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"I have known music to be her timeless reverberation in a forlorn corner of my soul; just when life was closing down upon me with its pangs of haunting silence."
"Hope is the point the 'world within' comes to an equilibrium with the 'world around'."
"The cold that my body feels can be comforted by pullovers of our choices. It is the winter that comes back each year, inevitably; is how we are connected on the face of time. A sweet suffering of forever..."
"My poverty, I know, was glamorous because trading you, my love, for a better life is outright heinous."
"Love was the day when she drank and I felt quenched."
"Life, ever since, had been one gripping tale. Your happening gave it a genre."
"Want is the soul's desire. Need, the mind's crave. Love, thus, I believe, is a bit of both."
"Art is how you lie to the world without ever feeling sinned."
"Sorrow is true and beyond the powers of healing, when you can taste the oceans on your lips."

Smoker's Phenomenon

Smoker's Phenomenon
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, March 26, 2017 |
It's a smoker's phenomenon perhaps,
to always hold the last puff a tad longer.
Letting the fumes spiral and widen inside
like ripples across a wind shaken lake,
inflating their chest to a maxima,
until it aches to sink back and then
grudgingly stubbing the fire out against
a tin ashtray; the toxic gas departing
through lips and purring from nostrils
quietly, in what seems to be a dreaded exhale.

Whether the last drag is the sweetest
or breaking from the high is sad,
it is all still an acceptable agony.
Unlike mine where I seem to be smoking
minced memories, rolled in a flammable leaf
of Time and burning recursively
between my lips.
My scarred heart that fervently
drags upon this lingering past,
fills my chest with massive clouds of tears
that never made way to weepings.
They stretch my lungs threatening to kill,
but I am far from quitting.
Smitten for life. And so I go on -
breathing in fire, blowing out voids.
For embers of love, after all,
can never be stubbed.

Porous Heart

Porous Heart
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Friday, February 17, 2017 |

Looking out of the window, far in the grey haze of evening, rising over the horizon like a soft trail of mountains is a dark sheath of pregnant clouds. Winds hauling it over the city, stretches over cramped buildings and rumblings roads like an immense umbrella of smoke, as I watch the monsoon pull over.

It reminds me of the porous roof overhead. How it had been like that since many seasons now. One that I still haven’t got in a mason for, not chosen to, to spread an ever layer of cement with his spatula. One that, like all the other bygone monsoons, would be a sieve with the first hard downpour, pouring in first as speeding drops then soon transforming into trickling streams, like a fountain placed upside down, spilling all over the room, crowding the corners in greying puddles of standing rain water. Walls soaking it up will start to green from the bottom, fresh dots of moss spreading like colour from a spray can. Pillows will feel sticky, drenched, their cotton clubbed inside from the dampness. The otherwise flat surface of my study table will start sporting bubbles, its white laminate peeling from the corners, the posts swollen.

As the clouds completely shroud the starlight, I connect this monsoon to the hurt she poured me with. Hurt that had hollowed a portion of my soul and continues to bore me with streams of sorrow very passing day. Hurt that after all these years, now happens to be the only evidence, against the love I yearned with my soul, almost begged, of her happening to me. Hurt that also is my sole witness of me losing my heart at the sight of her beaming eyes. An endearing ache that brings me to pictures of thunder fractures skies and maddening rain. And so I put my heart around it, around everything that brings no good but immense suffering, all the memories that are now ugly scars, in a sustaining wrap of holding on, to the person who had long wrenched her hand from my grip and moved on.

Hence, I ascend the bed quietly and lie sideways, facing the open window and the approaching clouds. Wisp of night jasmine drifting in. Followed by a blue spark of lightening, a stentorian roar of clouds crashing, before the water started to fall. In thick drops first that struck the leaves life bullets, then trickling from their margins onto dry earth, soon evolving into a relentless shower that muted every sound and scent of the bustling city. Just the rain and its smashing sound, as I felt the cold thud of the first drop, seeping through eroded layers of concrete of my roof, splatter onto my forehead. Followed by a second on the hollow over my lips, then a third somewhere on my chin and then, in no time, it was steady trickle drenching my whole body.

Beneath the pouring roof, clutching onto similarly porous heart, I let the rain pass into my bones and fill my eyes. Hoping, almost falsely, of waking up to a clear day and meeting the sun with rain kissed eyes for the rainbow we couldn’t be, of everything said and unsaid, to fill the arms of the sky.

Will You or Will You Not?

