Confessions

Things I have 

A dead bird 

in my verandah 

A two year gap 

in my youth 

One emerald ring 

from a penniless ancestor  

A four-storey inheritance 

of regret 

I have 

Bad posture 

and a weak spine 

An aquarium with 

blue water and no fishes 

Four empty pints of vodka 

An uncanny affinity  

for pavements after dark 

I have a nagging 

memory, of what I wanted to be 

A miniature of a city 

perennially receding into the ocean  

Blueprints for a murder 

I cannot execute 

In my pockets I have 

just enough courage 

for one more tragedy 

Some marbles from 1996 

And a creased photograph  

I have a few more things 

yet to acquire  

This list is incomplete 

But I am willing to share

 

All the distractions in the world aren’t enough 

To keep it at bay 

There aren’t enough bars 

That much has been established  

There aren’t enough street lights 

For this city  

There isn’t enough traffic 

To keep away the silence 

It’s not enough 

 

There are too many bus stands 

With too many old men in them 

They don’t speak much 

There are too many parks 

And too many people in them, smiling 

It all seems suspicious  

 

The hour long phone call that you made wasn’t enough  

Going back home for Christmas wasn’t enough 

Running away wasn’t enough 

Though it might have felt as the only thing worth doing at the time  

Falling in love isn’t enough to keep it at bay 

Though it does put up a fight 

There aren’t enough books 

And the ones worth reading will only make it worse 

There aren’t enough theatres to hide in 

There aren’t enough songs to fight it 

It’s not enough 

It’s never been enough 

 

It’s always there 

In the midst of intoxicated crowds 

Dancing 

And solidarity marches against Time 

It’s in your mother’s warm embrace 

Inside the smell, the country soil  

Leaves after rainfall 

It’s in your mirrors and your coffee shops 

In the art galleries and brokers’ offices 

It’s in the lunch served at the subsidised canteen 

And the sigh after an orgasm 

All the fast fashion clothes you wear aren’t enough to stop it 

All the martyrs dying couldn’t stop it 

All the teenagers having sex won’t stop it

 

It will come 

It will come in the month of December  

It will not come when you are asleep 

It will come in broad daylight 

As it always has 

It is all we can hope for.

 

All images shot on film, courtesy the author.

 

Amartya is a young multi-disciplinary artist from Kolkata. He is a recent graduate from the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) specialising in Film Direction and Screenplay Writing. His documentary and short fiction films have travelled to national and international film festivals. He is also a photographer shooting primarily with the analogue medium, which he is exploring as a practice. Amartya has been a singer-songwriter and lyricist in the Kolkata independent music scene from his undergrad days (which has been a companion art practice to his poetry). He has been writing poetry since childhood but is averse to the proclamation of being a poet. However, he is in the process of compiling a collection which he plans to publish in the form of a book. His themes deal mostly with urban alienation, personal memories, and the disquiet of the human soul.