Live another day

I just wanna live another day,

Coz, I have so much more to say.

So that I can kiss your lips in the rain,

That I can touch your skin, feel your mane.

That day,

We’ll forget the mistakes we made,

Forget the regrets and the gloomy shades.

Now that I am here,

Let’s waltz, splatter the beer.

Bring up the goblets,

And the people in fancy attires,

It’s my last party, o my dear.

We’ll smile, we’ll laugh

I’ll veil my face while I caught.

I’ll hide the blood in the wine

And we’ll pretend- everything is fine.

But when the opera stops

I’ll shed two tear drops.

I’ll look into your eyes

It’s time to say goodbyes.

I’ll tell, you how much I love you,

I’ll tell, you how much I need you.

I’ll be in your bangled arms,

In silence. No chattering, no drums.

Surrounded by the wet winter air,

As cold as death,

I’ll set free my last breath.

by ARKA PATRA.

Love bites.

Scarlet here, scarlet there,

Darling you touched me everywhere.

Slithered on bed like snakes,

Kissed your lips blood red.

I watched your eyes,

Stripped your lace.

Darling we made love.

Held your neck, scratched your chest,

Spun you down by the waist.

Darling, we found ourselves in heaven.

The blazing sun poured against the curtains,

Blood raced through every vein.

Fingers trapped in your mane,

Darling we found ecstasy in pain.

And when it was time you left.

Kept me waiting, trapped in your love net.

Darling you left.

Erased your smell at the shower,

Changed the sheets, replaced the flower.

Now as I stand lone by the mirror.

Scars are the only reminder.

Darling, I feel your hollow presence

Everywhere.

  

Arka Patra.

  IT’S JUST A DREAM.

What if you wake up some day and find out that the thing you call life is not your life at all. All of it was just a well extended dream, with minute detail.

You open your eyes and for a moment you stare at the ceiling, you find it to be an odd color, not the usual white you are used to seeing every day and night with the hint of blue by the night lamp. You force the fact upon yourself that it was mistake of your eyes due to the heavy sleep you have just woke up from. You close and rub your eyes. Get half of yourself up and rest on your palms. Somehow you fell incredibly light, but you again demolish that thought and take it as an after effect of your sleep. Then slowly slide your legs in an angle to reach the end of your bed, let your legs on the ground,
 “Weird I never leave slippers beside my bed, maybe it was someone else’s...”

You, being the meek person you have always been, don’t get into those shoes though they look snug. You draw out your arms and walk down to your big mirror, but you just find a blank wall facing you.

“Hey where did the mirror go!!” you eye though the room, which somehow seem more spacious.

“Ah! There’s it is!” lying in the corner. You walk to it. Stare at your body at full length.

You are taken aback by the sight .You are amused. Your fingers reach your face, pressing the skin slightly only to find that it has gone a little harder.

“That is a pimple.”

 Your hair is short and kinda good looking. You discover your facial hair has grown bigger and is all over your face.

The details of your life with big facial hair don’t need remembering as you know what you are doing. Suddenly the new unknown life becomes known.

 You are born with a silver spoon. Your dad is a millionaire. You are in New York. The last thing you care about is Somalia and yet you shared a picture in face book once, which said: “Share if you have a heart!!”

 You don’t care about bills. You don’t check the menu’s right hand side first before you order when you walk in a restaurant. You are a Casanova among girls. You have got friends, all swanks.   

The memory of your face gets weaker as a memory of a dream. You soon forget minor details of your previous life of fifteen. The faint memories of that life would be there just to crack jokes and taking part in a conversation tonight at the party like: “You know last night I dreamed that I was a different person!!!” and your know-it-all-friends would put in the picture, “You, they call it something like déjà-vu or something?” and the conversation would end with the coming of the next round of vodka.

You are on the verge to getting drunk, and you remember you have to drive. You move close to your beautiful girlfriend and plant a small kiss on her cheek, “Shall we?”

She turns her face to you and smiles, stretching your lips simultaneously in a smile. You get up with her in arm.

“Have a good night amigos!” and everybody (at least who are conscious), raise their bottles, glasses, half finished cocktails or whatever they have in their hands in a gesture to bid good-bye, but unable to speak out the two words.

You turn out of the bar, and as you go you side your arm out of her’s and slide it over to her shoulder and dragging her close to you. She lets her head on your shoulder with a smile.

Thirty minutes pass then; she’s staring at the New York’s well lit buildings that pass her on the way from the side-front seat of your car.

You glance at her; she’s fogged the close window and drew something on it with her slender finger. She turns to you and smiles, and you smile back.

You park the car and get into the elevator to get into your apartment. Your girlfriend is laying her side to the elevator wall. You press the round button with the number 5 written on it. The elevator starts up and the ever annoying elevator music starts with it.

“I would like to know who composed that music, someday!”

She just tilted her head to one side and just smiled understanding your joke but too tired to make a comment. After a few moments the elevator will make a sound somewhat similar to the small old bells attached to the top of the doors of old London antiques shops alarming the incoming of a customer; and the stainless steel doors of the elevator will part. You would come in front of your apartment door, fish out the keys from your pocket. Unlock the door, let the keys rest on the rack and get out of your shoes and rush to the bed. Your girlfriend, being a journalist, remembers that she has work tomorrow, takes an aspirin and then jumps on to you as a kid will and then slides to your side. You stare in each other eyes. You fall in love with her all over again; then die in sleep in each other’s arms.

