Without You


Inutile, lies pale my stretch,

You’re exercising refrain,

And, here I pose,

Wasted, amidst disposed wires,

Away from the lights,

In the darkness,

Faded, meek gone the pitch,

I can barely hear the rock ‘n roll,

Below wings of the stage,

Unused, rusting away strained,

I have lost your touch,

For your rhythmic strokes,

Mute wails seep out through my barren membrane,

When they perform without me,

I miss you the most for it kind’ a pricks,

Only, had you not gone missing,

My sleek wooden sticks,

Without you this handsome drum,

Has no tune to it,

No bangs, jigs or beats,

Can never be part of a gig,

Without you,

Worthless, my fame,

Rumors then, my indispensability,

Without you,

Forgotten, my medals of percussion,

Soundless my existence,

Dead are my cells of utility,

Without you,

I can make no music…




Image from : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drum



Beneath the gloomy cosmos dark,

Tornadoes and tempests continue to ravage my chest,

Sabotage my heart,

Do they lash, bash, cause tremors within,

O Boundless River,

Show me my sins,

You have me sinking,

You’re inundating me away,

O Boundless River,

Your rage shall devour me,

In you shall drown my ruins,

No boundary seems to disarm you,

Not one to confine,

Soon, you shall have me, sunk,

Shall have me, inundated,

Irretrievable from your bottomless shine…


Not an end in sight,

No banks, no crook,

No shore can I see,

My boatman, row carefully,

We’ve to keep afloat,

Pull out some dexterity,

Mine’s a broken boat,

O Boundless River,

No limit seems to restrict you,

Not one to block you, have you restrained…


Your currents might dump me,

Into calm tasteless waters,

Or, into tides of the mighty ocean,

O Boundless River,

There’s something that you should know,

You’ll waste your anger this time,

Shall sail on you, only an empty tin in motion,

To your waters, have I lost the rest,

Golden years, souls the best,

Helpless, you forced me watch lame,

Gaze in tears at my life’s timepieces floating away,

Have had them sunk in your depths,

And see, now you don’t even remember,

The way it is, no one knows,

No one notices,

Our futile surrender,

O Boundless River,

No boundary seems to disarm you,

Not one to confine,

You have me sinking,

Soon, you shall have me, inundated



(This piece is inspired from the famous Bhatiyali * track, “Amaye Bhhashaaili Re (You’re inundating me away)” with lyrics by the famous Bangladeshi poet, songwriter, prose writer, folklore collector and radio personality, Jasimuddin, originally sung by Abbasuddin Ahmed.

* Bhatiyali – Bhatiyali is a traditional boat song, sung by boatmen while going down streams of the river, as the word Bhatiyali comes from Bhata meaning ebb or downstream. It is a traditional form of folk music born in undivided Bengal, having roots both in West Bengal (India) and Bangladesh.

Courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhatiali

For more on poet Jasimuddin, visit : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jasimuddin, http://sos-arsenic.net/lovingbengal/jasimuddin.html

For the song, visit :

The original village version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpZHVIXfZfI

For more information on this genre of music, and Famous Bangladeshi Singer, Runa Laila’s version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hf2-iXlf_3k )

For the lyrics (In Bengali, a language of East India, and Bangladesh): http://www.mp3gf.com/2009/10/amay-bhashaili-re-amay-dubaili-re.html )


Image from : http://www.photo.com.bd

Florida Street LIVE !!!


Scaling shutters stretched a way, French Neoclassical,

Some open, some shut, some blinked witty high,

Some lost to illusory graffiti on biscuit cheeks,

Suited in different shades of cream,

Flaunting their European muscles, they sank in anonymous pride,

Chiseled Italian, the walls, stood arms in arms,

Towering Godfathers, ignorant of their forlorn present,

Burning fruitlessly in their aura,

Rubbed sticky with a balm, self-perceived Utopian,

Attention starved, tapping away their blues to beats of Tango,

Live on the cobbled sideways of Florida Street,

Touching up the atmosphere with a turpentine base of brown,

Rhythmic strokes on the canvas of Buenos Aires’ ‘Culture Crown’,

Shunning internal affairs to oblivion,

They put up a grin to cover,

Entertained jolly, they’re there to watch, forever…



Strummed guitars, cracked the drums,

Breathless sang flutes,

Violins stroked in pain,

Harps comforted weary brains,

They all joined in harmony,

From pavements, had a smitten multitude stop by,

Thigh taps of melody from every corner, every side,

Floral shirts, baggy shorts, three quarters and pastel linens,

Feet sandal clad thumping to the tune,

Souls free from bondages, make-up and fad,

Jammed music that could have you imagining,

Tom, Jerry and Chaplin strolling free,

Effortlessly, spitting out mute comedy,

Oozed talent from roadsides,

Beside stalls exhibiting aesthetics of the unknown,

In front of galleries for the ones, well known,

Corners of departmental stores,

Shopping Plaza ground floors,

They were everywhere,

Careless of their audience swell and shrink, shrink and swell,

Some donate out of gratitude, all impressed well,

Some simply shake free, stand by and enjoy,

Shop to the tunes, hog on needy culture fries…




(From Florida Street, Buenos Aires, famous for its street musicians, shopping arcades, culture hawkers, and restaurants. )




