Rahul Dravid: Putting the ‘Gentleman’ in the Gentleman’s Game

Published first and written for: BookMyShow

(https://in.bookmyshow.com/entertainment/?p=67403)

There was a time when it wasn't the coolest thing to be a Rahul Dravid worshipper for an Indian cricket fan. It's true! There was a time when you even heard stuff like “Who Dravid?”. It's true! 

It was a time not very different from now when Indian cricket began and ended with singing praises of just one man - Sachin Tendulkar. It was a time when the soon-to-be “best Indian captain ever” – Sourav Ganguly - (debatable but then I am a Bengali) was beginning to chalk out his conquest plan. It was when this unassuming batsman from Karnataka began his journey too. And very impressively so. Nonetheless, it was a tad too early for the Archies Galleries of the country to stock Rahul Dravid posters. I tried though and not before long, I had a room with a wall dedicated to The Wall (I am sorry. I just had to say this) – unofficial bad quality posters, painfully sourced official ones, newspaper cuttings, magazine covers and the works. 

When Ganguly was impressing all and sundry with his century on Test debut in England that June of 1996, I found my hero in Dravid who fell short of being the other Indian debutant to crack a ton by just five runs. It was to perhaps mark two things that stuck with Dravid almost throughout his career – the man who played second fiddle and that man who would inevitably get out in the 90s. Gradually and thankfully, the latter was forgotten. 

There was something about the way this man faced some of the most fearsome bowlers, there was something about the way he pulled an Allan Donald-bouncer to the boundary, gracefully danced down the wicket and hit Muralitharan out of the park or hit those picture-perfect cover drives. There was a grace that back then I only found and admired in the almost flawless batting of Saeed Anwar. 

Two innings of Dravid's will forever stay with me; those drove me unashamedly to tears were his 145 in 129 balls against Sri Lanka in Taunton, England (ICC World Cup 1999) and the 180 he scored in the mammoth and very heroic 376-run stand with VVS Laxman against Australia in Eden Gardens, Kolkata in the second Test of the 2000-01 Border-Gavaskar Trophy. Each time, the “hero” was not him. Ganguly with his 183 in 158 deliveries was the Man of the Match against Sri Lanka. No one will dare to forget Laxman's knock of 281 in THAT Test Match. What was that bit about second fiddle again? 

Dravid even went ahead to say how Laxman's innings made him feel inadequate, embarrassed even. Typical of him. To take nothing away from either Ganguly or Laxman but it took two to tango and if the Wall wasn't being the Wall in each innings, history would have been very different surely.  

I discovered like the rest of the world how there was more than mere batting artistry that made Rahul Dravid the legend that he is. He defined in every sense what being a 'team player' is all about. Whether being shuffled up and down the batting order, keeping wickets to accommodate an extra batsman in the side, or even captaining a troubled team, Dravid was up to every challenge his side threw at him. 

There is a class about Dravid's cricket and character, you didn't find lying loose everywhere. You won't either for a long time to come. 

Ever since the man called it a day, there has been a favorite idea of the online content folks on every birthday of Dravid's – Quotes on Rahul Dravid that add to his greatness. Of course, there will be tributes. There better be. But there is just the one by Harsha Bhogle that sums up the cricketer and the man he is - “The wolf who lived for the pack”. Oh boy, he did!

Happy birthday, Rahul Dravid. There will never be another like you.

---

All things heroic like Rahul Dravid

Vestigial

The heart doesn't feel,
the skin does;
the head spins
till it gets heavier
than the tear;
the stomach churns
and throws up all it doesn't want,
all it doesn't have;
the legs get weak,
weaker than the shoulders;
the eyes get drowsy
to sleep forever;
the arms could fall off
but the fingers hold them together
irresponsibly.

The heart doesn't feel
but wants all credit,
all freedom
to break, to lament.

The heart doesn't break
but lies
to hide its impotence.

Overrated piece of shit!

---
Nothing hearty, bright or beautiful

Sea Snake

One step a minute.

Two minutes to think,

to remember, to worry,

to ignore. 

One step a minute.

Forward.

Three immediately back.

In fear. 

What do I fear today?

