Donuts for Dinner.

Soon getting patched with the poems of the wind. By tearing the winds. I reached, police station. Where Sir Joseph was sitting with the same piles of files on his desk. I called him, "Sir! Sir! Sir Joseph" but didn't get the reply. I again called him with a slight loud pitch. But he was not responding. I tried calling him a bit louder, but failed. I was now sure, my voice is not reaching him at all. The Universe was an ongoing explosion, and that's where I lived, in an explosion. I didn't know what living is. Now, sometimes atom just get very haunted. That is me. When an explosion explodes hard enough, dust wakes up and thinks about itself. Like the last time I questioned my existence. I began doing it again. There was no choice left. No close beings were left to listen to me, to feel me, to touch me, to sympathize me, and to empathize me. All the existence were numb, and lifeless. I could feel myself talking. I think I am the one who was there to listen, to myself, and by doing that, there was no way out from the labyrinth. I was counting my footsteps and blessings. The number of blessings I got throughout my life, and to merge those blessings with Susan's. So that The Almighty look at us.

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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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