Tahare Mone Pore

Tahare Mone Pore

tahare pore mone,
between the lines from the textbooks,
highlighted for the generations,
the cigarette strutting,
dusting the crater
at the peak of a wrist
with rubble,
untied locket ribboned at the mouth
stamped on veins bifurcating into rivulets,
being summoned at the levees,
turned away at the knuckle—
crystalizing into cinder.

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Table-Setting

Table-Setting

Lost in the middle of nowhere with only the Hazratpur Krishi Bank for glasses.

Selim al Din Mukto Mancha,
three quarters of a praire ellipsed into an amphitheater.
You fall over backwards on the tightrope the muezzin strings up through the gunfire of dawn.

Somewhere by Kolatia bikes are breezing, unsequestetered from the forest lit a dim cherry by road studs. Your fingers carress my lips with releases of cold fog. This act smites me with unrepentent fury, unsung, as it is, boorish, as it is, suspended as it is above the Buriganga, taking in it’s guts, and I am drawn to the mad ensembles cacusing like frostbites at my cupid bow.

Dad’s friends wore Polo-Shirts

Dad’s friends wore Polo-Shirts

i am just learning to enter barefoot; tone shuffling between nasal pop and deference, spending it trying to make friends with your kid, who seems to know everything except the time.

there was nightlife. wrapping paper. report cards. medals. rolexes. promotions. arrival. বিদায়। paper plates. one dish. Bhais first. Bhabis maybe later and only when the dishes had cleaned themselves.

i am waiting.
for you to take me to the point of no return. for you to walk me home like your girlfriends. goodbye eyes reining me in: this time i’ll be better, please, loud, enthusiastic, and quick.

Epilogue
for when you blame yourself.
suzie still pounds her desk in vindication. arjun still tries to kill me, and with good reason. the pool party on the 6th still gets broken up and the bur dubai station still takes fingerprints for non-violent offences. the men down every neighborhood we ever lived on still all stare up at me in participation, first, then disgust and lastly as drill. still can not afford that mortgage out on the house of your dreams auctioned with pink exteriors, jailgate verandas. your friends are still sorry for you for me. i am still the story to scare their kids. you are still staying together for your kids. you are beating them up. he is leaving you home. they are falling behind. you are falling behind. it’s getting tough. it’s getting better. it’s never getting to how you had hoped. and none of it will ever be your fault.

…And we had thought that Martov at least would remain with us.

…And we had thought that Martov at least would remain with us.

*
At the dais, when the current os steps forward and folds up his prepared resignation speech. The conference is ready to riot. It rejects the pleas one by one as diagnostic report. It can feel the pain at it’s joints, the crutches it has used and refused till now seem so necessary. The sores in it’s releases, untreated with pus, magnify into ulcers.

০+০+১/২ ২ দিন।
০+০+১ ২ দিন।
১+০+১ চলবে।

Your face, huddled between your knees on the third row from the front, and then as he steps off stage, raised fist, you pick up, your finger twirls radial touching every unseen spoke, and like the inner soliloquys of capitalism, speaking in boom and bust cycles: a suckerpunch masquerading as a lilt, and to this day i can see you in the echoes.

*
গাছে কেরুর বোতল। ডালের ফাঁক দিয়ে এক গান সংগ্রামের অফিস, শেখানে, শিমুলের পোস্টার, তার কাঁটা তো আছেই, থাকতেই হবে, আছে পুনর্বেশন, আছে ভেজা চুল, ঘৃনার মতো আলো, আর আছে কন্ঠ, আছে ওর মতো হয়ে যাওয়ার ভয়।

*
200 pages seem like nothing at all now: Lara decontextualizing on her fights with ma, missing out on all the hints to the underground railroad on ‘sometimes i feel like a motherless child’ but still managing remain stone-cold, now on ma’s wall, in the cockpit, wheel in hand, breaking the barriers, she’d hoped on and the next, in a 24×36 frame.

