Ms. Runa Bandyopadhyay

I could give a straight answer that I write because I want to express my feelings. But feelings are altogether different in the case of poetry, story and review.

Let me start with poetry. Philosophy, history and science are the subjective face of my poetry, but not the subject itself. My feelings revolve around subject and object of philosophy and science. Spiritual realisation embraces philosopher’s finger. Mathematical analysis entangled scientist’s mind. Here object doesn’t get freedom from subject. As a poet I sit in between. With a continuous weaving of subject and object in a moving interaction poet wants to fly towards the absolute. The light and dark of infinite start playing on my wings. To pick up the subject from life-stream wonder gets mingled on my finger. My lonely boat is floating in the objective universe. Eternal uncertainty of boundless particle-wave makes the boat to oscillate in endangered wonder. By digging the interior world when it reaches to the shore of silence, the boat of certainty swings with the confusion of object and life. I look back the interior of consciousness. With the deconstruction of reasoning I start weaving the truths of moments with silent tears. Leaving all the uproar I walk alone towards the horizon. It’s a journey from subject to wonder from wonder to confusion. And an alternate history gets composed in a centrifugal trip. And I start writing the alternative history of life-stream.

In case of story I feel a river stream dwelling in my mind. It’s diverse in speed and multi-coloured in nature. Sometimes calm and engrossed in form, sometimes flooded with surging waves, sometimes behaves as spiral plait nexus. Adolescence’s simplicity gradually complicated through experience of life, becomes coloured with blow and its impact. And a pain starts nesting in the river’s interior. It’s an unknown pain, unconscious, unclassified. Sometimes a wave comes from an infinite horizon. The river turned out to be billowy-bosomed. It couldn’t restrain herself anymore. With an unbearable combustion of silent waves roaring inside, words come out breaking interior’s bolt. Just words, small and black, filled the pages.

Then reviewing a poetry book is a pleasure trip for me. Sometimes it’s a conversation with fair parts of shadows of the poet’s feelings. Sometimes it’s an excavation into the interior world of the poet’s mind. Some utterance of the poet’s piled up in the exterior of action, in the interior of reaction. I start engaging words into the utterance. Alternatively I could say I start engaging words to my feelings. Sometimes the words are word-illusion of me, sometimes of the poet. I don’t want any wall in between. Wall can’t be marked by water. There’s only engraving. An engraved wall is a history. I don’t want to write a history anyway. I just want to implant words in my moments; the moment which is the indistinct whistle of nocturnal language; the moment which is the reflected light of the lost dew; the moment which is the unheard music of silent tears.

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