“Papu can’t dance…sala..” a voice came from under your pillow. You take an instance to remember that’s your alarm tone. You blink your eyes and slightly stare at the bare white ceiling, with the hint of blue by  the night lamp. “papu nach nahi sakta…”  the alarm goes into snooze.

“Was I dreaming all that??!!”

Prithiwish Patra.

Blogger’s note:   This is a work of friction and as usual an intriguing topic to talk or write on. This has been my childhood fantasy rather a question, “What would happen if you wake up in a different world?”  And “Is it even possible?”    Well I don’t know maybe you are dreaming right now.

The crowning wish.

The crowning wish

Like the flowing river,

Like time and desire,

Changes, however dear.

When you look back,

You see the decisions

The right and the wrong

The once, you were instinctive,

And the once that took long.

But when you look at as a whole,

The decisions were never wrong.

Coz you believe, whatever happens, happens for good.

Be it the grand dinners, or the night without food.

There is no regret,

Coz you are a positive person.

Coz you adore what you get.

It all comes down to happiness.

No matter how long the chase.

We all find it more or less.

Coz we are men,

With the good and the bad,

That makes us complete.

Happy or sad.

The love gone to dogs.

The love of Gods.

The murders we have committed

Of outstanding possibilities and thoughts,

For the lack of guts.

But they all make us what we are.

Call us coward, call us safe.

We don’t care, we are deaf.

Its all a part of life.

This beautiful wonderful life.

That doesn’t wait for your decisions

Nor for your wishes.

It only flows like the river.

Like time and desire,

However dear.

By Arka Patra

The Hourglass.

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

I will lie down beside you, about the leaves.

Let the hourglass pass one grain at a time,

As I treasure each moment with you.

The seasons be minutes and the entire eternity in a day passing by.

We’ll let no one be, but you and me to see life go by.

You have become my cocaine and the way out of it…

You maybe no one to everyone but you are the world to me.

Everyone will live, everyone will die.

But I hope we stay side by side.

Prithwish Patra.

After life

What happens when we die?
Obviously, we stop breathing, and our heart stops beating. And so what happens is that within about 10 seconds, brain activity ceases —we become cold.
But that’s what happens to our physical self. What about our souls?
From a Noetic Science experiment in 1988: We now know that, the human soul weighs 1/3,000th of an ounce! That’s the astonishing claim of East German researchers who recently weighed more than 200 terminally ill patients just before, and immediately after, their deaths. In each case the weight loss was exactly the same–1/3,000th of an ounce.” The inescapable conclusion is that we have now confirmed the existence of the human soul and determined its weight,” Dr. Becker Mertens of Dresden said in a letter printed in the German science journal Horizon.
According to acclaimed author, Deepak Chopra- souls stay in layers of time, trapped in parallel universes, in countless worlds.
Okay. So now we know that we have souls. But it only raises more questions than answers, like- what is it like? What exactly happens when we die? Would we know that we no longer breathe? Is it painful? Can we feel the wind on our face or drizzling rain on our skin? Do we smile? Can we think? How do we know that we are dead, if we are dead?
For example if I’d died this very morning, would I know it?
It was a beautiful morning, nothing extraordinary, but just the way I love it! Clouds had sheltered the lush greenery in our garden, from the mercy less tropical sun. The raindrops had ornamented the creamy roses and its vivid leaves with Chrystal droplets. My lazy cat couched on my cosy lap as I sat by the window with my smoking coffee mug. Aww! Just like those old witches from European country. Souls, who have devoted their lives to the mysticisms of nature. I envy those who have all the time they need to observe the love of God in His minutely detailed gifts. I envy those who can harness His warmth from every touch from every smile in every moment of life.
For the rest of us there is only the rush of the day and the fatigued nights. Alarm clocks and lusty porn sites! 
Would it all change if we die, will we have time to see hours pass by? Will I have the time to tell people how much they mean to me? Will I have time to find that girl in white, who once smiled at me, and then vanished in the busy metropolitan swarm?
What if I did die in that road accident this morning, when the speeding car hit my bicycle and knocked me unconscious, flat on the road? 
(The first thing I’d probably do is- I’ll tell my mom that her fish curry sucks!)
Well, I survived without a scratch. I got up and came back home straight. I went to my brother’s room, said “I love you”, and gave him a squeezing hug. It’s actually his bicycle that’s lying in the garage (and it’s not in one piece)!

“They only see what they want to see…they don’t know that they are dead” – a quote from the 1999 movie THE SIXTH SENSE, a psychological horror film written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan.
When I got back to my room I noticed that my lazy fat assed cat was comfortably couched on the pillow by the window, just where I left it, the steaming coffee mug rests by its side. Wait a sec. how is the coffee still steamy? I remember I finished it well before I left! That’s weird!
But any ways! Now, if I were dead by any chance (and M. Night Shyamalan is to be believed), I would really wana see that fat ass cat do rumba like Garfield. Right now!
Naa, I actually like the way it’s sleeping, with all the peace and pleasure. There is, a certain calm, a certain serenity to it. It is a beautiful morning, nothing extraordinary, but just the way I love it!

It is a work of friction .

By Arka Patra.

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