The Devil’s Note

Shakespeare said, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” Which is true by the way, but what is “here”? The concept of Hell and Heaven is blurry. There’s hardly anything distinguishing the two. Man lives in the third realm, the region created by the intermingling of the cosmic elements of both of those fancied dwellings. The omnipresence of angels and demons is best reflected in mankind. The duality, the possibility of the existence of the binaries of Yin and Yang can only be confirmed with acceptance of the existence of a third abode. It’s never a loop, it’s a triquetra.

Yes, I am a monster. The Monster. I’ve murdered humanity with my icy cold mind, numerous times. I’ve hunted innocents and extinguished the flames of life. And I am not sorry for I am far beyond redemption. But in my defence, I’ve also swayed in the sweet flutes some urchin played in the distance, I’ve gotten excited by the ringing sound of the crystal fountain, I’ve had my eyes filled with moisture when I held a newborn in my arms for the first time. I am not appealing for pity for I deserve none. I’ve used not my hands but my mind for the destruction of affections, of love. Love, another delicate and yet funny notion born out of some dopamine and endorphins discharge, yet again in the brain. And yes, I’ve fallen in love too. I’ve experienced those subtle, melodramatic and obnoxious emotions that are said to have destroyed kingdoms and civilisations in the past. But again, it hasn’t counted for me in the long run because it had all happened before I turned into a monster. The difference between me and Frankenstein’s monster is in my lack of physicality and independent existence. I did not tear any heart with my hands but with my mind. I am a monster today because I fought and won the battle against my counterpart. I am the Gregor that metamorphosed not into a bug but into a mind monster.

Hitler and Mussolini were not separate from me, but I also exist in you all, as a shard of your mind and soul, and shall continue to do so till the end of times no matter how hard you try to demolish me. My edifice will get stronger each day with your attempts to seek me in others. Only if you imbecile creatures had tried to find me in yourselves. However, I feel no regret giving away this secret because I know that none of you would ever succeed, and even if you do, the whole of your race would never. And even the handful of successful ones would not be able to eliminate me from the complex compound formed from the mixing of the two extremes. I am Invincible! Indestructible! And you’re trapped, eternally. I only command and you’re the one who releases the arrow strings. Your whole kind is doomed. With every strike of lightning, I am the one who channels your deep seated motives. Your ancestors ate an apple, on my luring. No, I am not Satan who was scorned forever into the fiery lake but I am the offspring that fell onto the yet to be created mid region, during the fall of the Light Bringer.

And yet, if by the least of all possibilities, the tiniest fraction of mankind manages to elude my shadow, they shall be freed from the everlasting cycle of suffering. The war between me and my other extreme is primordial but for the pawn soldiers, called humans, to flee the battleground is also a tough job.

-a late night rant.

Angira Bhattacharya

The Six Coloured Rainbow

Dark and heavy clouds hovered
Upon the dusty town and barren land;
Pedestrians rushed in with heads covered
And sought a shelter in the nearest stand.
Thunder bruised the window sill,
Lightning cracked the tree into half
Life became a motionless still
And the heavens broke into a sadistic laugh.
A day so radiant and golden begun,
Was now silenced in grey sorrow.
With joy forever lost and shun,
Shall we see a sun in the morrow?

But the transitory nature of things,
Did act as a primordial boon;
The clouds, with time, departed with their wings
And the dark patches cleared soon.
The rainbow appeared in the Western sky,
The hue of the abendrot divine,
But an unnatural event caught my eye
Lo! The arc was missing its shine!
The bow had all the paints but red,
The colour of blood could not be found
Gazing hard but nowhere it led,
The R of VIBGYOR lied lost in the mound.

Wrapped in the coils of the healer called Time,
Comes smiles after flashing frown;
Existence moves in the mellowing chime
And all debts settled to the holy Crown.
And yet! when carelessly reminded of the void,
Of the dearest one lost in quicksand,
The deficient rainbow makes me paranoid
In fear of failure to hold the invisible hand.
The lakes full of water,
The vales adorned in purple teasel,
But the lack causes me to stutter
And the six coloured rainbow smiles like a weasel.

