Do you know that this room has been mine | Chandril Chattopadhyay

Do you know that this room has been mine,
for the last 20 years?
many arrays of septadyed  arches
have steeped in after every rain
the little hole  in the glazed glass
would be let open
for my specked friends to drop in
they were not ambitious
i always hated being polarised
by them
in my drury atelier
where i could not paint
                      I hated the light that you love so much


the staircases you see has been reinstalled
after my mother died from its steepness
my mother would ask me to aim high
like the brisking effervescence that would rise
when Eno puddled in my dad's glass
failing to rejuvenate him
after every mouthful occasion
my mother never sung to me lullabies
she would tell me how she wants to die
from the steepness
of life

this room has been mine for the last twenty years
after my father died
just a single room
with deceptive sockets
one.or two.
that would sizzle me and pull me tight
when i tried to switch on the lights.
yes, i told you how much i hated lights
that would tell me
of my existence, of the  places i visit
of hands that i have
it would tell me who i am
am i  the id, or the super ego?
i am the patient that you have never seen
on the cruelest ventilation

the kitchen remains closed all the time
 as the oil dripping from the chimney
reminds me of mother
how she refused to fry me pakoras
after every such rain
in june
when in some hidden rooms
we were trapped by gallus concupiscence
bloating from medicated shields
few wings of rust remained on the laminated floors 
that your beueifully charcoaled eyes
could never see 
                           i have been unnerved by a deep cut from such a rusted morality

have i told you that the chimney reminds me of you too?
how i loved to tie your hair from behind
when you chopped the greens
or stenched your brows with batter?
how i loved the evenings
when you cooked me the refused pakoras
how i loved to kiss your tired hands
hands,with the sweetest articulated wrinkles
but why could i never tell you?
how much i hated your connivance
from every distant discussions

the room that belongs to me
has been walked across  several times
i could see sever faces tied and distilled
from the sweetened sweat of your body
several tunnels being filled up
by the swooshing growl of a northern engine
twin hills covered by the ochre of their body
i felt like Lorca painting for dali
the brushes that never moved in delight
from the canvas of infidelity
the freedom took a flight across the 1 bhk horizon
the canvas was still bare
like your love for me
the naked morphs gets deeper into rugged cloth
your red slowly flows towards 
my perception
as i stand with jutting eyelashes
when your tired,sweet,wrinkled hand
tries to cover your eyes
in shame
i pick up the drops of red
to paint the last curve of your lips
but i knew,
only your breasts were my artistic indulgence
though i was never an artist
infected by my own credulousness.........................................


.death of an artist.20th may,2014.8:24 pm

Indian Literature Review | Chandril Chattopadhyay

Indian Authors & Poets | Chandril Chattopadhyay writes on Indian Review | Indian Literature and Poetry from India and the world over.