The water? Like always?

No. 

I fear you.

That you wish to pull apart

my skin.

My skin put together with patches, 

you beautifully sewed

to perfection.

My skin, you almost made real.

At the seams, you pull. 

You pull hard but slow.

Clever, clever. 

Like everything perfect,

this must be slow.

Agony must be slow.

Only noodles is instant.

I fear you. 

As you slowly undress me.

You know what lies underneath.

I don't. I forgot.

I fear you. I hate you. 

This skin was your gift 

to me. 

And now you want it back. 

My lie, my lie, Ma.

Mine. 

Why does she want everything back?

One step a minute.

And I look behind at the trail.

While you fade.

Quicker

than I can walk away from you.

One step a minute.

And the sea must swallow

all of me.

And vomit

in the morning.

Will you come back

to the beach? To collect

what is yours.

I owe you some dirt.

---

All things wither and Biprorshee

 

Rainbow Scarf

Those eyes
I know they all fell in love
with them.
And no one saw what you hid?
An unbuttoned shirt is a fine cover.

The hair untied
bounced, 
delightfully.
No joy hidden.

When you made love
Lennon smiled.
Maybe even proudly.

And when He slashed an ear
you giggled.
I would've loved it, you know?
To hear you giggle.
Sexually.

I know you laughed
as you drove a knife through a pig.
The rainbow head in a trance
And those eyes.
Those eyes everybody loved. I loved. 
White. 
And then red. Drinking blood.

You sang.
You danced. 
Jumped.
Before them all, you sang
and laughed.
Did they think you are mad?

But such hate 
you hid so mischievously.
From yourself. So fiercely.
They never had a chance.
They were blinded. People.
They wanted to hate you. Failed,
so miserably.

And when you loved them
without the rainbow,
it was just too late.
Now they had learnt to hide
everything.

I loved you.
Even when you shouted
you had no mercy.
I didn't believe you one bit.
Could you kill christ? No!
He didn't care 
to see you die.
He let you rot
and laughed.

Everybody fooled you.
Stupid.


---
All things merciful and Biprorshee

One Word

Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
Words
and words

Till the hand rots
Till that fucking head explodes


Words!

---
All words and Biprorshee

Sponge

How much can I soak in
and walk, try to walk, drag?
I can't feel my legs.
I can't feel my head.
Every thing so loud,
so bright.
I can hear but I don't want to.

My eyes must shut now.
Shut. I must go sleep.
I must never wake up
lest I cry;
lest I get scared;
lest I see.

I often dive
inside.
Through my mouth.
It is fun to float in.
So cold. So dark.
Alone. Liquid.
I slide swiftly.
And then jump out
gasping for air.
I don't even let me drown.

She could help
and I want to hear her sing me to sleep.
Forever sleep.
This must happen quickly.

---
All things cold and Biprorshee

May You Live To Be One Hundred

So fickle, it makes you cry.
So indecisive.
Then, now, tomorrow
so indecisive.

They found joy at last.
They forgot to give it to you.

Hopelessly, three cigarettes.
A lot of rum.

Another night, sleepless.
The lights will not be turned off.
You will not be scared.
Another night, deathless.


---
All things numb and Biprorshee

The Varanasi Trail

*phone rings*

I am visibly annoyed at the call. I am out on a lunch date with my wife who complains I don't spend enough weekends with her and here is Riju Dasgupta - my bandmate, my band manager, the sole reason why my wife might one day decide to give me long-lasting pain, my 'weekendstealer' and worst of all, a bassist - trying to reach me while I am devouring idli sambar and zoning the wife out. If you know me, you don't do that!

But then again, Dr. Hex has news.
"Dude, got a show offer from IIT in Varanasi".
"What? Varanasi? People want to listen to our music in Varanasi? Why?"
"I don't know, man. But the offer's great. The money's good. And it's on January 24th."

January 24th? I sheepishly look at my wife who still hasn't the slightest clue I am thinking - "New city. New people. Fucking Varanasi. Hell yeah! Let's do this shit."

And then I hear myself saying, "No man! That is the week I am moving homes. Mukta will need me."

A very apparently disappointed Riju says, "Ok man! But ...."