-Angira Bhattacharya

This poem is based on the idea of a “lack” that we carry with ourselves, all through our lives. While life continues in its normal course and does not pause for anyone, it is often reminded of the ones we have lost in the way. It is like the metaphor of the rain and the rainbow. Just like the sun shines and the rainbow appears in the sky after dark clouds and rain, life witnesses happiness after sorrow. But like an ‘incomplete’ rainbow of six colours, this happiness is very often lined with those lacks. Let me know if you liked it in the comments.

The Faith Restored (on Nature and Pantheism).

The Faith Restored

Oh Harbinger of Spring,

Is it only the trees thou art gonna bestow colours upon?

Oh solacing drops from Heaven,

Is it only the field’s thirst thou shalt quench?

While I sit by, beholding from bloom to fall

Anxious to receive Thy Grace’s call.

Dear mighty Sunshine,

Would thy light brighten only the celestial orbs?

Blessed and eternal Moonbeams hear,

Would thy gentle rays not grant me repose?

For I am the Traveller, treading on sands,

Making ventures into unknown lands.

Oh benevolent Foliage,

Doth thou hear my cravings for shade?

Lightning, would thou oblige me

Even a moment’s glimpse of the eternal paradise?

But Alas! No ear hears my bootless cries,

Not a rainbow canvas to paint my colourless skies.

Sweet fragrances of March,

Thy incense forever unknown to me shalt be?

Deceitful desert Mirage,

At least if thou couldst give me virtual pleasures?

For the oasis is a distant dream,

And cherry blossoms are a forbidden theme.

But even through the turmoils lurking at my shore,

And boisterous winds blowing on my door,

Through the perilous and tempestuous nights,

Plunged in darkness and shackled in frights,

A silhouette appears by the shadowy corner at right

And floods my human eyes with immortal fiery ignite.

My Father had descended from his inperial throne

At pitiful sight of His child when shown,

And time and again to the cause of my ungrateful being,

He cometh to rekindle the flames of hope that was fleeing.

Restoring the faith once shaken, He smiles

And assures me His guidance till the end of the miles.

And thus, happily I am put to sleep,

With despair gone, there’s nothing to weep.

~ Angira Bhattacharya

An attempt to follow in the footsteps of the Romantic Poet Laureate, William Wordsworth and to propagate the idea of ‘Pantheism’. The Almighty God is omnipresent around us, always. And at times of despair, at the verge of losing all hopes, He shows us the Pole Star in our otherwise dark sky.

Hope it will be liked by you all. Let me know in the comment section 🙂

The Maiden of the Wheat Fields

Two decades have passed now;
I walked over the plaintive grass, clumsy steps
But proud to be guarding my sacred vow.
A tale like so many, burried beneath the ocean depths.

A wounded and thirsty soldier once that I was,
Was walking past these golden fields post war.
A maiden I beheld, which seemingly gave her a pause
And she instantly knew what I was looking for.

Young and soft and pale, the maiden fair;
What was prettier: she or the London countryside?
With the wind wavering her red scarfed hair,
And exposing the wheat which resisted as coyly as a bride.

She offered some water to my beastly self
With a glance so indifferent and yet so kind,
And took me to her hut like a magical fairy or an Elf,
And sang me a lullaby for slumber to bind.

I wondered how she would look now,
Wrinkled or youthful or a mixture of both…
Kept waiting outside the shanty, to hear crows,
And more crows but not the voice that once sang me to sothe.

I knew not what would have happened to her,
The thought of it stiffened me with intense pain
Maybe the floods took her or the epidemic or the war
Riding on my horse, I pledged this time, never to return again.

-Angira Bhattacharya

Set in the backdrop of the countryside England of an ancient age, the narrator reminiscences his past encounter with a maiden whom he couldn’t forget even after two decades. At some point of our lives, we all come across certain people, who leave a forever mark in our memories, irrespective of the amount of time we spend with them.