*

Glasscut

Glasscut

tall tall shoes make you closer to reach.
the ধসে পড়া city block between your sideburns, toll tickets on ভাঙা jaws, and the crisp of your stubble is closer.
pink shirt sinking into your meditarrean myth skin is even closer.
the letter you will send when my skull rests on your kneecap will try to leave us, then the closest, ball point bruises to draft an old new set of relations that must have a bibliography to consummate.
the letter would not be mistaken. we needed references, such as when the goli was running from blank catridges distributed out like pre-election mithai, chasing it into tongs, into messes, into raids, into cases filed at ‘ungodly’ hours, into you, in bandage catalogue, summer dreaming for the last time, diagonal, across your face, clutching an anti-cutter; such as when the মিছিল was passing kalabagan bus stand, and you should have been in an emergency room but you were propping up against a rickshaw, then his arms, and then mine as blood spatter stained, curved, sonambulated into a wrecking ball.
Art: Letter: Evergreen Background, Maturam Chowdhury

Egaro Shindoor Goduli

Egaro Shindoor Goduli

আপ্নি কি অদের মতন?
yes, my love, আর আমি একদমি মাইন্ড করি নাই।
i am just imagining you. harnessed to that trawler, head-rested on corrugated tin; roof-panels lime with heat by the time you wake up.

josna, from undefeated canon, undoing the stitches that make you want me. tried on the temporary migrations of the earth and it’s rings of fire. spare arms protruding. sheowla distended with expectation. the ghat to an entire town succumbing to the runoff water of an only child.

মিরপুর থেকে কত দূর?
i m sorry but i will try to tell you from the parts i do remember. start at setara, where urns of kacchi are plated every hour. bam pa age onto safety no. 36, or if caught in the office rush, projapoti, blue with the ecosystem of commerce; fatigued at the dotted lines which once followed, Jica detours you onto 60 feet, where you will catch the city at gunpoint—
all rogue at the perimeters of a 16 crore strong trp, on its feet, in ovation, giving the benefit of the doubt to rubel on each of his excellent spells, on each delivery unrooting off stump, on each of his court dates, on each bail hearing: granted on the grounds of national interest.

at vibration the mtcl aisles speed-bump narrower, reserved seats filled by ellipses, by inverted commas, others, tollashi, others parlours in motion, and yet, others parlours in repose.

আর কেউ নাই।
i try to bend my unbendable legs, unhooked of the abstract that came with the body—to sew; sometimes, i start at the outlines. of things already existing. of where i am now, i am drawn to the shrubs, the white roses plastic with thorns. back home, mela red bangles reflect 1:1 onto gold bracelets. aviators jumping bunny-rabbit teeth: a sage en hajj into the marketplace, bending his seat into view of the mahanagar natto mancha: a must see poribeshona in upholding 21 dhara at ease at unnoto momshir. but the lassos of yarn get tiresome and repeated in dead weather i start trying to invent an aesthetic with dried ice, interminably sulking rain and strobe lighting, not the ones at the qasba with fountains as musical chairs, but the ones where excavation yields great civilizations, uncuffable, universal in motif. the ones plucking gate-flowers onto hear tucked behind seldom-seen ears. i try to end in the midst of mythmaking: the uttan boithok with a bashiwalla as the coda.

all the way up to you. the ghit of your lungi, teal with cheque. unbuttoned to the fifth. sawed off eyes fathoming the circumference of my chest, irregular heartbeat tilted to one side. you are caught in the moment, sweat blotting temple like a head-wound: juriye dilo chokh; the imaginations of you seeing me off at platform 6 curling into crushed letters, hands corralling at my hips underneath ceilings arching into lotus petals, but your fingertips lose breath of me at the onset of porjotok season, beginning gradually with the haor as sob story, as the failing harvest, and only then as heartbreak: puriye dilo chokh.

the objectives of your islamic state

the objectives of your islamic state

I
Let Nurul Amin return and i will unbox a clerical error to make khulna’s head wound, simultaneously, flow to the east and always to the west of the hooghly.

