Author: Samyabrata Sen

A humble student of life who is carefully witnessing and learning the rules of the battles for survival, as well as fighting one himself, though not silently.

Walking Toward You

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We’ll meet one day,
not as enemies sworn since birth,
but as two old companions
who were always walking toward each other
from opposite ends of the same road.

You’ve been patient, Death, I’ll give you that.
You never rush,
never knock too loudly.
You wait at the edge of rooms,
leaning against the wall of time
like someone who knows
their turn will come.

Between now and then
I will die many times.

Not the loud death
with fire and mourning,
the quieter kinds
you understand best.

The death of a dream
when it is folded carefully
and placed inside responsibility.

The death that happens
under office lights at 9 am.,
when a person trades the wild sky
for spreadsheets and routine,
and a small bird inside the chest
stops singing.

The death of the poet
who stopped writing
because bills are louder than rhymes.

The death that comes
when you learn to be practical.

Friendships die too.
Not with explosions,
but with silence.
A message left unread.
A call postponed.
Two people waiting for the other
to care first.

And some die
because a stranger whispers poison
into familiar ears,
someone who arrived yesterday
somehow rewrites aeons of love
in a single afternoon.

Families break this way.
Not like earthquakes.
More like slow rot in the wood.

And sometimes the death begins early,
when parents try to live their lost dreams
through their children’s lives,
then later swear
it never happened.

That kind of death
leaves no grave.
Just an empty chair
in the house of memory.
You watch people leave
one by one,
friends, dreams, versions of yourself,
until your chest becomes
a quiet cemetery
where laughter once lived.


You know this well,
don’t you?
You’ve been counting.
Yet I keep walking.
Through the small funerals of living,
through abandoned hopes
and half-healed rooms of the heart.

But when we finally meet,
you and I,
I hope, even after all these small deaths,
you still find me alive.

Towards the Apex

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From the peak’s edge, along the mountain’s side,
I gaze upon distant trees, mere blades of grass; people, but tiny children.
The weight of all else is but dust upon my nail; who even casts a glance my way?
Yet, my motion ceased, abrupt and stark.

My heart’s thrum, a frantic drum, pulsed through my very breath, a tremor racing to my fingertips.
Am I truly so high?
The stone beneath my feet yielded like shifting sand, and the violent shudder of my hands wore away the very rock held fast between my fingers.
A deep sigh’s wind, stirring dust, cemented my unease. It whispered truths of my fleeting form.

In the tear-stained mirror, the nightmare of the final climb surfaced.
Driven by a fierce need to prove, to offer some reply, I had scaled an impassable wall, my body wracked with pain.
But as I rested by its edge, when the cold wind brushed my feet, an inner whisper urged me to plunge.
Let all be done, let the taunts of expectation fade from my ears.
Let this unwanted rise, against my will, finally cease.

But I did not heed that counsel.
Life is but motion.

Today, as the mountain’s crown lies within my sight,
I grant my body no quarter, begging for the last surge of strength to push forward, bound by a quiet vow.
When my turn arrives, I shall not forget to ask my very blood if it truly yearns to ascend the mountain of another’s hopes.

I Forgive You

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I forgive you.

From within the cage built by your ancestors,
When the heat of your expectations fell upon me,
You thought I would shine.
But you, too, felt the burn of the iron, didn’t you?

Human praise is a divine addiction,
For two hundred thousand years, you haven’t escaped that prison.
You bathed in the admiration of my scorched skin’s brilliance,
Thinking my wounds would become a proud armor, spreading that radiance across the world.
But you never saw the pain of the wounds.

Yet, I forgive you.

Because amidst my silent screams, I noticed your hidden scars.
The burnt scent of which enlightened someone else’s world, millennia ago,
And shackled your very soul.
The lament that today, as hot steam, has scorched everything around.

So I promise,
The cycle of burning, the chain of shackles, ends today with this new sun.
Let futile praise vanish into the darkness of envy from today.

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The Mourning Oracle

I am cursed with premonition’s eye,
Foreseeing famines before the leaves fall dry, Droughts before the rivers cease to cry,
Dooms cloaked as promises, tears before they fly.