The Sun Fades

Shattered and lonely on the deserted wasteland
I stood like a homeless and weeping widow,
Or maybe like an island amidst a vast spread of sand,
Until I was audacious again, enough to reopen a little window
Through which blew into my barren desert, a sweet fragrance of bloom,
Illuminating my dark sky with an immortal chain of fiery flakes
Radiant and brilliant and jubilant, separating joy from gloom
Curing the despairing heart’s wounds and aches.

But the very nature of untimely sunshine is often deception born
For the unexpected benediction did come from a fleeting benefactor
Like the migratory birds of Siberia that abandon the lands they migrate to, once winter’s gone!
And infertile soils need no constant protector.
Never did I wish to turn my eyes away from my benefactor who too had sorry eyes,
But they had found a cure with the perfect liaison.
My Paradise was long lost, my manna was just my starving Jewish soul’s cries.
Now the sun fades and dark clouds reappear at the dusky horizon.

-Angira Bhattacharya

Just the musings expressed on a comfy autumn afternoon.

The Warriors of Kargil (1999)

It was the twilight hour.
The bombs and cannons had silenced for the day.
I saw men cleaning heaps of bodies and blood shower
And a tribute to the martyrs we were to pay.

There was blood and more blood and smell.
But the war was far from over
And still a lot of lives were to ring their death knell
Dark clouds in the sky continued to hover.

My job there was to aid the wounded and the ailing.
Though the dead were none to me,
I couldn’t turn a dead ear to their families wailing
For we were all one, fighting for Kargil to be free.

It was on the twelfth night of the war,
That I met this young soldier boy, gravely in pain,
Lying on the ground, he held my hand proposing to implore
Just to tell his mother and his newly wed that he didn’t die in vain.

The boy was aware that he was breathing his last,
And yet he miraculously smiled like an infant
As if all the tests of life he was past
And was now marching to heaven all triumphant.

He looked me in the eye with a fierce military glare
And in a deep voice, fighting his miseries:
“India shall win this war!” he said with a flair
And then silently succumbed to his injuries.

Exactly two months and a few weeks later,
The dream of that young man was released.
The victory fell in our platter,
The enemy had surrendered and the war sirens had ceased.

All the soldiers who survived, went home for recovery
However, many of them returned wrapped in the tricolour!
Who knows how many bullets they swallowed for this country
And have time and again protected it with courage and valour.

So Hail the Motherland!
Hail the showers of saffron, white and green!
Hail the brave mothers of this sacrificial and holy land!
Hail the men on the borders of Kashmir, Kargil and Siachen!

-Angira Bhattacharya

A poem dedicated to the brave soldiers of India who put their lives at risk every minute for the safety of their countrymen and for the preservation of their Motherland. This poem includes the Kargil War of 1999 fought between India and Pakistan because of the infiltration of the Pakistani soldiers in the Indian side of the Line of Control (LOC). This war continued for a span of two months, three weeks and two days resulting in the victory of India, however at the life’s cost of around five hundred soldiers.

With the Hiding of the Sun

Tender, shallow, light footsteps in my backyard

Who treads like that in the hours of darkness?

I know who but I lower my guard,

For I know now I’ve her to ward off my lonliness.

I follow the sound of rustling leaves from garden,

To land out alone and bathe in the full moonlight;

I look out for her like the banished Duke in the Woods of Arden

Accompanied by the silver objects shinning bright.

It is then that I hear the familiar noise of the swing

And I know I am near

There she is, swinging and smiling at my being

“My pale, white little girl, your Daddy is here.”

I run to the swing to pull her in my arms,

To wrap her and deck her with all the love the world holds,

But just like everyday, she disappears with her charm

And once again the reality of this world and the other, unfolds.

I am left alone outside, in the dead silence

Interrupted occasionally by the wind and black night bird

But I know she’d come back tomorrow again, amid all hindrance

With the hiding of the sun, noise of the swing and leafy whispers unheard .

-Angira Bhattacharya

This poem deals with the eerie and the other wordly, inspired by the supernatural intervention. It also draws a sharp line between this world and the world of the demised.

I hope you all would like it.

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