Images from :http://lh4.ggpht.com, http://www.cooltownstudios.com, http://suanneonline.blogspot.in/,http://worldcruise2010.travellerspoint.com

Canopy Me, My True Lover…


Come along,

Spit out that fear within,

Don’t let it ooze out of your face,

Romance the splits and the splats,

Let those fat droplets react,

Wash your nerves calm,

You know he’s isn’t here,

Busy wasting my youth,

Plucking the day away,

All that you need for a spark now,

Is only a stimulant, a catalyst…


Out of all fishes, the torrent catfish is one,

Only, when scooped out of water,

Can we see it leap,

Can we watch it dance,

Out of all trees, the Banyan is one,

Only, when kissed by the wind,

Can we see it sway,

Can we watch it oscillate,

Without a masculine breeze,

There is hardly, any chance,

Out of horses, the cart-puller is one,

Only when scared with the whip,

Can we see it in speed,

Can we watch it run…


Pay some heed,

Unravel my need,

Ignite the fire,

Don’t worry about the clouds,

Stop waiting for the Sun,

My true lover,

Take me by my hand,

Clutch the umbrella over,

Have it on my top,

Protect me from the rain,

Shelter me secure from its spree,

It’ll not spare my pretty bun,

It’ll soon dampen my beautiful Sari…






Inspired from a Bengali folk melody “Chaata Dhoro He Deora ( Hold up the Umbrella, My True Love )”, born out of the tea gardens of North West Bengal, India.

The song, “Chaata Dhoro He Deora” is in a dialect that is a mixture of Bengali and Bhojpuri, originating from Maanbhum, in the Purulia, district of Northern West Bengal, India.

Back in the 1960’s, most of the immigration of labour for tea-plantations in both, North Bengal and Assam, was from Bihar.

In one such family of labourers, a young girl married to an old man, tries her luck wooing her brother-in-law in the rain. Her husband is out at work in the plantation.

(The extremely gifted Bengali singer, Lopamudra Mitra popularized this rare piece of folklore amongst the masses, in her album of Bengali folk melodies, Chata Dhoro.

For her rendition of the song, visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Om-QonppzqU

To read more on a similar backdrop, refer to the e-book, The Tea Labourers of North East India by Sarthak Sengupta, Mittal Publication.

For more on Bengali singer-songwriter, Lopamudra Mitra, visit :


* Sari : “A sari or saree is a strip of unstitched cloth, worn by women, ranging from four to nine yards in length that is draped over the body in various styles which is native to the Indian Subcontinent…”, for more, visit :



Render my song, immortal…


Touch it with your lips,

Render my song, immortal,

Touch my life with your friendship,

Render my affection, immortal,

Caress it with your lips,

Render my song immortal…


Let no limits of age exist,

Let’s imagine an existence,

Sans, the ties of our birth,

When loved by someone,

Let us depend on visions of our mind,

Flag off a new tradition,

Render it immortal…


The emptiness of this sky,

Fills up the vacuum in my mind,

Jingling your anklets,

Walk into my life,

Lend me your breath,

Turn music immortal,

Render my song, immortal…


This age snatched away,

Everything that I grew fond of,

Everybody has been winning over,

Have been losing all the way,

Lose your heart to me this time,

Render my win, immortal,

Touch it with your lips,

Render my song, immortal…




(A Tribute to the Late Legendary “Ghazal King”, singer, song-writer, and musician, Jagjit Singh, on his 72nd birthday, 8th February, 1941.

For more about the Maestro, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jagjit_Singh

This piece of mine is completely inspired from his famous ghazal score, “Honthon Se Choolo Tum (Touch with your Lips)” from the Bollywood, 1981 film, Prem Geet.

