Only if you were clearer in your mind, my lord, my sire;
Perhaps I would not burn myself every now and then.
Ambiguity and ambivalence may have fetched you
Literary accolades, gold coins and maybe even a besotted
Young maid, ready to be your Parvati or Chandramukhi, a whim
To your fantasies. But you ruined lives of many, Sire, lives of many.
They call you names, all beautiful, I shall call you Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay.
Chattopadhay, Chatopadhay, Chattopadhay; folklore says that chanting
Your name thrice will bring your spirit at my doorstep, only to listen to
My plight of sorrow and sorrow. Familiar territory for a man skilled
At creating pathos in lives of men enslaved to his words. My doorstep,
Reminds me of Parvati and the poor old man who died at her doorstep,
Unable to fight the golden nectar that ate his innards. You do the same to me,
Sarat, shall I call you Sarat? Of course I shall, I am your baby hamster and
Your courtesan.
You must oil my hair gently, caress it like a lover, for I make love to
Your words as they make rage to me. Who did the feeble old man love?
The whore that went by the name Parvati or was it the true romantic called
Chandramukhi, the world scoffs yet we both know better, don't we? You taught
Us that whores may dwell in the most peaceful of homes, gentle and homely,
Conning with false smiles and meaningless words. You did poetic justice when
Parvati got married. Widower was he, and he slowly taught her to ride him.
Splendid Sarat!
Parvati the whore, slowly learned the art of being on top, and making love
To a man who thought of his dead wife when he pushed. How he pushed!
I have a confession to make, I read your words in the language of the Queen,
The language of poetic flirtations, Bengali, and the language of sweat and economy,
Hindi, are both beyond my reach. Translators be blessed or you would not have found
Me Sarat. If I have made you angry then I shall make you smile too. I made love to
Your words unimaginably so. I devoured your words, I devoured them with hunger,
I devoured them with thirst.
Who did the feeble old man love anyway, or did he just love himself. I do not know
About my love for Parvati the whore or Chandramukhi the romantic, perhaps I, too,
Only love my own self. Maybe I should start drinking notoriously to forget them both.
Sarat, Sarat, Sarat, give me my answers, go on write my destiny, make me live before
I fade away, darker than black, ashes in a dirty river. Write something new, write, write,
Write. Add another chapter, let the vultures devour the feeble old man, let the whore
Ride her husband again. Let there be screams, let there be blood on wrinkled bed sheets.
Let the whore suffer.
Take care of Chandramukhi, give her a palace, give her some more words, give her a
Voice, a beautiful melodious voice. Let the feeble old man be forgotten, let him be a
Name for the dead, let him be me.
Perhaps I would not burn myself every now and then.
Ambiguity and ambivalence may have fetched you
Literary accolades, gold coins and maybe even a besotted
Young maid, ready to be your Parvati or Chandramukhi, a whim
To your fantasies. But you ruined lives of many, Sire, lives of many.
They call you names, all beautiful, I shall call you Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay.
Chattopadhay, Chatopadhay, Chattopadhay; folklore says that chanting
Your name thrice will bring your spirit at my doorstep, only to listen to
My plight of sorrow and sorrow. Familiar territory for a man skilled
At creating pathos in lives of men enslaved to his words. My doorstep,
Reminds me of Parvati and the poor old man who died at her doorstep,
Unable to fight the golden nectar that ate his innards. You do the same to me,
Sarat, shall I call you Sarat? Of course I shall, I am your baby hamster and
Your courtesan.
You must oil my hair gently, caress it like a lover, for I make love to
Your words as they make rage to me. Who did the feeble old man love?
The whore that went by the name Parvati or was it the true romantic called
Chandramukhi, the world scoffs yet we both know better, don't we? You taught
Us that whores may dwell in the most peaceful of homes, gentle and homely,
Conning with false smiles and meaningless words. You did poetic justice when
Parvati got married. Widower was he, and he slowly taught her to ride him.
Splendid Sarat!
Parvati the whore, slowly learned the art of being on top, and making love
To a man who thought of his dead wife when he pushed. How he pushed!
I have a confession to make, I read your words in the language of the Queen,
The language of poetic flirtations, Bengali, and the language of sweat and economy,
Hindi, are both beyond my reach. Translators be blessed or you would not have found
Me Sarat. If I have made you angry then I shall make you smile too. I made love to
Your words unimaginably so. I devoured your words, I devoured them with hunger,
I devoured them with thirst.
Who did the feeble old man love anyway, or did he just love himself. I do not know
About my love for Parvati the whore or Chandramukhi the romantic, perhaps I, too,
Only love my own self. Maybe I should start drinking notoriously to forget them both.
Sarat, Sarat, Sarat, give me my answers, go on write my destiny, make me live before
I fade away, darker than black, ashes in a dirty river. Write something new, write, write,
Write. Add another chapter, let the vultures devour the feeble old man, let the whore
Ride her husband again. Let there be screams, let there be blood on wrinkled bed sheets.
Let the whore suffer.
Take care of Chandramukhi, give her a palace, give her some more words, give her a
Voice, a beautiful melodious voice. Let the feeble old man be forgotten, let him be a
Name for the dead, let him be me.
