Search Results

Our story spans thousands of years for aeons we have loved, Your footprints lead to the threshold of my abode. As the dusty dunes sweep beneath my feet, I can sense you're coming Home. The melody of your flute spiraling through the storm, finds its end into my ears. The movement of your fingers along the bamboo reed as you endeavor to run them lest they emit a wrong note. I long to sit beside you along the doorstep, lost in the waves of the soulful music, wafting through the golden sands, of the enchanting desert. The wait is all I have This disquiet I must bear, For I know in my heart You are forever there. *A village maiden in a faraway desert land waits for her lover. She knows he would arrive soon. It's only a matter of time they would soon be together. (The second part of this poem will narrate the side of her lover.) By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of _life

The sound of your anklets caressing the heated sand, The playful wind wiping your tears before they touch the rusty land, bring them to me- I feel them within the crevices of my harrowed palms. I revive the same agony that beseech you, my dear, My flute makes no sound now no tunes ever come out of that empty reed, my tired hands, incapable of balance, incapable of forging love out of it. Those downcast eyes of yours, dark and deep within glimpse through your veil. I see you in my dreams now waiting every passing day to start my journey to you: the wait that finishes at dusk on your part, my love starts with dawn on mine, Those years we traveled together on this earth, Those aeons we have loved, will not end in vain- your wait merges with my essence; In our wait, we are One: your heart where I reside, that very heart is Mine forever... *(The young man now lives in the city for work, away from his love. Every day, he counts when he will meet her. In their wait, they are together.) By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The leaves fall in abandon in total mirth and subjugation, colliding with the topography of the uneven earth; for it knows within, it must fall- fall with the purpose of rising high with the wind, dancing its way to freedom, of finding new land, a place where its mustard and crippled edges will find some respite, its purpose well served. The lady in those red heels tossing her cares by the path, cobbled and uneven she nearly skips forth; those heels seem a bit pesky she disowns them at once, basking in her autumn she unlearns her lessons in bits and remnants- riding in her glory buzzing through the zephyr, humming her own sweet melody, laughing at her dim-witted perception of existence she knew so far- the autumn leaf lands at her feet and she lifts it up, with a steady intent look she beams in admiration and absolute love... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Autumn dissolves into preachy winter...the fallen leaves have started accumulating themselves...Stunted feelings, residual talks, still left incomplete after a long evening... Of mountain trails, of winding roads of unknown terrain, of messy zones of pines, deodar and firs of butterflies, caterpillars and moths. Those stunted grass emanating half baked, half understood life those rocky paths ending nowhere echo mysteries and sing of sunrise... Mountains have their own tales, their own dreams and aspirations...they speak of love and loss, of beauty and scars, of madness and peace, of permanence and transcendence. Each rock reverberates with stories of that soul who might have taken a brief respite after a fatiguing walk down the hilly terrain. The fatigue is not so much of the form but the mind stirring in cups of fear fear of the unknown, of unresolved interior. The enigmatic peace, the daylight cheers half forgotten memoirs, streaks of tears must rest for a while now or get stuck in the wild forever... The coiling path of the taxi, loaded with hopes of the travelers, engaged in chit chats amongst themselves, wind up the road in anticipation. The snowflakes which had just started to welcome their journey ahead, sent a chill underneath their warmers. The trees are accustomed to its ways, the man driving the taxi might as well. But not the wayfarers. Explore they must, for that what life is dance to their way they must for that is how they bridled their joyful way to resilience. The impression of their feet on the lap of guileless snow the cold of the surprising rain made their countenance glow... The molding of nature into different forms, creatures reciprocating to them in all its glory, at times, puts me into utmost awe as if everything has always been there, nothing ever has changed. The voice within must echo its omnipresence!! (These are snippets of my half baked thoughts which gradually came to realization after a short trip to mountains- they are ever so mesmerizing, beyond words and description...) By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

As thou sprinkle the colors of thy love on my wandering essence: all over my inner and outer self, the warmth of thy closeness awaken my yearning spirit lost in searching thou in pettiness; the gaze of thy silent eyes see through that robe I boldly wear on my vulnerable frame, that which the world despise in me, thou behold with zest. How I failed to perceive the One who resides in me also beats in thy core. As your love sets me free from myself I feel assured coming back Home... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