Cut to Utopia! All issues have been sorted. That bassist always has all the solutions. An early departure from Varanasi for me has been arranged for. Mukta was more upset about me turning down the gig than anything else. A set with incredibly long Albatross songs has been put together. What everyone conveniently forgets - We are flying SpiceJet from Bombay to the Holy City.

Yes, before we wonder if the fine lads at IIT-BHU will be enthralled much by Albatross, we are faced with a bigger question - Will SpiceJet even allow us to do the damned gig?

And then again, I have my own set of worries with a flight that is 6 hours late. "Just the gig and then fucking off the next morning. Fuck! I will not be able to see a city that had me fascinated for a long time". Of course, the vocalist in a band has the least baggage to carry on a tour, physical or otherwise.

We land in Varanasi at 8:30 pm, six hours late and very, very cold. We come from Bombay, remember? We are around 30 kms away from IIT-BHU. We are to take stage at 9 pm. "Fuck soundcheck! We will play 2 songs."

We completely don't know we have Paul Walker (God bless his soul) for two cabbies who drive those horrid, narrow streets of Varanasi piercing through blinding fog. "Boss! Theek hai. Aaram se chalao. Time pe nahi pahuche to chalega" screams Dr. Hex who probably would be telling his rosary if he was a believer. This after he had proudly declared, "Bhaiya, bhagao, ok?".

We actually make it on time. The cars stop right next to the stage. We get out of them feeling like absolute bosses. Of course, the change of clothes behind the stage in full public view is a fine reality check.

Not two songs, we play our entire set! We even manage an encore act complete with a very weird and impromptu drum solo and a guitar duel. My performance would rank among my very worst but the kids have fun and I now know, that matters a lot more. To have a bunch of them jumping onstage, kneeling down and headbanging in unison as if in a strange trance is absolutely worth 4 SpiceJet trips. To say nothing of my Bret Hart act walking up the ramp high-fiving all and sundry, girls running onstage to kiss a very conscious and irritated Nishith Hegde and Dr. Hex being all excited about his wireless unit all day then forgetting to connect it properly onstage and murmuring behind his 'ball-guard' (Thank you, Nolan!), "Bhenchod! Ye use karne se pehle hi kharaab ho gaya".

Much to my dismay, all the Varanasi I get to see the chilly Jan 24th is the magnificent IIT-BHU campus. I will not complain much. The kids go out of their way to make us feel special and comfortable. I wish we were half as good as they make us seem to be. They hang out with us late into the night, smuggle in the inevitable Old Monk bottle and of course, get us the 2:30 am hostel canteen's Maggi and omelettes.

I have grand plans of visiting the Ghat early next morning. Needless to say, that doesn't happen. I remember being amused the previous night at a remark made by the cabbie - "Sir, morning mein ghat zaroor jaana. Bahut foreigner tourists milenge". The pervert obsession with fair-skinned tourists remains appalling and funny to me at the same time.

 I have to make a dash for it the next morning to catch my 11:30 am Air India flight. I will not lie but I was really hoping the flight would get cancelled, the boys would scream, "Surprise! We rescheduled your flight and you are going back with us tomorrow" because if you didn't already know, I really wanted to check the city out. Of course, the boys don't love me as much.

My trip back to the airport at 8 am happens in a local auto-rickshaw. All the cars are busy ferrying other guests, I am told. I groan but it all works out fine in the end.

Risking sounding like an "Oh-You-Know-I-Tasted-Real-India" for my social media followers, I quite enjoy the 90-minute auto-rickshaw ride. I doubt I would have been able to smell and actually, yes, taste Varanasi in an air-conditioned cab.

Pathetic, absolutely pathetic roads that are dug up at every nook and corner, nightmarish city design, dirty but that gorgeous Kashi morning, people on cycles rather than huge sedans, people hanging out with tea, cigarettes, newspapers at rundown stalls; I am forced to go back to a typical cold morning in Kolkata, something I terribly miss. Mukta would have hated it but it is just how I love things; being a small town lad and ... hold your breath ... awfully OLD SCHOOL!

