Donuts for Dinner.

Peacefully opened my eyes. It was a divine feeling. Now the air could pass through me. Even though the ethos around me did not change. But it was like embracing the sanctitude of the self. The feeling was seraphic as I said, yet confusing. I could hear the clock ticking. Before anyone could say knife, I saw my apparels lying drenched with raw and fresh moving blood. Standing naked, which felt light. I took my first step. Realised a excruciating pain on the left side of the chest. The twinge made me crooked. It was the pain of transforming into a heartless being. I started walking towards the door. As my hand approached the door lock. My hand passed the door surface. Standing there motionlessly for some time, I started questioning my existence. Turned my head back, my eyes searched for the apparels. I ran towards them. The voice of my running feet was silent. I could hear the silence within me. I snatched and grabbed the clothes, as if they were any evidence of a crime. But I was unable to hold them, I was unable to clutch them. The reservoir of remorse was already started digging. Stood up, faced the door, bent the head a little to sprint. Like Harry Potter did; with his piled up trolley. He rushed through the wall of platform nine and reached at platform nine and three-quarters. I was now standing in front of another face of the door, beside the staircase and started walking. I was a walking devil.

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A City that Never Called

When I was in my late teens, I wished to walk down the streets of my city. The city of joy, Kolkata or maybe Calcutta. Apparently, it remained a wish, which did not get a chance to turn to reality. Although, Kolkata is a reality to others. But for me it is surreal. A place, away from my daily business. Even though, I belong here. Roamed to and fro from where I did my master's. Kolkata never called me. It never asked my hands for a stroll, and that is unfortunate to me. Unseen remained as it is. Being mysteriously aloof at this point in life. Made me pen this write-up without a purpose in mind. Pardon my purposelessness. But I assure you, that this will nonetheless confront your relationship with your city. Does Kolkata unfailingly have to throw at us a purpose? If yes, then why? Why can't we walk on its heart without a reason? Either Sun or rain always punctures my plans and urge. Especially, Mr. Rain. It caused me what not. Or is it me the reason behind not pushing myself to ...

I Got My Back

You cannot find me anywhere, Hold on, are you trying to reach out? I must warn you from doing that. I shall never return, To whom I was not, To which I failed to become. I am the hush between collapsing stars, The echo’s echo in abandoned halls. Once flesh, once name, once need . . . now mist, An afterthought the dusk forgot to list. Why do you seek me in ruins and rhyme, Threading your breath through the seams of time? I unstitched my shadow from memory’s shawl, And walked backward through silence, leaving no call. I am not the voice you remember in June, Nor the ghost that wept by the spill of the moon. Your yearning is kindling for a long-dead flame, But ash has no longing, and dust bears no name. Would you summon a wind to cradle the storm? Would you weave warmth into what was never warm? I, a figment of what never fully awoke, Am beyond the grasp of regret you invoke. Do not knock on the door of the undone, Where twilight and sorrow bleed into one. I reside...

Tint and Shade

Nights make me realize why I was born. The purpose lies so clean, so sheer, I almost see the parallel universe. Am I writing or just at some slumber party in that other world, wrapped in cosmic silk, laughing with my forgotten selves? It sounds flaky, I know. But it's a glass-skin kind of realization, translucent, impossible, almost unachievable. Still, it clings to me. My monochromatic musings must have been tedious for you. I know I become I-centric. But what else can I do? Somebody has to speak my language. Somebody has to understand me. Somebody has to be my spokesperson. Because there was absolutely no one when I was dragged through the bumpy, unpaved road trip of life. Believe me when I say life asked to see me naked. And not metaphorically. It was a demand, a confrontation, raw and unrelenting. So under the elusive canopy of night, when most lives fold neatly into silence, I felt the spectral tug of existence. Not in the noisy glare of day, but in the gossamer hours when tim...

The Buddhapriya

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