ARUNASSAM
an e magazine from ASSAM & NAGALAND

November, it's the month when acts
And scenes always ingrain itself in us,
The first approach of the cold winds
And life is sterile and calm on the surface
Beneath passion runs riot like cherry blossoms
The dusky fields have been reaped long back
And farmers have retired with their stack.
One pictures the evening mist and the chills
That slowly envelope the drying hills.
December, a month fondly familiar:
The soft pealing bells of churches on
Hill-tops, the cards that each other greet
On the street, passage-ways, local pubs…
The air heavy with musk of goodwill.
Feasts and songs in through the night
Dancing flames and stars as accompaniment
December, a living month in its full glory
Dying….soon to become a part of memory.
January, the heavy blanket that wraps us;
A cocoon, ready to undergo metamorphosis
A new year, a changed man, a new resolution.

"Watch out for the full Moon"
Some people always say:
I find myself here staring again
And a light breeze swaying gently begins
To tremble the leaves and of thought.
I rue to contemplate a company
Beside me not to feel the halo
That envelopes us in such situation;
For soon the clouds may loom
And obscure the lulling moon.
But pleasure still reigns supreme
For the mind is transported on this
Blanched setting far beyond the din
Of gray mornings, noons and afternoons,
Thrown into the world of astronomy
There's no end limit to the chains
And atoms of thoughts that constitute
The encore of such realms:
…A shawl to wrap your fragile figure
I picture you staring at the moon in
Deep delight and longing for merry events
That ever limits itself in your dreamy eyes.
And someday I should swear and say
Never were you sweeter than when
You sat on these grassy slopes in silent
Reflection and into the unconquerable zone
Where still must be the physical aspect;
And never would I have interposed the
Platonic interlude, or all the charm
And aura encircling you is fled.

The March Wind came unbidden
Intent on frolic upon its visitation
Soon a wrapper spirals upward
And greets a sparrow deviating
From its flight unwilling.
An alien tract sweeps along
And delivers itself on my doorstep
A medley of articles converge
At the cul de-sac.

My muse begins to grow light and airy
As despair too takes wing and departs.
Voila! How fair and abandoned my
Lady looks when the wind blows
Its husky breath tangling her ringlets
And outlining her bosom.

Showers of flowers from the dancing
Trees and the banana leaves split into leafy combs
While the wind still whispers and
Buzz in its favourite haunts.
Overhead the wires emits a whirring
Sound and the remains of a crucified
Kite still survives the tempest.

A door bangs somewhere and somewhere
A window rattles
The noise of breaking glasses is heard.
Like a spirit comes the Wind and
does its mischief
and disappears without a trace

7 o' clock and you wake up
To the tune of the clock's alarm
Triggered off….
No, you don't lay awhile and let
The experiences of the real you retreat memorably;
Mechanically you rise to the call of the
Never-still Time keeper.

No, you don't hear the shrill pipes
Of the birds when you let open
Your windows;
The caw-caw of the crows affray your ears
And the calls of the pigeons and sparrows
Are throaty and perched due to the
Acrid air they inhale.

You flip through the 'Times of India',
Racing along with the headlines of
Murder, theft and accident:
So much can happen in a day!
You sip your tea mindless of the
Flavour and the aroma
It gives out to your dull nose.

You check yourself in the mirror,
And adjust your collar.
You smile wryly on uneven teeth.
Don your mask and head for the
Bus-stand…..the comb rests easy on
Your back pocket to groom your ever falling hair.

You board the green and yellow
Ominous object on wheels: two arrows
Each directing you to the opposite
Direction…..Confusion!
There is row going over the ladies' side
And seconds later a thin bearded man rises
And a voluminous be-spectacled lady
Bottoms herself on the vacant seat.

You hear the bald man confiding to his companion
About the juicy book he read last night.
You hear the Leftist opting for mixed economy.
Politics is debated on the second and third row
While economy is run over by two men
Identical in checked shirts and attaché-cases.
And guess what the two ladies are talking
About- The sale going on at Connaught Circus.
The bus screeches to a halt and
There is a flurry of activities at both ends.
The driver, a wizened old grey haired man
Stares right ahead with chiseled looks.
The ride on the Ring Road makes
You giddy; and scenes keep on repeating.