"I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways" ---Rumi I never knew I would write. But ever since I remember, I have always wanted to. I waited for the right words to emerge. When I could hold no longer, did it pour of its own and then inundated my pages in no time. I am at once in love, awe, and intimidated by words. If placed in a disorderly manner, words can ruin so much of you. If nurtured with love, it can move mountains. Words are mystical, powerful, and devouring. I write as a respite, a kind of escapade where rules dissolve, where art is pursued for its own sake and explanations become redundant-- Kublai Khan in a fit of frenzy, wavy tresses twirling in the air, ordered the stately pleasure dome to be built-- verses which would make you wander into a state of surrealism- a temporary suspension of reality, making you the master creator for the time being in this otherwise mortal world. The creative streak loses its sheen sometimes, rendering me helpless where I grapple for those syllables that once made my poetry rhythmic. Still, the words should flow, like the stream that fashions its journey through rocks and then merges with the ocean. At times it's muddy, while at times shining like a crystal... At times I feel why I write At times I question my might- The countless words dwindle in vain, are anchored in my heart The countless memories shared once, are all lost in the dust The nameless pain shared once, by the voice deep within When every moment feels worthwhile, As I believe in my dreams. Surging of waves, provoked by words The fire in the soul alighted with love The spasm of the earth beneath my feet The air that rustles the mind within All are but elements of Nature that create the divine aperture, My hand should wield those words forever forging through eternity soldering through nature, Falter I will, for err is human Like a stream, I must keep meandering ever... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

I embrace you with open arms in pain and laughter in joys and sorrows, as I falter in mapping the paths broad and narrow. With heavy feet, I tread teary eyes, I dream, with blank verse and onomatopoeia, I take count of my memorabilia. Happy days spent with happy people happy faces turning sour and I witnessed them all. Innocence trampled in unjust lanes played and rattled with I allowed it to fall and then allowed it to heal. A fool was I took time to learn the ways of life, never knew even love has its price I thought it was all bright. Writing forayed into my soul uncalled and unthought of, while I was knocking on the closed door, You paved a whole new road. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The Unmanifested One Down within, my search began. for years on end... He was nowhere to be found. All my trials were in vain. I was determined to find him on faces, I tried to perceive him in traces. Through actions, I tried to owe him, In his mention, I tried to awe him. Definitions baffled me... Boundations misled me... It was somewhere between trust and mistrust, But I never got distracted. Then I closed my eyes and searched within-- My consciousness opened the window That was closed while exploring. He was there and nowhere Shapeless, formless, beyond any definitions Whereat last I got my realization... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The one string of the Ektara the Baul plays in reverence, with his index finger in place: the strain of his devotion reaching miles and hence, losing oneself in His name. The seeker of truth as he calls himself, to dwell in His love, union with the eternal Beloved. The lanes he set his feet on, the woods he traversed, lives he touched with his music and laughter. His declarations of life won many a heart; his enchanting folklore, the soul-stirring songs, piqued by occurrences, are all but offerings to his Lord. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Down came the parachute Kimo was sitting by the sea; waves splashing onto her bare legs and then receding to their source. It was a small, quaint village on the outskirts of South Goa, teeming with coconut trees, sandy-coiled snails, and crabs peeping out from swaying bushes, waiting for nightfall. She had procured a few seashells to create a necklace for her short, slender neck. It was noontime. Strong, imminent sunrays fell on her tender, young skin. She had just entered the threshold of adolescence and often found herself clumsy and out of place, unable to confide in anyone in particular. As she felt dizzy, she could see her parents talking to a local, arranging for a speedboat from where they were planning a parachute ride. The sea was calm, the rocks squaring out from the sea as the tides went down. Kimo was reveling at the mere thought of rising high with the parachute. "Kimo, come here, the boat is ready," her mother gesticulated. She took long, heavy steps; her thick, coarse hair fell over her countenance, restricting a clear view of her parents. As she approached the boat, she saw a familiar face-- her friend Suri. She hadn't expected to be here. Dressed in a white cropped top and denim shorts, she talked to Kimo in a low, reverberating voice. "What was the answer to the second question, part two in science?" she enquired with a suspicious look. As she recalled the answer, her mother called again and she went away, heaving a sigh of relief. She was reveling in the parachute ride—the clouds smiling at her, birds flying by, her father singing a medley, and she, soaking in the vicarious pleasure in full measure. "See Papa, Kimo is here too," she could hear Suri calling her father. As she turned around, She found another known, impudent face. "Now we can revise the tables here, Kimo," he gave a wry smile as he uttered those words. There was suddenly a lot of noise and commotion; her blurred vision was now even more obscured, and with a fluttering sound, the parachute came down. She thumped onto the ground and woke up from sleep. There was no Suri around her. She never knew her mathematics teacher was Suri's father. Was he? She was still in the boat, her head resting on her father's right shoulder. She had fallen asleep soon after she embarked on it. Kimo at the beach 'The sweet la-la song comes to my mind sings in my heart minus the tables: Everything is fine when you are in a parachute under the sun...' By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Kolkata diaries-1 It has been nearly six years, I reflected—yes, almost six years, or maybe even more. The thought crossed my mind as a bus zipped past me. I pulled my feet back and waited for the traffic to clear, hoping for a chance to cross the street. The mall was on the other side. The cab driver had dropped me off on the opposite side of the road. ' Didi, Google Maps showed me this location only. Bas raasta ta cross korlei apni pouche jaben,' prompt came the reply when I asked the driver to stop by the mall. After much ado with the driver, I burst into the vibrant atmosphere of the mall. My dearest friend Debolina, however, had yet to make her grand entrance. I lovingly call her " Debo ". I was waiting with a beating heart, eagerly scanning the bustling crowd, anticipating that moment when she'd finally arrive and light up the place with her energy! And there she arrived, draped in a white kurta pajama, carrying a huge bag, tightly secured in her hand. I wondered what was inside. I, somehow, managed to control my shameless curiosity and hugged her(my eyes were still fixated on her bag). What followed was a heated and animated conversation between us. We were hardly listening, barely pausing to breathe, and talking continuously. There was so much that needed to be said in such a short time, so much to share, and conflicts that had been put on hold for far too long. But who cared about the people around us? Not us, at least. Our laughter echoed throughout the mall, and we hardly noticed the passersby. I’m sure they thought we were half-wits or completely out of our minds..... My friend Debo entered a shop filled with bags in every nook and corner. I followed her obediently like a sunflower following the sun. At that moment, I had completely forgotten about the large yellow bag she had brought with her. "I want a bag with a chain, not one like this," she said to the salesman of the shop. I approached her and assessed the situation. The shop showcased bags of a foreign brand, none had chains except for a few that she didn't like. She windowshopped a few more and then we left the place. We were both hungry since it was lunchtime, so we headed to the food zone. While we waited for our food, I decided to check my phone. To my shock, I found five missed calls and ten messages on my Google Drive. As I looked through them, I realized that there were some urgent changes that I needed to make right away. I was speechless. I had taken a holiday from work to spend a few days in Kolkata with my loved ones, and there 'She' was, expecting me to work on the document. I chose to ignore it. Then, we exchanged gifts we had meticulously chosen for each other and continued with our secretive conversation. We had our tummy and soul full with delicious lip-smacking food. After a long time, both of us were having an authentic Bengali meal- luchi, mangsho, pulao, cholar dal, and mishti doi. Uff, what a delight it was! Since 35/36 guns matches in our kundali , our meetings are incomplete without books. So, turning our heads in the same direction, we entered the bookstore. And as is obvious, we got lost in the realm of bookland. Bookshop Multiple titles swayed before my eyes...I couldn't choose. My sensory organs refused to function appropriately. And when I turned around to ask my dear Debo, she too was in a different zone altogether. She had already collected eleven Bengali titles to her credit and was on the way to collecting more. 'I don't get Bengali books at my place, how can I let go of this opportunity?' she smirked and then carried on with her work dutifully. My phone beeped again, and then again. 'Your boss is missing you, you must reply to her,' Debo muttered, giving me a look drier than toast. Our time was quietly ushering us toward goodbye. We went to the counter to pay our bills. 'Ma'am, do you need a carry bag?' the shopkeeper asked. 'No,' Debo replied And there she opened her enormous yellow bag-big enough to smuggle a watermelon-and started stuffing her treasures(books) like a kid secretly stuffing pockets with toffees. "Here arrives my bestie, dangling a sunflower-hued tote, there it sways, and here it sways like a happy child on the go..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