Thankfully, Air India isn't as bad as people say it is. SpiceJet is trying its level best to beat them at this game. The flight takes off 15 minutes late and lands in Bombay 20 minutes before scheduled time.

The next day, the boys call me from Varanasi before they board their flight home. The buggers didn't see the city, didn't meet aghoris and smoke grass with them like they planned to. They got incredibly wasted in their rooms instead and fell asleep. One day Dr. Hex and his henchmen will know what an incredible opportunity it is to travel being in a band.

I missed out on the jalebis. But I hear, we might do a trip up north later this year. Till the next time then.


---
All things Holy and Biprorshee

The author is the frontman of a Mumbai-based heavy metal band - Albatross - and he loves everywhere his band takes him. He loves his wife a tad too much too. 

Kya Behan Ki Lorry Picture Hai, Boss!

(This review was done for Flickbay and first appeared on http://www.flickbay.com/UserProfile/Biprorshee-Das/320/4)

I watched a movie today, a movie called How To Get Your Brother Out of Jail Without Any Trouble In 24 Hours While Grooving To Yo Yo Honey Singh Sitting On Human Furniture and Drinking Mangola. Ok, this is insider information. The movie was renamed Boss when the filmmakers thought the abbreviation ‘HTGYBOOJWATITFHWGTYYHSSOHFADM’ would be a mouthful. Jokes apart (I try), the only exaggeration in the ‘original’ title is the Mangola bit.

It all started some time ago when my then-girlfriend-now-wife refused to watch Rowdy Rathore with me. “Why would anybody watch an Akshay Kumar movie,” she asked. I protested meekly. “He isn’t that bad,” I said (Rowdy Rathore is a TERRIBLE movie, just for the record). I don’t quite mind Mr. Kumar. And no, I won’t refer to him as ‘Khiladi’ Kumar. I am embarrassed to do so and he must be too.

So, I don’t quite mind Mr. Kumar and when I was offered two tickets to the screening of Kumar’s latest masterpiece – Boss – I asked the wife if she wanted to join and she refused yet again. I ignored her warning and headed to the movies anyway.

I must admit, I had an opinion and not a very good one about Boss well before I even reached the theatre. Let’s see what the trailer told me –

a.      There’s Akshay Kumar with a terrible Haryanvi accent.

b.      There’s Akshay Kumar cracking God-awful jokes.

c.       There’s Akshay Kumar calling himself ‘Boss’.

d.      There’s Akshay Kumar delivering dialogues in his own voice.

e.       There’s Akshay Kumar telling me this looks exactly like a movie Prabhudeva would make (and that can’t be a good thing).

From the very beginning, every clichéd trick in the book is tried to make the audience go, “Oooohh aaahh”. From an introductory narration by a man celebrated for his voice, movies, daughter-in-law, brand endorsements, Juhu (let’s say, we call him Amitabh Bachchan) to star-cameos, South-Indian-styled (NO OFFENCE MEANT AT ALL) action and finally, even Shakti Kapoor, we have seen it all and Boss doesn’t surprise.

The storyline offers nothing new either but if you expected anything better, I’d give you a cookie. And if the plot is hackneyed, Boss is further marred by some absolutely inane, corny dialogues. Get a load of this – “Apne ko kya hai! Apne ko bas paani nikalna hai”, “Maut ko yu hi badnaam karte hai. Taqleef to zindagi deti hai”, “Gusse ko thook de. Apne dushmano ko phook de” and some more.

The comic relief comes in the form of very, very pathetic attempts at being funny – “The Boss is always right” when Boss is asked why he is standing to the right and not in front; the Boss loves to jog “on Jogging Trucks”; the clincher – Boss’s favourite truck gifted to him by his sister that he calls “Behan ki Lorry”. Did I give it all out? No, there are more to make you cringe. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT miss the ‘Rocking Chair’. Home furniture will never be the same again.

The scenes are linked together by a thread that threatens to snap any moment. The jumps are abrupt. Dialogues are often forced. Songs appear out of nowhere and make Hum Aapke Hai Kaun look so much tolerable even with that retarded dog.

