Tag: read poetry

Genre – Mystery

Style – Surrealistic

And again, the sky fell on him, it happened many times, but only on that occasion, he made a decision that he never did before. The sky fell on him again- he was on the beach, he was pressed hard against the sandy shore, the light faded out. In the darkness, he only listened to the sound of the sea like a distant music. He was not afraid as he was used to it like an epileptic patient is accustomed to his epileptic episodes at one point of his illness. It happened to him many times, the sky fell on him many times, so he was used to it. He was only waiting in the darkness to see what happened at last, he was listening to the sea like a distant music interrupted by a strong wind. He was waiting to see whether he died or survived on that occasion- that was the only option he had, he knew it; he got used to it. He was waiting. He felt pressed, smashed, crushed, and sunk in the darkness- perhaps in the same way one Little Village Frog once felt under his foot, he now remembered that rainy day. One rainy day, in his village, he accidentally stepped on a frog- he felt moist, slippery, existence of the frog under his barefoot, and he heard a squishing sound, he jumped away immediately and looked back to see the flattened little frog smashed by him… he was speechless, broken, felt like crying… he came near the frog, sat and saw it was still alive… he tried to touch it softly as an apology, but it ran; no, it didn’t run, it couldn’t run, it just managed to drag itself away as quickly as possible towards the pond next to it; just before it crawled down to the pond and disappeared into the pond-edge-shrubs, it stood for a moment and turned, perhaps it wanted to say to him, ‘why did you do that to me?’. He now remembered about that little frog while lying on the sandy beach under the light-less sky’s foot; he was smashed, squashed, half sunk in the sand and he remembered the frog, he felt like the frog at that time. Time passed, the episode ended like all others in the past, the sky went back to the sky, the darkness disappeared into the light and he survived, again. He survived and he made a decision that he had never made before. He decided to terminate his life by himself, in his own way, by his own self, not by the society or politicians or religions or enemies or lovers or philosophers or friends- not by anyone else or anything else, not even by the sky. The sky fell on him and he survived and he decided to commit suicide for the first time, he promised to himself to give him a beautiful death. In a beautiful way, a romantic way, a poetic way, a musical way, an innocent way- he wanted to end his life and smile like moonlight. He was lying face down, now he lay on his back. He looked at the sky- the clouds, the birds, the lights, the orange sky, he saw all that and he remembered a poem he wrote a long time ago. He recited that poem as the black clouds were floating in the orange sky; he recited the poem with the rhythm of the gentle breeze and the waves passing him by and the birds and the orange sky, the sky that crushed him a moment ago. He recited his own poem, not of Tagor or Shakespeare or Thoreau or Keats or Byron or Apollinaire or Jibanananda Das or of anybody else; he recited his own poem called ‘‘The festival of committing suicide’’ He recited-

‘‘Here, they come.
They all come in flocks
In such a calm and lonely land
To die…
It seems it is a festival of committing suicide
The festival of death.
When the breathless Life dozes off a bit
They take the opportunity and escape
They come here to take a little breath,
To taste a little bit of Life
Yes, it is a festival of committing suicide
The festival of death.

The nooses joyfully sway in the air, in rows after rows
The Adams and the Eves dance naked bursting into laughter
As they succeeded in escaping
As they now can hang themselves to be filled with pleasure.

The waves of the Life still beckon them…
The Art still smiles softly to promote its presences…
Ignoring all those hoaxes,
They come here, in flocks
In such peaceful land
To die.
It is, indeed, a festival of committing suicide
The festival of death

They saw many faces of Life
Masks after masks, they observed
Many swings of Life misled them to too many lifeless ways…
They walked and walked and walked enough towards the meaninglessness.

Hence
They come here to breathe
To die
In this lonely land ’’

He recited his poem within himself again and again and then he fell asleep, by the sea. At night, the sea swallowed him up. It was a moonlit night. Alas, he couldn’t die in his own way!

Copyright (c) Zakir Hossain