She has published two poetry books,’Echoes’ (Authorspress) which has won the Reuel International Award for Best Debut Poetry book, 2018, and ‘How Not To Remember’( Hawakal Prokashona). She has received the nomination for the Pushcart Prize, 2019. She lives and writes from Kolkata.
lost property box
My rickety rickshaw ride
to our old red house at the end of the crooked lane,
now derelict,
I climb the staircase of dusty memories,
my steps grow lighter,
sprightly,
as I see you at the end of the stairs,
a broad indulgent smile waiting, and I hurry through the steps to bury my face in the soft white drape of your six-yard mulmul,
a mixed musk of spices, zarda and your scented coconut hair oil,
a comfort inhaled, that used to fill my senses,
a familiar part of my girlhood years.
Never did I think
that it would form an isle in my heart
to dwell as a memory,
~an allure, that makes me walk towards
it
with hesitant steps
as it recedes and I cannot hold
an intangible fog,
and trips to this empty space
turn out to be a peep
into the lost property box
©mallika bhaumik
zarda -Indian chewing tobacco
(flavoured)
mulmul -a type of fabric
Rain ~song of departure
I have seen the rains
I have painted the picture
of the dripping pain,
the iridescent rays of daydreams
have strummed rain on my guitar.
~chalat ~
the oar splashes against the
flowing water,
I have wandered through the rains,
seeking homelessness,
freedom from the walls of confinement
where the mirror reflects faces of strangers
and the blurred skyline of the city.
Life, like a lusty figure, shimmers at a distance
and I see myself,
a parched soul walking through the long rugged stretch,
beguiled by the mirage of happiness.
The raging sky stands in angst,
the storm-tossed palm leaves mourn the tale of my loss and betrayal.
I have learned to let all go,
yet, letting you go
has been the hardest of all.
©mallika bhaumik
The Third Eye
Night swims in the pool
of her eyes
the lover that never was,
spreads himself,
the dusk of her skin,
the doe eyes,
those that prompted the poet to call her 'krishnakali',
look up to see the circling blades
the jingling bangles count the moments.
The melancholy of Bhairavi trails off
~ 'my armlets are falling off '
the dreams of beloved's home hide behind a cracked mirror.
Memories of hopscotch days
run along the kaash field,
the whistle of the train beckons.
Durga sits on a tulip painted bedsheet,
clutching a crisp pink note
The blooming buds of mogras
twisted around her plait,
lie scattered.
Her window opens to a dingy lane
of worn-out tales,
the eyes do not see a sky,
the embers of the night's rage
faintly colour the distant horizon,
-the third eye.
© Mallika Bhaumik
when love becomes a four-letter word
The large bay window opens out to the sea. A mellow morning has unfolded. I look at the silvery spread of the sand and beyond that, the blue of the ocean; sparkling occasionally.
I dip a tea bag in my cup, letting the infusion drown the unquiet mornings I left behind, mornings that were marked by several voices, Ananda Bazar Patrika, cups of milky hot tea accompanied by Britannia biscuits and a few quivering moments of sindur- (vermillion) smudged togetherness with you. Those have long since receded like waves.
Time is like a mystic saint, it transforms itself into a tiny hyphen between now and then. A kaleidoscope of frames rushes towards me along with the brine of the sea. The bird songs of spring, the melancholy of autumn leaves converge seamlessly. I become the sea wind; laden with the saltiness of all that has happened The fading moments' slow dance in my eyes, our old lane broadens to a dazzling beach where I stand alone amidst empty seashells. I call out your name. There is no audible sound, only a trembling of the air and an after-taste of milky, frothy days.
©mallika bhaumik
Reborn
Some moments do not bring back the rains to me anymore
yet they remain
like beads of water on a lotus leaf
after the rains.
I let them be,
my dun-colored sky gets used to them.
They too get used to my winding caffeinated days, a potpourri of memories, my blue dipped silence,
our stony indifference gulped down in vodka pegs.
Nights are only pills, pillows, quilts,
faded hues of paisley dreams,
the foliage of sights, sounds, the smell of an unfinished tale
a hunchbacked hillock of time spent.
Next morning I term the moments 'unreal' as if, I have never walked through them.
My wakefulness hovers over each news item,
rapes, petrol price, movie reviews, nullifying of an entire state.
I lose count of loves that I may call surrogate.
My kohl fenced eyes draw time in elliptical circles.
I have lived many a life
as wishes tied to a tree trunk, seeking fulfillment,
red, yellow threads ...'mannat' as they say.
The stoic look of gods, the chants and bells, floral scent of agarbattis choke me,
breaths become the knots and creases of my bandhni dupatta.
I come out and inhale a lungful of the slogan,
some protest rally on the opposite side of this bustling promenade.
I too have a heart that wishes to protest.
A murmur of my own voice fills my ears.
I speak a language that is weary, moss-laden corners of an unkempt garden
you trample as you walk by.
A boy picks up my writhing pain with a coin and some dirt and playfully ties to the tree trunk.
I become a wish, reborn.
©mallika bhaumik 2019
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