The performances? Oh my God, the performances! Almost each and every actor will look back at this movie and ask ‘why’. If they don’t, they must. Be it Danny Denzongpa, Mithun Chakraborty, Shiv Pandit or even Akshay Kumar himself.

I was almost pleased to see Johnny Lever on screen again after a pretty long time till I saw how he was utterly wasted through the movie. Once again, there are the terribly written lines, 17^th century jokes to blame and there is a visibly old and tired Lever. Govind Namdeo hams so much, it breaks your heart. Aditi Rao Hydari is seen in a bikini and that is pretty much her most significant scene in the movie because she almost has no dialogues to deliver or no role to play.  Parikshit Sahni still can’t act. Perhaps his only glorious moment in Hindi cinema was asking the courtroom judge in Meri Jung, “Whaaaat is this, judgesaab?”.

The one positive for me though was Ronit Roy’s performance, which I thought was sincere. As the main antagonist ACP Aayushman Thakur, Roy oozes evil. Not the kind that would remind you of Atul Kulkarni from Dum, which I still think was a brilliant performance, but good enough.

Boss is yet another one of those movies that is riding a wave; a trend that scares you and leaves you wondering if all that was most terrible about the Hindi movies of the 80s is staging a comeback. And you only have Rohit Shetty to blame! I sincerely hope Sajid Khan has given up on making movies after Himmatwala.

After a couple of agonising hours, I left the theatre. Ah! Look, Ronit Roy. I was most tempted to go up to him and say, “Sir, I liked Bomb Blast better” and sing, “Lena hai, lena hai …” What? You haven’t seen Bomb Blast? Go, watch now!

Let me go tell my wife how she is always right! See what I did there?

---
All things 'Bigg' Boss and Biprorshee

Can't Scale This!

I may have learnt to hate a game I loved with all I had but I could never not respect the only hero I knew.

Rahul Dravid, forever!

Verb

Cave in.
Come caving in.
Shut and suffocate.
Pure fucking rage.
Punish.
Avenge.
Make hate.
Pay.
Be stupid.
Spite.
Fight.

Fall down.
Crash.
Fall in.
Straight.
Fuck.
Sympathise.
Spit.
Strangle.
Destroy
something
beautiful!

Be.


---
All things hate and Biprorshee

Your Son Will Never Grow Up!

Dear Ma, Dear Baba,

It is 3 am in the morning. It is the eighth day of March this 2013. I am you know who. I am your son. I am yours. I type these words here where you probably shall never read them. It is better that way. I don't ever want to let you know, at this one moment I am any weaker than you already know I am.

This moment that I just lost; another coming up that I will too. Slowly, time inches towards the hour I will leave you. I will leave you to start a new chapter of this book, when you will not be holding my hand but someone else will. Someone I chose and you happily agreed to the choice. A hundred jokes about how marriage changes lives and this particular one isn't funny.

Thirty years, Ma. And I never dared to leave home. Thirty years, Baba. And I tagged along with you to every new city your work took you. Thirty years, only to be given up for a person I hope to give my next seventy years to. Of course, I want to live that long. And I want both of you to live longer to see me turn 100.

Is this going to be worth it? I don't know. Must I do this? I think so.

In less than a week, I take my first step out of my shell. Nothing felt this significant. Not finishing school, graduating college, getting my first job, losing my virginity, getting my first credit card, having my heart broken. Nothing.

It is now that I step out to see the world. It is now that I don't want to step out. I tried being brave to Mukta. She, more often than not, tried to break me down. "Baby, are you scared?" "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Is it not breaking your heart to leave your parents behind?" I knew she was scared. I knew she had second thoughts about this more than once. I knew she couldn't stand heading out on her own to a little house she chose for us. I told her otherwise. I tried being brave. I could not show her or you, I am brittle.

Till now.

Till now that Baba finally breaks his silence saying, he really likes my new apartment but he hates it because his son will no longer stay with him.

Last evening Ma, when I said, "I am not taking my books along with me yet to the new home", you were quick to point out, "Don't call that home. This is home."

This is home. Ma, you and Baba are home. And I am leaving home.

