One More Smoking Session of a Nomad in an Unknown Hotel Room

By Bhargab Das

Like the ultimate inhalation of a dying cigarette,  

When you yearn for the wisps of smoke to permeate into every vein,  

I crave such fervent enthusiasm for living.  

Alas, in this dysphoric world, my existence holds little meaning.  

Yet, I remain absorbed in the pursuit of carnal knowledge -  

Observing, experimenting, drawing hopelessly hopeful conclusions from despair.  

Nijor* slumbers peacefully in her grave.  

And I?  

Counting the hours until I too can embrace eternal rest.  

The wishfulness of taking in more,  

Only to incapacitate the inner turmoil  

From the turbulence that the tomorrow(s) will arrive with.  

Solvent and precipitation of glorified depositions  

Into the ashtray,  

Which you want to hold on your hands to measure the weight;  

Weight of not just the burnt remnants of today,  

But the intangible heft of cherished yesterdays.  

Of all the bygone precedents and impending sequels.  

However, you can't.  

It smears the hand with your agonized hopes and longings.  

Sometimes, with burnt nostalgia, too,  

Of times spent at home once in the bygone era.  

Whether or not that place brings you solace,  

It will always plunge you into deep REM sleep regardless of the day’s course.  

And here I am:  

Changing beds, challenging weathers almost every day.  

Resting on pillows, where countless  

Of hope and dreams have been envisioned, realized, and dispersed,  

Echoing the scattered fragments of my tomorrows.  

Much like my yearning for one more breath  

Through the charred remains of my final cigarette.  

Ahh! Again, a new ceiling looming up above  

And beneath me assuming to admit this room as transient abode, once more.  It doesn’t have the landscapes that I had already painted;  

Just a white canvas, and a blind mind. 

I say this is a poisonous amalgam.  

Who's the renegade here is difficult to investigate:  

The former one wants to paint one new;  

The latter one has given up accepting the sanctum as of my own home's,  Evoking the reminiscence of a time when hope was scarce and life, serene.  Now as I have to toil tirelessly to earn the elusive peacefulness of retirement  I still see a hopeless life, just like this pristine ceiling clinging above.  

Ludicrous, both seem to pierce my existence  

And I can't do anything.  

Life, thus, has unfolded itself into the same relentless cycle:  

It’s the truth I have come to embrace.  

I, now, have reverted back to the infancy’s tender stage,  

Where tears beckon aid.  

Reprehensible, I am unable to cleanse my own mess, then as now.  

The final cigarette is now burnt up with all the tobacco it was cradled with  Just like this blank ceiling did to my last breath.  

Oh! By ‘last breath’ I meant the one that I just exhaled, I juxtaposed!  The last one still waits for me to paint the final manuscript  

On all the preceding and subsequent ceilings with resplendence.  

The ultimate voyage shall rest upon the shoulders of those I guided,  

Through the paintings I left on the ceilings  

And with the ones that I will be leaving with.  

*Note: Nijor is the name of the poet’s love interest. Her untimely death led the poet to take a  break and travel.

By Bhargab Das