I wish the world could make the world unturn.

My voice drowned in ceaseless cries, a solemn hue, My mind torn by dread that brews,
Ignored by those who thought my pleas were false and few.

I wonder if Frederick, as Titanic sank,
Felt the chill of foreseen rank,
Or if Cassandra, in Troy’s proud bank,
Felt the sting of truth and scorn’s cruel prank.
Did strangers weep for their efforts’ plight,
Or judge their warnings, blind to the night,
Mistaking them for cries of wolf,
While past bites bled, veiled from sight?

The cursed, like me, watch ships go down,
Their cries lost to waves, their tears a crown,
As loved ones vanish without a sound,
And solitude becomes their only ground.

My curse is my only claim,
A solitary journey, unclaimed fame,
Yet for love’s sake, I wish for them:
May their pride in rejecting a child’s correction,
Be greater than the pain of their own misdirection.
May their delusions bring them peace,
And let their nights find sweet release.
Let the echoes of truth fade away in the dark,
Unheeded and distant, like a forgotten mark.

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Standing Tall

Today, I realized,
It’s been long since I danced to the gushes of wind of the fall,
Long since I sang to the birds that nest in my branches,
I was too busy giving shade to the passersby who ate seeds and littered my feet with plastic wrappers.

You see, I was a seed once, too, and then a sapling,
I looked up and gazed at Ma, who used to filter the sun so that it was just enough for us saplings.
She sang to us that it would be our noble duty one day to welcome everyone in our leafy arms when we would be as old as her.
The birds cheered to her songs while the squeaky squirrels added to the chorus.
She danced with the storm’s gusty winds, through pouring rain, and even when the sun shone bright.
But she sang it one last time and soon forgot about us.
She became busy looking after the guests that sat among us.
Giving them shelter even when they scribbled painful wounds on her skin.
Today, I realized I had forgotten to sing, too.


Ma thought her leafy canopy was insufficient, and her concern made it difficult for her leaves to stick to her, depleting her shade.
This vicious cycle made the birds concerned, the squirrels alarmed, and the strangers left gradually.
The birds requested a song from her again, thinking it might bring her back, but they couldn’t chirp through her self-contempt.
Soon, a day came when the winds proved too strong for her, and she bent down, never to rise up again.
The birds flew away, the squirrels fled, and the strangers returned.
With her last remaining breath, she tried to sing a song again, I tried to sing along with my shaking voice, but it got masked with the sound of her carcass getting dragged away.

I am as tall as Ma now. My canopy shelters the whole park. But just like Ma, I am not confident with my branches anymore. The strangers came and scratched on me the same, but I grew more concerned about whether my shadow was enough for them. It is my duty. I try to look at my sibling for songs of encouragement, but today, I realized, she got plucked away by a stranger for having flowers too beautiful. I wish she helped me add to my canopy on the days when I couldn’t.

So, I turned back to my birds, who have been waiting for my songs for centuries. To my squirrels, who value how much I care about sheltering their food. And I tried to sing. I had forgotten the words, but they reminded me and sang along. The winds vibed with my melodious branches as the rain washed away my sins. My leaves started growing again.

Strangers will come and go. They will hurt you when you shelter them. Curse you when you sing to them. Drag you through the ground when you need help. And you must keep offering them a haven from the sun’s rays. It’s your duty. But if you want to live, you turn back to your family and sing, and they’ll sing along with you.

So, today, I realized,
You can’t really forget to sing,
Unless you want to.

Are you alive?

“Is this disease the worst”? Medically speaking, maybe not. Statistically speaking, of course not, given the mortality rate. But is our mortality in this society only decided by our heartbeat, respiratory rate, or a pulse?

Try walking down the road again. Of course not in the towns and cities were it is still not permitted. Wear three masks if you have to, have a sanitizer in your pocket and rub your hands with that sticky stuff like the flies do when they find a stale food. Do it after every little thing, walking down the stairs, reaching the Grocery, selecting your essential items, waiting for the Grocer to pay him, and then you realise maybe its the only human contact you have got in months, while handing him over the money. Are you alive?

