Wednesday, 18 March 2015


An honest morning!
Lies were subdued perhaps
on the railway tracks,
rails polished silver new;
time repaired old rust:
good is all that time seldom does!

A gust of hot air
slapped my face,
its intensity quartered
by the window rails
but it did not fail!

Not a matured summer it was
yet the winds tried hard
to burn the half-fried portions
of the old man's samosas
waiting to be bartered
for the day's lunch!

The ashes on the slopes
of the unknown hills
stayed unresponsive,
black and grey.
Charred forest bumps
await the first rains.
The ashes are teased,
heated airs making efforts
to burn them again
unaware of scientific postulates!

Warm yawns 
on railway windows
were greeted by 
the journey winds
that whipped across each
uncovered mouth
like numerous pots in open yards
filled by unexpected rains!

Unlit tunnels were exciting.
The winds got lost
in darkness within them,
and I was allowed to re-arrange
my pant's brownish belt;
dust and sands
dressed me a true traveller:
window's hook so stubborn
like donkey of a miser!

Sunday, 8 March 2015


There are stains on my paper-
bluish blood
and unknown fang,
and a barrel
lying like a log
of the laziest woods!

I am accused of murder!
It stole my identity
of loving myself back,
and everyone else:
the loop is interrupted
like a broken neck
yields no blood but
is impossible to repair!

Certain things die!
This one shall live forever
like honeyed mummies-
dead but alive!

I can hide my punctuations
but words?
they are cruel,
they see not how hearts are!
They kill souls
and gods even!

I am accused of murder:
murder of my self
that never was accused
of slavery
but today it is
to minds around!

I am accused of murder,
murder of my truths
that stay captured in
my last poem!

(Fifth and 'final' poem of ART AND POETRY series)


Date of birth: 21 May, 1934

He is in his 81st year!
Clear soup weighted with
boiled vegetables,
perhaps fertilized,
await his attention
on his dinner table,
and he is snoring!

Just a month ago
she was there beside
to cherish his age
with her quaky voice.
He liked her,
he liked her pitch!

She could hardly comb her hair
but she always sliced the carrots
for his soup:
she knew he loved them;
he knew she loved them too!

Diseases are cruel!
They conquered her eventually
but could they seize her love?
Love was alive in every bit
of breath she left behind,
every piece of carrot
that he longed for,
and every bowl of soup
he takes in her memory!

Today, he is in his 81st year,
snoring amidst his poor dinner,
but he shall awake soon
to sip the clear soup
weighted with boiled vegetables,
perhaps fertilized
and surely without carrots!

(Fourth poem of the ART AND POETRY series) 

Thursday, 5 March 2015


He lived with heavy gloom always
his lungs filled with ashes
of the richest cigars:
a free recluse he was!
How  different times may be
but smiles were scarce-
his past weakened his self that
trembled in feverish present!

It was his 37th Holi!
Colours around him
only screamed at his walks:
he never felt alive!
Friends tried,
neighbours joined,
his kin prayed
but he never did smile!
He solved Sudokus
that Holi
on the verandah
with spills of red and green
here and there,
and each number on his riddle
his silent companion!

No emotions:
how was he awake?

Children arrived then,
unidentified little clowns
dressed in small clothes
from a place nearest!
They knew none,
nothing about his gloom
and imported cigars,
just poured on him a bag of colours
in silence, without murmurs.
He was startled and
they were crazily happy,
danced and jumped
in Holi songs that echoed
through the neighbourhood,
radios and recorders!

He stayed silent still!
The smallest of the party
then approached,
drew two lines
across his face
like a smile extended
from his lips!

And he felt his sorrows
wiped at an instant-
specks of earth of birth
on his aged face,
and little gods
of hope in front!

At last, he smiled!

(Third poem of ART AND POETRY SERIES - a nomination-poetry chain event on Facebook, nominated by Suparna Roy Choudhury.)

