Rains of my childhood.

The rains of my childhood were very romantic. But then , so were most of the things of my childhood. I was a naïve romantic soaked in puritan ideas and ever optimistic in my childhood. I say was because now I am not too sure if I am still romantic or not…but I digress.

I loved rain. Without hesitation. Without worrying how it would turn the simple daily routine of getting to work into a mission hard-to-accomplish. The rainy season was my favourite. The wait from the end of winter (my most favourite season) to the monsoons (my second favourite season) was made bearable only because of all the delicious mangoes of the excruciating, merciless summer days. The rain was a welcome from all things materialistic, and to my young, eager mind it brought along with it numerous possibilities of romantic escapades and carefree, limitless imagination. Romantic notions hit my brain like the kalboishakhi hit the world outside my balcony, suddenly, quickly in an all-encompassing manner. Every day the rain came, and everyday I snuck out of family gatherings, study sessions, or whatever I was doing, and came to watch the rain.
The gale force, the strong winds blowing my hair, the dust that got into my eyes, the torrential bursts and the strong muddy earth scent in the aftermath of the rains left me captivated. I loved to see the first drops of rain kiss the canopies of the trees nearby, and caress the dirt and grime away from the facades of the edifices nearby. I especially loved the clean, crisp air that lingered all around after the rain and the fresh, tingling feeling that it brought along. I sat on the windowsill, staring at the rain, caught up in fleeting thoughts, sometimes reading a book. I watched the rain and thought of all the analogies I could come up with. The torrents were like falling in love head first: unguarded, not goal-oriented, and swept away like a leaf in the crazy storm. The torrents were like words and thought that keep coming to me at a moment of creative spark, without direction, without restrain.

Before that, the rains of my younger days inevitably saw the rain-dance or the rain-shower as we used to call it. We didn’t know of the therapeutic powers of the rain, or of any exotic tribal rituals regarding the raindance; we just did it for fun. The cousins gathered around in a bunch and ran around and skipped about the terrace laughing and screaming. Ok, so it wasn’t exactly ‘The Sound of Music’ or some equally symbolic of juvenile happiness movie. But it was fun as we were carefree and had a lot of fun. Who really cared about growing up?
The monsoon was wet, unpredictable, cloudy, moody, muddy. But I love the monsoons. They were also great sources of inspiration for ahem poetry, etc. They were also a perfect excuse to lose yourself in your thoughts, do nothing, and be at peace with your inner self. I think one particular monsoon day I made an audacious and ambitious attempt at some poetry about rain.
It is far from being something, but I don’t have the nerve to edit. Somehow the unedited version seemed to express more of state-of-being at that particular moment, on that particular day a long time ago.


Monsoon Rain

I.
Frogs croaking;
Air fills with moist.
Dark, heavy clouds race across the distant sky
To hover over the landscape.
Within minutes the blue, blazing sky is
Overcast with condensed tears of heaven
Threatening to burst.
Wind blows noisily, swaying the trees.
Thunder strikes.

II.
Drops of water racing to touch the ground
Drenching everything in its way.
Blurring the horizon .
The rhythm ups its tempo.
The splatter creates a symphony magical.
Damp walls, and darkened colours.
Wet leaves, and running children.
Muddy roads beneath the canopies.
The heady smell of earth lurks in the air.

III.
The sky turns a fresh, pale violet.
The world beneath is a cleaner, cooler place.
And the air is crisp and smooth.

Contradictions...

Yup! Your life is full of ‘em. And mine.Life is an unending chain of contradictions. You hover hesitantly between choices that could make or break your destiny. Sometimes you have to choose between bad choice and a worse, and sometimes you have to choose between good choice and the best. Sound simple right? NO, sir. It ain’t so.
The options set of each decision in life comprises of choices that could hurt a near and dear one, make somebody else worse off, or lead to misunderstanding. But you have to make decisions, perhaps not as independently as you would like to, but nevertheless.
A choice made is a choice made. Stick to it until the end.
Below I post something that is in between thought and poetry.

Maybe it’s thought in the vain attempt to be poetry.
Or maybe it is poetry in the vain attempt to be thought.
Maybe it’s none.
Maybe it’s just an attempt to capture nothingness, and motionlessness of the mind, in words.
Maybe it’s all capricious, just like a falling star.
Maybe it is an attempt to express hidden emotions.
Maybe it is trying to be eloquent with its words.
Maybe it is just celebrating silence.
Maybe….
Maybe.



There’s no turning back
Only moving forward
Or standing still
While the rest of the world
Passes you by.
You can take a moment to
Reminisce of things gone by
Or you can walk through the
Numerous lesser considered possibilities.
But you cannot turn back to
The womb.
So walk, until you reach maturity
Or walk until you reclaim your life.
Walk to your destiny,
And life will come full circle.

This is the second poem of mine that was published in English Matters. I realise I should have posted both the poems of English Matters in one post and the one from the reading in another, but the universe works in mysterious ways. Translation : I am Lazy. So here it is:

Hope Journey
Farah Tasneem Tracy

Rising from the ashes of despair
Gathering its strength from memory
The journey of Hope begins.
Taking the shape of a shadow
Dwelling in the torments of the past
But, steadying itself with a vision of future
The journey of hope begins.
Cradled in the missed bliss of Yesterday and
Today
Heading for a Tomorrow
The journey of hope begins.
Amidst a pot-pourri of loss and solitude,
Embracing the invisible traces of joy, the journey of hope begins.
It floats up to sky, mingling in the clouds,
And radiates a heady feeling.
When it matures, it pours down in the form of good fortune.
One hope journey is completed. A new one begins.

The English Club

The English Club is a charming little club tucked away in the hearts of its many enchanting and friendly members. The Club is just the right size- not so big such that members are just names without faces, not so small that it cannot make a significant contribution. The club is and always has been willing to take in new members, existing members are warm and welcoming whilst new members that are attracted to the club are full of creative energy. It is the club that allows its members to be creative and also to be appreciated for their creative ventures. The club publishes a journal religiously where both members and non-members can contribute. It’s called English Matters. The club also organized a delightful café reading every now and then whereby fellow students are urged to read out anything they have written or read that maybe of interest. I must say both the journal and the café readings have been very good to me. First English Matters have given me a regular platform to publish my work, and second café reading has made me take the very bold step of reading out my poems to an audience- an audacity I would not have dared taken if not prompted by the kind fellow members. Only recently the latest version of English Matters contained two of my poems and a short story. Below is one of the poems from the magazine.

Teardrop
Farah Tasneem Tracy

A glistening drop of tear on her cheek
too precious to go unnoticed
Capturing miracles and bearing the
burden of misery in its fluid body.
Holding time, holding space
Offering freedom, offering solace
In its solitary existence carrying the
secrets of infinite possibilities
Turning melancholy into a pearl
So delicate- the precious teardrop
It sparkles like the Northern Star
It promises of eternity
It is a tear cried by many
And loved by so many others
Someone lost it in the oceans
Someone found it in the mountains
A cold wind froze the teardrop
Now it rests peacefully on her cheek
A very precious teardrop.

And up next is the poem that I read out at the café reading only yesterday. I sincerely hope the applauses I remember afterwards were not the creation of my imagination.

The bluest blues.
Farah Tasneem Tracy.

Give me pen and paper,
And I will give you a story.
Give me love and pain,
And I will give you poetry.
Give me a word that is your own,
And I will give you the rest of your soul.
Give me a piece of your mind,
And I will make you a garden.
Give me your smile
And I will create music.
Give me a tear and I will make a miracle happen.
Give me your hand and I will give you my world.
Give me your hatred
And…
And I will give you my love!