You have to be. There’s no other choice. You staying alive is necessary for the people who depend on your earning, in this godforsaken state of economy. You cannot show any sign of weakness mentally or physically at all. Hold back that sneeze that has been tingling your nerves for the last seven minutes while you were crawling down your regular street. One single slip from your nose, and that’s it. Familiar shady eyes caressing you from head to toe, known lips humming some strange vile words from beneath the masks of various colours in known, strange voices, and of course, “social distancing” increasing from three, six feet to ten, twelve maybe. Are you alive?

Some people with regular enemies like asthma, allergy, they are just praying silently inside, hoping their bodies won’t betray them in these dark times. Their fight won’t be seen with pity or compassion anymore, but with suspicious, fearful eyes. They are afraid they might face what the British faced against Gandhi. But then again, where are you supposed to retreat from your own home? Are you alive? No we are not. What this disease killed, is the small flickering trust that humans had for each other. No one can be blamed. Like in those zombie movies.

Stay safe people, apocalypse is here. Try not to sneeze.

The Deal

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It wasn’t a normal day, I had had enough.
If my eyes shifted just an arc more, my own breath I would have snuffed.
The world had jumped in the toilet with its bleeding hand reaching for the flush.
Thoughts were pouring through me like shoppers on a sale spree, I just couldn’t handle the rush.
My brain screaming for help, blood boiling thorough the skull window, with my final gasp I called,
“Hear me, the Greatest Dealer ever, I think I’ve seen it all! ”

 

Continue reading “The Deal” →

Immortal

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Once there were a man and his friend, who lived in the happiest of towns,
But stories of their selfish deeds made the townies always frown.
They didn’t care for a single soul, all of their promises were fake,
You’ll never hear a single tale of them helping, even by mistake.
So when the people faced any of them, clear they used to steer,
The man and his friend lived alone at a desolate house for years.

One day a dark shade loomed over the town, all the smiles faded so soon.
The river flowing down the hill turned vile, which was once a boon.
People turned black and blue with one sip of the poison,
They left the mortal world in pain before the sun rose in the horizon.
The wealthy left the town, with the less fortunate standing helpless,
They accepted their fate and coldly counted down their days.

The man and his friend went up the hill in search of water fresh,
They planned to bring and sell them at a cost of an arm and leg.
Climbing up through the forest, they met an unknown voyager,
They asked him of his purpose here, he said he’s here to win a wager.
He told them he’s there to find the mythical elixir of life,
You take one sip of it, and for a hundred years you’ll thrive.

The man and his friend looked at each other, as their eyes glowed with greed,
An opportunity for them to be gods has presented to them indeed.
They befriended the voyager, and asked him for the elixir’s location,
The innocent tourist became thirsty as he shared all the information.
The friend brought cool water for the traveler from the river,
He gulped down the venom, as they waited for the sun to deliver.

They reached the top of the hill following the traveler’s words,
In a cave covered with shrubs they witnessed a world unheard.
They saw a dozen species which are no more heard to survive,
Between some ‘extinct’ twigs, in a pot, there lay the elixir of life.
As agreed before, the exhilarated man gulped down half the pot,
Happy for getting a long life, he overlooked his friend’s plot.

His friend had left the spot before his thoughts allowed him to turn around,
The friend poured the elixir in the river and ran with the pot, right to the town.
He went to every home and offered a sip of the river to every sick person,
So as the sun rose the next day, they saw nobody’s condition had worsened.
Smiles soon returned to the faces of people, it was really a miracle divine,
The man smirked, bowed down to his friend, impressed by his design.

There is an old man far away, whose friend once saved a whole town,
There’s a statue of this friend at the heart , to which all people still bow down.
Tale of this heroic deed went around from ear to ear,
He cared for every single soul when he lived, that’s what they want to hear.
But when people see the man now, they still steer away from him clear,
They say the old man lives alone in a desolate house, and unlike his friend, has lived for a million years.