At daybreak, when it's still dark outside, I often contemplate the household chores to be done that day. As soon as I realize that I have to prepare tea to start with and then breakfast, I again retire to bed...It gives a temporary illusion that there is still some time left to spare in idleness. During winter, my mornings are generally marked with intolerable indolence and indefinite inertia. While I am still lying, I often get a weird idea, that maybe, I am tied to my bed with invisible roots, growing underneath my bed, reaching till eternity... I stare through my glass door, to my balcony, which opens itself onto my room. The glass door serves as an eye to the outer world from the inner recess of my blanket. The sky is not visible in the morning. Not even the buildings opposite ours. It's foggy outside. The fog distills itself gradually, giving way to the sunrays, just the way ignorance is replaced with knowledge and wisdom. My poetic sensibilities get awakened from my otherwise inactive anatomy. The newly bloomed red roses in the green pot engage my attention the most. I have witnessed them blossoming from buds into flowers- one of the several miracles of nature we often miss out on in our chaotic schedule. In the afternoon, I often observe or examine the shifting clouds, figuring out the tales they frantically want to narrate...I have often taken photographs of them in various moods and shapes, but never really incorporated them in my writings...One dear friend of mine once mentioned that I have good prospects of becoming a photographer...My infinite gratitude to that kind soul... Except for pigeons, I hardly find any birds coming to my balcony...During the rains, the whole place is splashed. There is a splattering of window panes as the rainwater taps on them...Hurriedly, we collected all the clothes hanging outside, and closed all the doors and windows...The beauty of the rain is lost in the process. I don't prefer heavy rains which drench you entirely....they have been romanticized enough in films...I love the slow, big drops that suddenly fall on our faces, hands, and then start pouring gradually... the beginning is always magical, coming straight from the newly formed clouds. Nature opens the window to my heart- imparting a deep sense of solace, calming the inner war of the mind ...bringing a temporary halt to my thoughts to immediate effect...I feel at one with nature, lost in the joy of just being Alive... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life