Wednesday, 4 March 2015


Destiny is defiant!
A suitcase can be arrogant:
non-living attitude
and uncaring, mute.

Its lock never opens on Mondays,
sometimes nervous Wednesdays even,
when pending bills need to breathe again
before or after cinematic weekends.

Its perfect rectangle stomach stands
disfigured by ages of office romance-
kisses on doors of local trains
or the edges of depreciable furniture!
So unsuitable for an air travel,
how does it qualify even?

Rude it is often!
Young girl's dupattas
get tucked in rough edges
of the almost antique body
and he gets all the bad murmurs
enough to cause him an error
in urgent documents:
how can he possibly forgive?

He wishes to dethrone that box-
bury it in waters
or break it on the rocks
but he wishes it not a second after
for there's a bond of service
between the two:
unsigned may be,
but one that relishes life!
It may not possess a smiling face
but there's an honour
in being framed as
Mr. Sharma's troubling suitcase!

(Second poem of ART AND POETRY SERIES - a nomination-poetry chain event on Facebook, nominated by Suparna Roy Choudhury.)

Monday, 2 March 2015


February was catching warmth!

A Sunday!
A holiday of celebration
often extempore,
inspired three
to compel me to cook
matured Hilsas
in burning mustard!

And what else I could do!
The dacoity was irresistible!
Freedom was at stake,
cooking then was evident.

I picked up a pan
of half the size of
the laundryman's tub...
frequently wondered
fry like hell or boil first,
or simmer on oil
or think...
and think...
I tampered the deads
with turmeric,
gently and calmly,
then salted their
yellow meat...
But oh!
The salt was more:
I knew not what to pour!
Tragedy could have instigated
agony in my friends
who knew not me-
a fool or a chef!
I emptied the bowl
into a bucket of water
the salt all removed
but oh!
where's the turmeric?
Phew! All vanished
like Holi's colours,
and the pieces looked
bathed and handsome!

I repeated!
Mustard spiced up
the tale,
three green chillies
were my guests,
one ginger
their little assistant;
onions might have
done their job!

I fried and fried-
Hilsas emitted their egos
in valuable steams
and I watched them
getting dressed
for three
stupid gourmets
waiting still!

The shameless neighbours
waited like grasshoppers!
The mustard assumed
and everything looked fishy:
no one knew where
the smart fishes were!

Finally, I broke some coriander,
sprinkled some unknowns
and did some added stunts
on the bowl of fishes

I did some usual speech:
A little more garlic 
would taste better! 
And when they bit
at their fishes,
all I could hear was:
Silence on some
deeply irritated,
and motionless tongues-
faces disfigured,
hands in quiet protests
just silence...

I realized 
I just killed three tongues!

(First poem of ART AND POETRY SERIES - a nomination-poetry chain event on Facebook, nominated by Suparna Roy Choudhury.)

Sunday, 1 March 2015


Morning alarm!
Useless like a fluffy dog
too lazy to chase away
village burglars! 

The thin woman on the other side
of the hostel street shouts
better and earlier,
more disgusting than my
new alarm clock!

I had locked it at six;
she yelled at five-fifty
when I had ensured 
it was five-fifty,
she vibrated her tonsils
at five-thirty!

A queen of terror is she-
killing a boy's talented nights
and placid mornings,
five minutes of dreams
make vibrant
motivators have blabbered so!
She never has felt so!

How a thin piece of flesh
can yield so much of waves
enough to shatter window panes!
I quarrel with her often,
more often than Golden,
my angry roommate.

Things haven't changed-
the morning paranthas
pressed and tortured and fried
look more fortunate than me:
a bowl of curd to soothe 
their body burns
and I?
I only have memories
of a hazardous morning
still lulling me to
unwanted coma!

I should file a case,
a case of
slow poison!
I should arrange a protest!
Placards must be printed!
Shantanu's press is cheaper
they say...

But I should have some sleep!