i me myself......

the strings of my guitar still lie broken, waiting for my fingers to play over them. to play a tune to make forget, the nights when my pillow stayed wet. the tunes you hummed with your hand in mine, those moments of the rhythmic divine. the whispering of those lyrics in my ear, no matter how much I try, brings a numb cold tear outta my eye. and when words fail to come, the lines are lost. the fingers so numb, like deep in frost, the strings of my guitar still lie broken, waiting for my fingers, to again play over them, to make a tune, to reach deep into your heart.                                                                                                Sabyasachi

there's a voice in my head surrounded by the screams so loud my thoughts they disappear amidst the dirt of the crowd people's soul burn to ashes they hide behind those masks their faces going ashen the memories of the past still endure the dump the living souls deal with hiding behind the tears of a clown are the reward of the fleet of bodies resting in peace beneath their feet if you think this is a story by the way I describe it you better open your eyes and see the road you walk on thinking to be the path of glory leads to some other tomb with your name engraved over it sabyasachi...

“NOT A TOURIST, A TRAVELLER. . .” “I’m not a teacher: only a fellow-traveller of whom you asked the way. I pointed ahead- ahead of myself as well as you.” -          George Bernard Shaw.                              Darjeeling, 2012. The days of my tour in the small town left me with innumerous memories. The special breakfast at Keventer’s, the lunch at Debby’s place, the breathtaking shots at “Das Studio” kept for display, Satyajit Ray famous “Nepal Curio Shop” window shopping, and the stoning sessions with Ari in the bathroom of the hotel (as we were warned of the risk of smoking up in the rooms, and we didn’t want to get butt kicked out), the church, the hills, and almost every possible place where we could have, we did.             ...