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For You Lenin By Sahana Mukherjee QuailBellMagazine.com For you Lenin I My dear Lenin, has Asansol been on your mind? Kolkata tests your will, doesn't it? So, every weekend, you take the train and visit your missed land. Are all our native lands infidel, Lenin? It's been a while you've been in love, and I've been happy, if you're bent on learning about me. Why my bed-sheets are often red, I could never explain, but you probably understand the catch. I like to be your Trotsky all right. Lenin, will we ever see the sky of Bangladesh? will we ever know how many really died in the War? Genocide is something I can't deal with. Has our precious Kolkata never witnessed one? I've been talking to you last night and wondering how many pills a day cure a Bipolar patient. So ludicrous how the doctors take everything for granted. It's early in the morning and I've been thinking of writing for you what I promised long back. There are confessions I'll always run away from, and conditions I'll always embrace. It's true I loved you once. So, Lenin, on another note, as you rightly said, on our battle of the 21st, I have chosen to distribute myself. Ideas are always taken, or borrowed or sometimes brutally stolen. I see my bed-sheets turn red, Lenin, and the walls gradually breaking down. Will there really be a third world war, or did we fight for no reason whatsoever once again? I will turn in now, and leave you be, for Lenin, I have always lived in a missed land, where my infidelity never seemed to let go of me. II 1967 - I go back to them again and again. Having no knowledge of the sound, I can hear mortar shells reverberate somewhere in Tollygunge, and sometimes right here, across Sahid Nagar. I have never written poetry about them, Lenin, except for that one time I asked if shame was still a revolutionary sentiment. After that I went back to you, and you got back to your stories. How easily we forgot, I wonder, Lenin, how easily we've been forgiven. I've been trying to let go of the Deshobroti I took from you during our old days. Will there be no poetry about them, Lenin? How savagely we have fought, and our struggle is still incomplete, half-burnt, yet to realise itself. The fire they burnt in, in 1967 has died away. Like some thousand years ago, I have learnt to time my poems. Mention the hour, skip the images, and it's so easy. There's barely anything to worry about. It's 7:30 now, Lenin and the room is still almost full. From where I see it, our days are numbered. In the meantime, before dying, shall we try to rewrite their history? III Lenin, in your last letter to Trotsky you wrote about heart's resplendent sorrow. I feel the need to answer, and writing sticks to me like fire. I have been burnt thrice today, and the last time the attempt was barely a success. I am just too fond of your name, is all. 1995's a year to remember, when at the end of March, everything turned purple like the hibiscus Adichie writes in her novel. Will Adichie be remembered, Lenin, or will she too be burnt in the fire? Your letter, last night came as a surprise. I didn't know about your idea of the childishness in me, or the impatience. No, you've never known Tollygunge, or the lane across Sahid Nagar. Jheel-paar is probably closer. You've come here often. Do you remember the night the transformer exploded? Everything went dark in a swirl of lightning, and I sat back at my desk, trying to convince you why I even tried to kill myself. Not State, Lenin, but individuals never came before our collective lives. The night is somber, and I've walked past the corridor having collected Rommie Smith's New York. We have left out so much poetry, Lenin. While deciphering if rooms can be abandoned, my dead grandma's rooms have been turned into shops of objects and lives. A blue hoarding on the wall now bears her name. The house is decaying, Lenin. Are you coming back? Tiny bulbs decorate my room, and I still don't know if the War is coming, but I know I'll live to die like the cat, and you Lenin, should try to see how it feels to get burnt always at the wrong time. IV Dear Lenin, they have dropped all charges against the murderer, and the land is barely the same. I'm not sure if 25th January holds any meaning anymore. Last night when you revealed the news, I was in my bed smelling something burning-- something burns in the kitchen every Saturday. In the fight over who's more reactionary, I have lost all my rights to express my disgust at the decision. Certain nights, I want to give it all up and end up wondering why Egypt has to cry so much. I am still trying to find my home in Bangladesh, don't know if I'll ever succeed, but the Genocide years are still intact. What is to be done, Lenin? What is to be won? They'll probably bring back Mubarak, and my sources tell me Modi is visiting Manipur today-- there's a general strike. I still believe our lives matter. Whether we choose to stay on the other side of everything, I know somewhere someone, like him, kills his own child every night. And every disgusting Saturday, something burns in my kitchen all through the night. #Unreal #Lenin #Bangladesh #Burning #Poetry #Altlit #War #Home #India Visit our shop and subscribe.Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. CommentsComments are closed.
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