Souradeep Roy  is from Calcutta. He is currently in Delhi trying to figure things out. Apart from doing that, he also edits damn you brought out by the performance/ writing/ art collective Notice Board.

 

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A TYPICAL SCENE FROM THE HOSTEL

My intention, I swear,
was simply to take a piss.
So never mind the mosquito
that I killed, and the (almost)
poetic nature of its death:
without a trace of wind
it fell down, vertically,
into a pool of urine
yellow as jaundice.
Simply unlucky. It
deserved the Ganges.

 

WHEN IT RAINS IN SARAMATI- I

When it rains in Saramati, it is quite likely that mother will
call. She asks, amongst other things, if I am happy, if I am
sad, if I am studying, if I am regular in my attendance. The
questions have a ring of the ordinary in them. Definitely not
musical, it is unlike the intermittent rain and the cool breeze
that enters the room as if it is a resident here like me, always
with a thud, opening the beaten hostel window.

But inspite of

that element of repeatedness that perhaps makes the ordinary,
when she asks me when will I come back, it strikes me as
something original, something out of the ordinary that needs,
needs to be pondered upon, something that is pretty much like
the masculine wind that does the rounds in the aged corridors
of Saramati.

I mumble some dates concerning the end-sems, but

indeed I want to tell her something else altogether. Tonight, for
instance, I wish I could ask her what this separation resulting in a
pretty poem might have been called by eighteenth century theorists
of aesthetics:

sublime, or beautiful?

 

WHEN IT RAINS IN SARAMATI-II

When it rains in Saramati
Nothing much
happens. Just
opening the
nonagerian
door and the
latchless window.

Because rain here
stops at being
exactly that:
rain. It never
becomes
kalbaisakhi.

 

 

To read

WHEN IT RAINS IN SARAMATI- III

 

 

WHEN IT RAINS IN SARAMATI- IV

When it rains in Saramati
you wait for a few minutes
in the corridor cum balcony.
You watch the triangular sky
lighted up with some red oxide,
and smoke down the coffee.
Nobody rushes to fetch the
underwear left to dry on the
ridge. Away from home,
the underwear too
needs some rain to survive.
You think this is the moment,
you have to step outside,
and, like the underwear,
feel the rain and stay stagnant
till the rain stops

and the sun comes up
and dries the underwear
and you too, along with that.

 

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