Thank You for 'Eyeing' on Me

Viewers call my writings, rambling.

Yes, they noticed facts.

I cannot deny the fact,

I do not want to.

Viewers show me, my lacks

My trough and crests.

Which no one ever does.

Haters overlook the errors, they pray

So that I keep making errors in the loop.

I encourage criticism,

And I love coming across

What viewers ponder about me.

Comments

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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