Kal Ekush - A tribute to revolutionary poet Sukanta Bhattacharya

Sukanta Bhattacharya is synonymous with revolution in Bengali culture and literature. His fiery narratives and inspiring declamations on the decaying human society around him is incomparable. Considering all these voluminous works were within a diminutive 21 years of blazing existence - the extents he could have attained (if he lived longer) is well imaginable. But better not. Maybe age would have mellowed him down. Family responsibilities would have made him compromise more often. Maybe forever hammering of this boorish, 'bollywoodish' world we call exciting, would have made him docile and slaves of time - just like us, the way we are today. Quite clearly his relevance even to this day is unavoidable.

This is our tribute to his undying spirit, with which we seek to touch others'. Here is a little bit Sukanta, as we discovered, in all of us. We fought, got frustrated, gave it up, dared to compose own script and our own music (Yes! We have lent music to 3 poems of Sukanta. Please don't copy our music! Get inspired, everybody else does! :P) got back, tried hard and got this done. Thanks to everyone of us. Hope you enjoy it and get inspired.

Keep revolting every time!

*****
P.S: Bouquets and brickbats are earnestly invited. These will come in 5 parts -- so watch out for all! Cheers!

Extreme Ways - Moby

Extreme Ways - Moby

Extreme ways are back again
Extreme places I didn't know
I broke everything new again
Everything that I'd owned
I threw it out the windows, came along
Extreme ways I know, will part
The colors of my sea
It's a perfect color me

Extreme ways that help me
They help me out late at night
Extreme places I had gone
But never seen any light
Dirty basements, dirty noise
Dirty places coming through
Extreme worlds alone
Did you ever like it then?

I would stand in line for this
There's always room in life for this

Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Like it always does, always does

Extreme sounds have told me
They held me down every night
I didn't have much to say
I didn't give up the light
I closed my eyes and closed myself
And closed my world and never opened
Up to anything
That could get me at all

I had to close down everything
I had to close down my mind
Too many things could cut me
Too much can make me blind
I've seen so much in so many places
So many heartaches, so many faces
So many dirty things
You couldn't even believe

I would stand in line for this
It's always good in life for this

Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, oh baby
Then it fell apart, it fell apart
Oh baby, (oh baby), Oh baby (oh baby)
Then it fell apart, (fell apart) it fell apart (fell apart)
Oh baby, (oh baby,) oh baby, (oh baby)
Then it fell apart, (fell apart), it fell apart, (fell apart)
Oh baby, (oh baby), Oh baby (oh baby)
Like it always does, (always does), always does (always does)

******
- Moby.

Music

Music

Here's a thought.

Music ain't supposed to mean a thing. Infact it isn't supposed to mean at all.

Imagine.

An early morning breeze over Juhu beach; grains of sands sprinkling – following your steps and the breeze does hum…

Even the thought of sweltering Mumbai summer fails, emerging din and bustles of the 'maximum' city fades, eyes dilate onto an invisible speck on the southern horizon of the extended bay - where the palm trees arise like brushes kissing across the sky lilting from darkness of night to twilight of dawn and all possible words fail to explain. What?

That. A catchy little humming on your lips… ho, hum, hmm…

Music is nothing, dear. Maybe it's more the moment - maybe it's not.

It's good that I never got to know the technicalities.

*****

(Dedicated to the 'one who sits aglow, amidst yellow' ... for music's sake.)

O Bulla! I know not who I am...

O Bulla! I know not who I am

Bulla, I know not who I am
Bulla, I know not who I am
Neither am I believer in mosque
Nor am I in idol worship.
Neither in the pure or the impure
Nor am I in the Vedas.
Neither am I into intoxicants,
Nor am I the carefree deviant.
Neither am I union nor grief.
Neither am I the pure nor impure.
Neither am I of the water nor of the land.
Neither am I fire nor air.
Bulla, I know not who I am.
Neither am I Arabic nor from Lahore.
Neither am I from the Indian city of Nagaur.
Neither am I Hindu nor a Peshawari Turk.
Neither did I create the difference of faith,
Nor did I create Adam and Eve.
Neither did I name myself,
Beginning or end –
I know just the self.
I do not recognize ‘the other one’.
There’s none wiser than ‘me’.
Who is this Bulla Shah?
O Bulla! I know not who I am.
*****
Bulleh Shah

And...

...no matter what, whatever repetation - it never really stops.

It Will Rain

But in the end
It all adds up to nothing.
Take time to explain
I can't take it rushing.
Look into my eyes
You don't have to go hiding.
Down in the shadows
Where my heart's been grieving.

And it will rain, when you come back again.
And it will pain, when you suffer the same.
And the sky will cry, when you walk pass by.
And you know it before I die.
It's all the same.
It's raining again.
Into the sun – inside my brain.
And it will rain... it will rain.

There was no time
To know how we're changing.
And to bear the cost
Is way more than avenging.
See through me now
And you can't see the promise.
Try a little hard
You'll see me no more grieving.

And it will rain, when I'll walk away.
And it will pain, on your shiny day.
And will take a while, to find my way.
And I know I will make it someday.
It's all the same.
It'll rain again.
Deep inside your pain – it will rain again.
And it will rain... it will rain.

*****