treads,
Everywhere around are eyes of lust.

Where is the prince in whom she could trust?

Toil

I like the long queues,
People waiting forever for their turn.
I like the overcrowded buses,
People fighting for a foothold.
The desperation of people hanging on,
The exasperation of people waiting on,
To reach their workplace on time,
To clock in the 9 hours, everyday.

I like the crowded platforms,
The people's eternal wait for the train,
To carry the weight of the day's drudgery
Back to their homes of infinite comfort.

I like to see them again the next morning,
The unflinching desperation, the same exasperation.
Waiting for the end of the month,
For the remuneration of each day's toil.

Lost

You can't see her. She sees you, watches you.
You cross the busy road carelessly, you don't care for safety
Your friends rebuke you for being careless
But she finds you to be carefree.
Free of any fear, unwanting of any care
How happy you are. How untouched by pain
The afternoon breeze ruffles your unkempt hair
You turn to face the breeze and sniff the air
The breeze carries with it a familiar scent, of perfume
You smell of her, as if she were standing nearby
You try to look for her in the crowd with your eyes closed.
You search for her with those old eyes of forgotten years.
But only a teardrop rolls down your scarred cheek,
Sparkling like a diamond as it catches a ray of the afternoon sun.
You can't see her, oh how she shudders to see you cry.
You deftly manage to wipe away your tear,
while managing the disobedient tresses falling on your carefree face.
She wonders if that's the way you fight all your problems,
Just the way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ears.
She loves the way you beat up the dust while you hop across the park,
You seem oblivious to anybody coming in your path,
In the rush to get to your favourite bench facing the lake.
She swerves past you to avoid collision. You don't notice her.
Perhaps she likes to be left unnoticed, to be left forgotten.
You find your favourite bench without any trouble, still unoccupied.
You keep your walking stick on the bench to stop anyone from sitting beside you.
You miss those days you came down with her to this very place.
You remember her sitting beside you as you enjoyed looking at setting sun,
The little waves lapping against the lakeshore, and reflecting the sun like a thousand floating mirrors.
You can still hear the gentle waves, the rustle of leaves, the children playing on the shore.
But you face down as you cannot see all these anymore.
You open your shoes and let the blades of grass tingle your feet.
You remember her holding your hand as you fed the swans at the edge of the lake.
It seems millions of years ago, and you want to see her again.
But you can't see that she is sitting on the bench right behind you.
Oh how she wishes to walk up to you and embrace you,
To hold your face between her palms and look deep into your eyes and say...
"Darling, I wish we could enjoy watching the setting sun together again".
She weeps silently, feeling helpless, hopeless. For being unable to help him.
You stand up, take the walking stick lying on the bench and unfold it.
You put on the black shaded goggles and start walking back, knocking your stick before you.
You stop suddenly as you cross the bench behind you and tap on the handles with your stick.
You sigh and say, "Darling I can hear you sobbing from a mile,
I can smell you when you are around. I know you feel guilty for having left me.
But you cannot return my sight. You cannot marry a poor, blind man dear. I have forgiven you.
And I am proud to have sacrificed my sight while defending my country.
I can live forever with the memories of the moments we shared before the war." 
She cries uncontrollably, unable to acknowledge her pain,
Unable to acknowledge her love for him, for she was the wife of another now.
She quietly slips a letter typed in Braille into his hand and leaves.
You run your coarse fingers across and read it. You tremble and call out her name.
But she has long left. He let the letter slip away from his hand, breaking down.
The letter from the warfront mistakenly declared him killed in action.