II
I will board the postal train and get off at bhairab bazar. And through a spoonful of my second rasgulla at the garlanded mistanno vander, i will mince my words. I will watch the metre gauge crawl up Anderson Bridge and yawn at the scalloped hem of the man’s kurta touching the front of a post-independence rail; the slits panicking up his waist. The truss drafting diagonally so even the most observant onlooker sees only the receding troughs of each scream; the floor beams tearing with brittle nails into the sheets of second class; suspended exes bracing for a joint electorate. The passenger cabin, deboned, hanging skin from their necks serrated, registered, rationed dandakaranya, is measuring itself by the angle at which it rounds the cape of good hope, attending as merchants, today, and still, today, plying, afim, and nil, and the treasury to stand upright.

III
You cannot bleed at the mandir, ploughed by dim light into the single hours of a fire. The dispenser at school will remain unstocked 8 months a year, but you can go. And you will. And they will prey your arguments as the births and deaths of their population, an unrelenting process, an unchanging process, a forever process hinging on the persona to bear, on the 35mm film cannisters filled with solemn occasions, with stretch marks, with dares overdrawn, and underrepresented, with sindoors routed for lifetimes on how to greet your man in the morning.

This is doubt

This is doubt

This is doubt. She is hiding. ‘She’ is inanimate. There are telephone wires around her neck. They are slackening. They are in duel with the skyline. They are rustic with community. They are transmitting. They are speaking to each other. They are greeting louder. They are making plans. They are cursing at the mirror. They are applying sunscreen. They are congregating at the city centre. They are shedding milieus. They are looking to the river. They are breaking out of trances. They are looking to the mainland. They are fighting friends. This is doubt. She is in hiding.

Telestar-Garhoud

Telestar-Garhoud

the bus. the beige. the indestructible. is always here at 6, near the corner of the pitch of cobblestones housing the one grocery in Al Khan that kept the tabs open for its shoplifters. it is sometimes here at 6:20 but only if Mr. Billal holds it up for his 3 kids, straight As, always groggy for roti and chole.

Stephen’s iPod. from which he offers one earphone. still don’t care much for the playlist. but we do listen to smells like teen spirit, religiously, cranked up and without remorse.
Astro turf, and you would return for rollcall with something dislocated. the line of sight to the opposing net points to a who’s who of oligarchs, the sheikhs with oil money, the young lords in finance, others in less respectable professions.

They give Irtaza shit for his weight. And he, mashallah, still, does not give a shit. i liked him. even after he tackled me to the ground to tell me that I was ugly as fuck. and definitely not his type.

You hang out at the western wall of the basketball court. public. wild incisor sticking out your gums. six times out of ten in the process of being greeted. You are never catching your breath.

I am hiding in the prayer room. the bills are paid. the conductors’ hands are forsaken piston rods. like an iron up and down the seam. crisp over the yoke. tunneling. being saved. confessing. underwhelming. being done.

There is always a line to the water fountain at 7:55.

the states

the states

Gulshan-e-Iqbal (Not Defence)
Massaba, Naved and I are bunking class to sift through telephone directories. This is true. And not contested.

Back-Seat
enforced until it wasn’t. Searching until we weren’t. Almost always meeting until we weren’t. And yet Turkish rom-coms were always tolerated.

Kaptaan, inshallah
like a cloud seeded dubai september can talk me into swearing you in myself.
there is a rotation and a half between breaking your fall and everything going back to normal.

Clifton
where i have never been.

Arre yaar, keya hae? (2014)
glitching the moment skype combusts and the entire eastern grid icebergs into what we had for lunch.

Sock it to me
crazy for you, baby there are 20 seconds of calltime left and the runway is closer to the shore than your uncle’s copper escort will ever be.

105 Avenue to Comfort

105 Avenue to Comfort

1. flimsy pretences turning right at bijoy ekattur

16. ঘুম, তিনি প্রতিবিপ্লবী।

18. empty plates: tawa searing noodles+unpeeled potatoes.

