Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for May, 2015

Many a time, I have heard that you love…

Still, I have never felt it more than on that day.

That day was my first day of springtide,

The madhabi branches were filled with myriad flowers.

That spring season has indeed arrived,

Again and again…

Still, I have never felt it more than on that day.

Your first love overflows in my heart,

This mind is like a honey bee,

Why does it dart only to you, o’ tell me?

The first song bee of that day,

Even now, makes hope unfold like a young flower…

The strain of that song keeps awakening me,

Again and again…

Still, I have never felt it more than on that day.

Many a time, I have heard that you love…

Still, I have never felt it more than on that day.

ভালোবাসো তুমি, শুনেছি অনেক বার
তবু সেদীনের মতন লাগেনি তো কভু আর
সেদিন আমার প্রথম ফাগুনো বেলা
মাধবী শাখায় অনেক ফূলের মেলা
সে ফাগুন আরো এসেছে যে বারে বার
তবু সেদীনের মতন লাগেনি তো কভু আর
তোমার প্রথমো প্রেম রয়েছে আমার হৃদয় ভরে
এ মন ভ্রমর সেথা যায়ে কেনো বলো ওগো তারই তরে
সেদিনে সেই প্রথম গানের ওলী
এখনো ফটায় নতুন আশার কলি
সে গানের সুরে জেগেছি যে বারে বার
তবু সেদীনের মতন লাগেনি তো কভু আর…

Copyright © 2015 [Violet Dolui]. All Rights Reserved.

Read Full Post »

Deeper into Melancholy. Bearing the fragments of my heart. Embalming myself with my own hands. Burying my soul, one inconsequential inch at a time.

I would be like those red autumn leaves… falling silently to the ground. Almost glad to die. I would know how to cease to be.

I would be a ghost that sees everything without participating. Without contributing. I would feel emotions through a veil. Nothing would touch me, except like a light farewell kiss.

So disenchanted that reality would seem like an illusion. I would walk like a phantom through the mist. A body without substance. Without thoughts. Without heartache.

I would gaze and gaze… without being perceived or pitilessly dismissed. I would cry, clamour, sigh, or laugh… like a storm petrel lost in the clouds swirling over the sea.

Cocooned in my own invisibility. Impregnable. Invulnerable.

The blemish on my face, the squalor of my person, or the poverty within my soul… would not be of any import. Because, I would exist high above these fallible human concerns.

Sorrow would be a kind of happiness. Soft and soothing. A self-indulgence. Not angry raging, tears that drip like corrosive acid into the soul. It would be a pool of sadness that is deep, dark, and calm.

And, happiness would be a kind of gentle sorrow. Not filled with desperate hopes and tainted dreams. It would be surrender and acceptance.

I would not possess. I would not know the crippling fear of loss.

I would not be possessed. I would not be abandoned.

How would it be to escape this vale of human dreams and grief? This cup of agony? This utter and complete loneliness? This devastation of the soul?

I would not wish what is good in me to become the instrument of my undoing. I would not want love to turn into despair. Longing into spite. High regard into malice.

So, I would refuse the sweat and blood and crushing repercussions of life.

My melancholy is not defiant or redemptive. It is merely a departure to keep the bright images intact. It is an attempt to protect that which should not be mutilated.

I would sink below the distant horizon… beautiful like the dying sun. Beyond the reproach of human emotions.

I would be an angel again.

Copyright © 2015 [Violet Dolui]. All Rights Reserved.

Read Full Post »

What does coming-of-age really mean? Does it signify a true understanding of the self? Does it imply coming to terms with your abilities and flaws? An acceptance of life?

What if this is never an option? This mellowing with time, attaining maturity or adult wisdom…

What do you do when reality gets suspended in a strange way? When endless longing does not lead to a resolution or even despair? Oh, there are many disappointments on the way. And, sometimes, there is despair too. And yet, the disillusionment is never complete.

There is always something… a glimmer, a fantasy that keeps beckoning. As if life is not progressing at all, except in your fantasy world. As if all the distressing and saddening experiences do not matter. Well, not beyond a certain point, at least. The people around grow and mature. But your world stays the same. You remain the same. A perpetual adolescent…. dreaming improbable dreams. Like a hapless Peter Pan.

Is this a great capacity for self-delusion only? Is this being incurably, hopelessly romantic? This does seem like a disease.

The hunger is so great. It gnaws on the soul and refuses to let go. An ache that constantly throbs beneath the facade of normalcy.

It is, in a way, pathetic. This desperation to hold onto the edges of a vanishing dream. To keep wanting to remember a face whose features are being eaten away by the sands of time.

You are partially suspended in reality.  Like a sinking island in a river that moves inexorably. You can envisage your own inevitable destruction, the end of your inner life. And yet, you are powerless to do anything. You are caught in a magical dream. You refuse to give up on the might-have-beens… on ghostly memories of experiences that you have never really experienced.

You know full well that to give up would be easier, safer. But you have always been a fool.

In a way, it is glorious too.

Your ability to sway to a tune that only you can hear.

Hardly anyone to acknowledge the flame in your soul, the deep need in your eyes. To understand how vast and keen and generous you can be. So what? Nothing lovely enough to keep your eyes from seeking and searching for ever. No sweetness to enter your heart and gladden it. No love to come home to. Except the kind that keeps you wandering, keeps your spirit from being quiet and content.

You are a defiant idiot. Slightly mad. Eyes filled with a strange light, hair in disarray. Grasping at straws. Surviving on discarded crumbs. So what?

Maybe, some day hope will indeed create from its own wreck the thing it contemplates.

Copyright © 2015 [Violet Dolui]. All Rights Reserved.

Read Full Post »