Will You or Will You Not?
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Monday, January 09, 2017 |


Upon your return from the desert odyssey, facing the bedroom mirror as you dig the comb of resolve in your matted strands and a golden sprinkle of cold sand pours from your head, like a fine rain of our memories, or when the late sun sneaking through the curtains awakens my dried kiss on your nape; will you genuinely care retracing your steps back to the cold nights of Jaisalmer, into the heart of your solitude, where we always met in thoughts of longing? And lie down on the desert floor may be, inside your tent with my omniscience beside you, and watch the moon enthral a village of stars gathered on the sloping roof, with its silver humming of love songs? When the feral night winds of my desires fill your skirt and your thighs contract to a carnal bliss, will you not unlace the silken knots on your bony back and lie naked in submission, feeling my shadow climb your body? Will you not open your arms to the emptiness of your world, and behold my ghost in the sheltering warmth of your bosom, honouring a love that we, alas, couldn’t be?


Will you ever cherish returning to places we had together been, I wonder, even if it is with your lips in a different mouth, or simply lean into the sun cracked mirror of your reality and vapour the glass in a hard breath of denial, calling me ‘a fucking mirage' ?

Weeping Winds

Weeping Winds
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Monday, January 09, 2017 |


Today, the sun had receded at the earliest, I think. Fallen quietly into the trough of mountains, even before the day birds from their tireless soaring have returned to their home in the pines. The mist is thin—floating in lazily from the distance, like plumes of smoke fanned away by someone trying to light an oven somewhere for this early night’s supper. Handful of scattered stars wink and fade behind the drifting smoke, and the moon, slightly thicker than a sickle shaped moon, up somewhere behind me at the back of the house, traces shadows of trees on my dewy courtyard. Fallen night jasmines, soaked in dew, lend their fragrant soul into the rushing winds. 

In the cold blue gleam of winter, I observe that the Maple at the eastern corner of my courtyard had dropped its last clinging leaves to survive the winter and the wind now roves about my house in seclusion. It had lost its sole companion. The lush green canopy that once was home to his breezy wanderings, were now barren. The day long cuddling under the sun, listening to bird songs; her embracing the rain, his shaking her dry; his whistling praises and her lustrous blush--winter had snapped them all. It now sweeps the mountains howling in agony, returning every now and then to the empty branches with memories of their togetherness.

It thumps at my window in anticipation, hoping for someone to push it ajar. Someone equally lonely perhaps, to weep the loves lost this dreading night.  The panes stuttering in their frames, binds me to the autumn in my heart. I remember the fateful winter when she bid her adieu and I was the sullen wind at her window, pleading to be let in, to let go every conflict and connect our fate once again into a united forever. I wish to throw the window open and let the weeping wind gush in. Perhaps awaken my buried wounds with its cold touch once again and spend this night reaching out to a wishful dream, crawling along our respective bridges of false hopes. But something holds me back. The window is now shrouded in mist, the knocking drowned, as I hear a commanding voice in my head and steady myself against the desire to fall back into time. ‘To love is to let go…to love is to accept’

Some Springs never happen and some loves are never returned. It was a reality that needed time to sink in. And stranded on either side of the fogged glass pane, it was for us to bare our wounded hearts to the healing of time and let fortune eventually lead us to the right person, to that evergreen tree, who won’t ever leave our side, no matter how bad the cold gets. 













Lampshade

Lampshade
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, January 08, 2017 |

It was from the early days of your embroidery classes, I remember, when you were perfecting your skills for a French knot, that you made me a lampshade. Discarding the dusty, butter paper hat from over the aluminium base, I had watched you drape the light with your creative accomplishment – a strip of orange fabric with three French knotted bright yellow daisies in bloom, etched equidistant along the length of the shade. You had then thrown the switch on and a muffled yellow sheen, permeating the satin, had drowned my gloomy room in a warm sundown glow. Across the sombre horizon of walls were our rolling shadows--outstretched arms curled into stick figures, a couple strolling hand in hand beneath low mountain peaks.

It had been many years now, since you had walked off your chosen way and the tungsten in the bulb too had snapped with time. But never for once had I desired to replace it from beneath the shade. Only sometimes, early morning, I move it from my table to the window sill and carefully place it in the path of the drifting sunbeams. For once, the daisies come to life. The rising sun screened through the lampshade, fuses my reality and the past into a happy possibility; until soon I hold out my arms against the yellow dust torches pouring into my room and meet a lonely, weeping man in the mountain shadows.

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