The first time we moved? To Indore after almost a decade in Bangalore, I wasn't sad. I was excited to head to a new city. I saw your eyes were moist, Ma. Baba was his stoic self. Over the years, I've learnt I inherited more than just my father's terrible temper. I got his ability to lie too, lie to the world that he is strong, lie to you and me that he stands unaffected, lie to everyone that he is not a child. Thank you, Baba.

The next time, we left Indore and came to Bombay. I protested although in my own 9-year old way. I realised I had begun to learn to love. I had begun to love like you, Ma. Like a child. Like a rebel.

And it was the time to rebel indeed. It was the time when parents are not cool. I kind of decided to stretch this phase a tad too long, I guess. And oh the stunts I pulled off. Stealing money from you guys, skipping school, buying cigarettes and trying to smoke them too, knowing women (...ok...girls) in a way, Ma you'd be appalled, discovering the joy that is pornography and ya, well, masturbation; everything forbidden was mine.

Somewhere during that particular stretch, in yet another city, I fell in love for the first time. And Ma, you were there telling me once you met her - "Forget her! She is bad news". My lovely little soothsayer, you were right and I was four years too late to see that. But you know how my first heartbreak helped me find you. I had already lost 19 years with you, Ma but no more. And I continued to lose more time with Baba while he still pretended.

Two years later, Baba, you hugged me for the first time. It was a 21st July. I just turned 21. You never learnt anything from Ma, did you? That lady didn't think it was uncool at all to hug her 17-year old son as his schoolmates stood amused just before he was about to enter the exam hall (Ugh!).Then a year later, another first. You said you were proud of me for having cracked an entrance test to an obnoxious media school. You are strange. I am worse though for having turned down better institutes to get that "Post Graduate" label because I wasn't particularly ready to live without the both of you. Remember Baba, how we ran from pillar to post trying to arrange the fees? Every bank turned us down. But you were adamant! Aamar chhele otai podbe jeta o podte chaaye, amaar chhele okhanei podbe jekhane o podte chaaye (My son will study what he wants, will study where he wants). We never managed the loan. But you managed the fees. That is you. A helpless middle-class man, stubborn as an ox, a helpless patriarch, a father.

Everybody around me was living alone, being 'independent'. I was still being fed by you, Ma just like how it is even today. You tried holding my hand through another heartbreak. I never learn, you said. I consoled you  (and myself) with a new tattoo -- your name across my chest. This time though, I walked through it alone and what a mess I was by the end of it till Mukta came by. I just cannot do anything right left to my resources.

I am scared right now, Ma. I have never lived for anybody else but myself. I have never been responsible for anybody else but myself. I learnt how to swim only in a swimming pool, Ma. I am still petrified of the sea.

I don't know if I want to watch football without you Baba. It just won't be the same without you cursing LiverpoolFC sitting next to me. I don't want to watch another movie. You won't be there all excited with your fists clenched as the baddies get thrashed. I am sorry I giggled a little every time.

Baba, I haven't had the chance to tell you enough that I love you. I will never be able to. I am a son, after all and us creatures head to mommy first. But Baba, I want to stay back. Stay with you. Never tell you that I love you. And always tell you that I love you.

Almost 30 but Biprorshee is much too young. He will never grow up. He will never learn to live without you. I so wish he never had to.

Sometimes, the thought of getting married sucks. I know you're reading this Mrs. Mukta Lad Das. Just know that I still madly love you. And we ARE marrying each other next week. This is just me being a tad sad.

Baba, Ma, thank you for loving each other enough. Thank you for loving me so much. Don't let me go. Please. I am just a child. Still!

Missing you already.

Tapu.

P.S.: Dear kid sister, you thought I forgot all about you, like always, didn't you? What I take from you is probably one of the best lessons - you helped me learn what it is to be a father. I made more than a few mistakes with you. I know I'll be more than ready when it is my time. I love you.


---
All things Ma, Baba and Biprorshee.

Yesterday's Dance

The evening tastes different.
Look, it's dark. Look, it's pale.
Look, it's strangely soothing.
Ghosts curl together in the stomach
and laugh
Oh! The din. The riot.
A hundred horses gallop.

You are still there, distant.
Still sweet.
So annoying.
Tickle.
A big lump in the throat.
You sing a happy, haunting song.