21. balcony railings: your thighs lounging before the storming of the bastille

22. purana paltan at a retirement ball for social democrats.

35. plainclothes: he says. i still don’t really believe you.

48. peacock: you tried again. even though the first time was a mess. and the opportunity cost had become stone filled pockets.

81. under the bridge: his pedals kickstarting a stampede after you picked up from the fifth stall from the middle, where he taught you to grow up, fusing recognition, thinning your hair with each carress.

87. zero point an oeuvre of russian literature:
shortcuts for when you say one thing but want to say a thousand

106. 15 January, যেখানে ভয়ের অবসান ঘটে।

22 Khusputtalikas

22 Khusputtalikas

That feeling when khuni hasina jobab de warps off the kalabhavan roof staring bcl down within a pound of meat treble picking up widows dissolving into a hung jury ershad brain drains knocking down the last stiff ones before. before. and there are. i must say. dominions built on moribund deltas and the nuclear family and the idea of the orient. his alma matter folds up the excess fabric of a tenure signing off detroit jute mills. and i cannot believe they still have not privatized the railways. that this survey does not count the kid with the tempu gear shift, sucking on a bottle a cap as part of the baby boom and all your guardians are hooked up, blood pressure cuff saggy, veins popped, bruised, ready. table fan charring 22 khusputtalikas. into men. into men. into men. into solitary. by complexion. by desire to be seen.

Dress II

Dress II

highlight and contour

her eyes peer over the kiosk:

a menagerie of how i wished i had looked at midday.

bored, black blazers betraying fumes,
heart in a sling,
oversized and stage 4,
until they get home
to not afford the lives they had been busy selling.

mascara and scowl

there is this security guard on the first-entrance to the permanent campus, near where the excavator meets the canteen. Her eyeliner game is on point.

dhola shirt-ghamcha belt

sweat assumes fishnets on his back. This image is so overdone that it is by this point an expression of lust, of engines, and, most importantly of winning without getting your hands dirty.

Dress I

Dress I

When the clothes don’t glide of your skin there are suddenly sunsets so unreachable that you ache at the unconfirmed beauty of being

you had only ever seen, never dared noticed everyone living with their lives as they could have been by a coast, being ethunized, eroding with desaturation

underarms peeling froth shower creaking down my shins, clumsy with razorblades a sweetheart neckline folding its limbs into a bow:

she wants to fix him

she wants to fix him

I

Though her lovers circulate like kerosene

Orbiting an exhausted burner–

Though, her kiss in the mourning

Is understood, by him, as a wedding at night,

Where her exposed midriff waltzes for air,

Where funeral grounds latch on to her petticoat,

When his hands exhume a police van:

II

The time is unimportant.

Yasmin, 14, returns from the centre of the earth.

To Dinajpur. To Home.

She is help.

For other people.

She get’s on the wrong bus.

Get’s off.

The patrol is suave, and rolls in.

They offer her a lift home.

Come daylight, her corpse will decorate

The mind of her city.

There are journalists.

The tourists stop booking trips.

Ramshagar dries up.

There is a gherao on the thana.

7 dead.

Acquiescence.

The gavel.

3 convicted.

3 policemen buying lifetimes of silence.

III

But she wants to fix him:

the terror she knows.

Not the shiv to the gut.

Not the storefront glass perjuring itself.

Not the pickpocket swallowed by the mob.

That,

Unfalsifiable,

Precluding touch,

Belief:

The I owe him

Diving hypothermic–

Watching, achol in cavort,

Sidewalks growing meek.

And It doesn’t feel like work, anymore, she says,

It’s feels ok.

Photo: Pounopunik

Winter

Winter

Winter,

you fell my walls like the whispers cutting through a funeral procession

you unfurl my arms, folded up since the dawns lit October,

you incite panic like ambulance sirens whiffing through traffic,

you send blisters shooting like fiends across my skin–shedding tissue, conspiring, bursting into tears.