The Buddhapriya

These days husbands are like; they will love and marry the purest sort of a girl. A girl with the capability of ornamenting herself as the desired  wife-material. But then the husbands are embracing a wrecking twists in their lives. Not only in their lives but also effecting their familys'. Knowing this fact has ruined my several days. Seeing the demons walking down the near alleys give sheer spikes.

Waiting for my plate to be full, Full with greens, and beans, and tables with kins, Kins howling cheers and wings, Wings diving into the ketchup and crying "It's fire, it's fire" And what about the fire in the tummy of mine waiting for the plate to be full?

The most grinding state. When one needs to push, in order to bring out the creative version of themselves. 

Write a letter to me. . .

These days nobody reads no one. In this epoch of #NonReaders, writers cannot breathe. You already know how they cannot. I am pretty sure, either people will overlook the content. Or this post might not even appear to many walls those who do not read. It is good to know that one of the party consists of non-reader. Or else the level of cut throat market will stand up. Another section, reads. No doubt. The one thing to lament is on the vastness of the non-readers than readers. Personally I prefer reading hard copies. But also read online. At a time, purchasing a bulk costs a lot. Though, not influencing to increase screen time.  . . . I might now end abruptly. Peace. Just a random piece of shit utterance on paper.

Tana-Rickshaw chorte bhalo lage? Ami chotobelay jokhon Esplanade jetam, pujo teh shopping korte. It used to be the most happening time of the year. Metro thekei neme Pepsi🥤khawa, tarpor market e dhuke shei mixed fruit juice. Edik theke odik ghure jokhon klaanto hoye jetam. Kichu chawar aagei peye jetam papdi-chaat. Shei ek dokaan theke onno dokaan. Abar ghure phire shei oi dokaan. Ei korte korte, amar ekdin icche kore 'tana-rickshaw' chorte. Onek e choto chilm. Papa ke bolechilm amar icche tah. Thik ki bolechilo toh mone nei. Kintu eta mone pore je— Kauke koshto diye keu shukhe thakte parena.  Ekhono jokhn jai Esplanade, ei shikkhata mathay ashe. Papa mone hoy bhule geche, kokhon bolechilo. Kenoki erom kotha Papa majhe majhei bole.  Ashole, jara niye cholen shei rickshaw, keu keu khub e briddho. Jodi tader bhaara tah dewar jaygay, ekta cake kine dewa jay tader na koshto diye, tahole kemon hoy?

I thought to let loose my flow of feelings. I believe, that is the only process, which will allow me to soak the day more clearly. It was a regular day, a very usual. But it was a Sunday, I sharply remember. Everyone was at home. I was busy doing some chores. Soon after finishing, I leaped upstairs at the terrace. Witnessing the full stretched Sun, I went near mom and sat beside her. She whispered and said, "eta dekh". I said, "keno? ki eta, ke banalo?" holding a paper Airplane. A bit dusty and half crooked. She said, "por bhetore ki lekha ache". I was both amazed and curious at the same time. Just to see what is written inside. I pulled each strand of the page, delicately, and found a sentence written. " Amader saathe kotha bolo" I wonder who wrote it. The moment I started thinking, mom held my hand and said, "ora pathiyeche". As I now got my answer. I kept the plane where I sat, and went to them. To actually talk. Then we talked and...