---
All things stale and Biprorshee

Battleship

When everything ends,
you will not be there.
There will be the cellar.
The rats won't be there.

---
All things sink like Biprorshee

Marijuana

Walk.
Alone.
Wind.
Not a sound
but Floyd's 'Brain Damage'.
Smoke.
"The lunatic is on the grass...
...the lunatic is in my head."

---
All things mad and Biprorshee

Ghost Writer

A song that will break all hearts.
A song that will well up eyes.
A song that will only hurt.
A song they will not ignore.

A poem that will beg for pity.
A poem that will pinch.
And everyone shall know
a poem that will scream.

For me, will you write?

---
Will nothing help Biprorshee?

With You

We could walk endlessly.
Holding hands, laughing.
We could walk endlessly.
Just you, just me.

Just you, just me.
So much joy, it's childlike.
Just you, just me.
So much of us, it's never enough.

So much of us, it's never enough.
I talk, you listen.
So much of us, it's never enough.
You share, I collect.

You share, I collect.
Little shells, filled with tears.
You share, I collect.
Little hearts, big hopes.

Little hearts, big hopes.
Little steps, big strides.
Little hearts, big hopes.
Home shall never come.

Home shall never come.
Feet shall never tire.
Home shall never come.
We could walk endlessly,
you know?

---
All things without you or Biprorshee

Lucky Town

Stranger, you shouldn't be here.
You don't belong.
Your sorrows are none of our business.
This is a happy town.

Stranger, you don't look too well.
We see through you.
You are too easy to read
and this is a happy town.

Stranger, we fear you.
You shall corrupt.
A touch and we will wither.
This is a happy town.

Stranger, don't even talk.
We are deaf to all but laughter.
We are blind to all but love.
Such a very happy town.

Stranger, we won't think twice and let you go.
There is no net to catch you. Be warned!
No trapeze acts here.
All clowns in a happy town.

Stranger, see our children?
They are all rats.
Your music seduces.
Get out of this happy town.

We thank you for your time, stranger.
We will never meet again.
And till the time you find your heaven,
best wishes with love from the happy town.

---
All rats wander like Biprorshee

Rock-A-Bye Baby

This little blanket saves me from the demons.

It's dark, very empty around.

It's dark, very empty within.

You could hear a pin drop.

But you wouldn't.

There isn't one to drop.

It's dark, very scary everywhere.

This little blanket saves me from the demons.

It's unbearably warm.

The sweat flows down

the forehead

carefully treading over the nose.

Into a mouth that is not welcoming.

The river has picked up all the dirt

along the way

to reach a gutter.

I hate the taste.

What else did I expect?

I am not thirsty and I drink

so much sin

I am not hungry and I eat.

Poison.

I am scared but I remember.

This little blanket saves me from the demons.

A silent word of thanks.

To whom?

To You?

Yes!

Thanks for the eyes

that see black.

Thanks for your eyes

that show black.

But the gratitude is sincere.

The prayer is childlike. Earnest.

Under a pillow.

With assurance, I unrest.

With fear, I tremble.

But this little blanket saves me from the demons.

Oyster.

Snail.

Shut.

Tight.

Black.

Protection.

I see nothing.

I hear all.

I hear all say nothing.

I hear fear.

I hear laughter.

Evil. Teasing.

Creeping up to sleep

next to me.

To tickle, to poke, to grab, to rape.

Knock knock. Who is there?

Not a joke for sure.

It's tucked deep.

It cannot be pulled.

Someone still tries. Someone walks by. Coughs.

But this little blanket saves me from the demons.

Will they still try to strangle me?

---

All things scare Biprorshee

12 Months....Almost!

She asks how has life changed since I met her

But I just started living.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I kiss her eyes and tell her, "The lips can wait".

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I raise my mug. God turned the rum to tea. Lo! Miracle.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I laugh. Some more. And tell her, "Every time, it's for you (not at you)".

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I write. Some words. She reads. And knows the muse isn't pain.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I actually see what's the romance about beaches now, I say.

She asks how has life changed since I met her

I hold her hand. I hold on to her hand. She lets me. This is how.

---

All things loved and Biprorshee