For the lyrics: http://www.allthelyrics.com/lyrics/jagjit_singh/honton_se_chhoo_lo_tum-lyrics-1216633.html

To watch the legend perform the song live: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SAzFPZ9XWQ

To watch the actual film video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOXpwqp8yLY

Image from : http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/chin

For another Tribute, that I feel is even more heartfelt for the Maestro, look-up the post “A Tribute from my side…” by this very talented friend of mine, Trisha Dey :http://trishadey.wordpress.com/2013/02/08/a-tribute-from-my-side)


Seen the rain, like this…


Have seen many a droplets,

Have seen these rainy days,

Those trinkets spraying my face,

Have heard them hiss,

Have felt them kiss,

Many a times,

Have I sketched the rain like this…

Never have I been able to escape,

The grill of the Sun,

Those tiring days,

That stressed my soul,

Robbed me of any fun,

Landed me in tears,

Each and every time,

The same old way,

Haven’t been able to stop playing,

Playing with my mind,

Playing those games of dreaming,

Painting the sky with its flower in it,

Dreams that had everything,

To feed me life,

To protect me from the cold,

To save me for the spring,

All that it missed out, lady,

Was the unexpected,

The tale of your departure,

Else, many a times,

Have I seen the rain, like this…

Four walls and only those walls,

Have never been enough to carve out a house,

One with an equal amount of strangers,

There existed passion, existed a tie to die for,

Ties that have led many a figures,

Go haywire, go astray,

Spent searching the very purpose of this life,

Ending up with the same old conclusion,

This city seen through blurry eyes,

Have started afresh,

After many a breakdowns,

Shattering down many a times,

Trying to break free,

Once again, have I turned around,

Once again, have I started hoping to get back some,

Expecting returns,

Been losing so long, but

Never did I acknowledge my loss,

Never did I dream,

I’ll loose you too, someday,

Else, many a times,

Have I seen the rain, like this…


Many a times,

Have I been duped,

Trying to stay afloat,

Floating with the tide,

Have I been burnt,

Trying to learn lessons from the Fire,

Have I suffered,

Trying learning ways to give out a lot of things,

Ways to offer,

But, never did I dream,

I also, had to give you,

A farewell, someday,

Else, many a times,

Have I seen the rain, like this…




(Totally, felt and inspired from the Bengali song, “Ami Brishti Dekhechi (I’ve seen the rain)” by the very talented and uniquely gifted singer, song-writer, actor, musician and filmmaker, Anjan Dutta, accompanied by Somlata.

For more on Anjan Dutta, visit : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anjan_Dutt

For lyrics of the song “Ami Brishti Dekhechi (I’ve seen the rain)” from Mr.Dutta’s  2011 Bengali film, “Ranjana Ami Aar Ashbona (Ranjana! I ain’t comin’back ever again)”, visit : http://sayansays.blogspot.in/2011/08/ami-bristi-dekhechi-lyrics-anjan-dutta.html

For the song, itself, visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyRWydXnCBU/


Their Rhythm Divine…









When their notes touched,

A rhythm divine,

Strolled away,took off from life,

Faces never polished, never pampered,

Dived into a peaceful subconscious,

They glowed with a strange shine,

Raising up their voice to layers of red dust,

Kissing every inch of that land,

Raising it to the hoary banyan tree,

To its leaves, pretending holy on the top,

Raising it to the Gods above,

Rejoicing freedom from ties of hunger,

From belly-born slavery,

Their shrill tone’s on a wavy ride,

Balancing on the strings of the Ektara,

Painting the air around orange,

Caressing every soul by,

Calming down, speaking to the tide,

Soaring up to the skies,

Sorrows were romanced till they went breathless,

Till fatigue caught them tight,

Until they thought it’s time to wither away on soft toes,

They feared a musical burial,

Under the truths of our existence,

Beneath gospels of time…




(For more on “Bauls, the Musical Minstrels from Bengal and their harmonic quest for Liberation”, you can visit these sites:




http://www.baul.it/html/english_version/baul_english.htm )

From Sarajevo, He played on…


Surrendering himself to the Sun,

Now gleaming through craters in the temple of Bosnian literature,

Balancing his cello on one those bombed blocks of Austro-Hungarian history,

He played on…

A graveyard resembling the grandeur of Moorish-Mamluk architecture,

A graveyard of 3000 manuscripts, 6000 periodic titles,

Of evidence against Bosnia’s multi-ethnic history,

On the heap of charred Orientalist Pseudo-Moorish remains,

He played on…

Out of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra,

Affected by the sight of mortar-shell grasping twenty-two souls at a go,

Innocents of Sarajevo, waiting for relief, food and nowhere to go,

Shell-shocked, from the annihilated National Library of Bosnia,

He played on…

Sarajevo was torn apart,

Cleansed of its inherent Muslims,

On tunes of his cello, destruction danced ceaselessly, for twenty days,

He played on…

Flames reflected on his cello’s shiny ebony,

On it shone, both faces of man,

While one sunk in notes of melancholy,

The other was sunk in war, sunk in gore,

On tunes of the cellist, rolled on the carnage, it sought harmony,

Seated up against snipers,

He played on…

He played on to mourn his loves ones,

He played on for you to take notice,

He played on for Sarajevo’s future,

As if serving a uniform live funeral to thousands of his unfortunate countrymen,

He played on…


(Based on Vedran Smailović’s performance from the National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina during the Siege of Sarajevo’1992 ; Steven Galloway’s ‘The Cellist of Sarajevo’)