Tuesday, 20 December 2016


I shall find you amidst tears
of my life's diaries:
they moistened my kerchiefs
in glees and griefs,
in coffees and dinners
like sunrises and sunsets!

I shall find you
in another December
when you prepare to dress
your forehead in the best
of reds...
tender hair chain,
new bangles,
joyous hair tangles,
mehndi on ankles!

I owe you my poems-
they breathe with you,
keep me alive in sanity
define my ink's sanctity!
I owe you my dreams:
they grow with you
like time grows from 
stranger tender months
to stronger bolder years!

I can only pledge
if pledge is belief,
if beliefs are born from fires,
if fire is god,
if god is love!

I can only love.
I can't dance!
I can, but, cook
I bathe!

Shall I find you 
in the Decembers
of my diaries...
waiting together
in cold for new years?
Shall I find you
in the coffees and dinners
of my life's Decembers?
I shall find you!
You shall find me!

Thursday, 10 November 2016


An evening I spend,
memories sink when
in arms of scarlet mists,
lamps that brighten it!

O' Lady of the horizon,

quietly you follow
my steps of leisure,
will you not appear
in my stroll to visit
some castles of luxury?

Bravery confronts

unbound imagination!
Oh! Just remind me not
of my prowess of thoughts!
I can play with numbers
as if in God's whitish slumbers-
the particles dispose
as my dreams speak of
patterns that lay hidden
in natural veils untouched!
The symbols disturb me not-
only the arts do play a lot.
The winter is a lullaby
lazy dreams it brings
like numbers gradually
conquering minds of reality!
Where are my sketches?
Only if I could re-evaluate!

The clouds have shadows too:
visitors of sincere Spring!
And why shall I not leave behind
a pair of breaths when I leave-
one for the next me
and one as a memoir!

Tuesday, 25 October 2016


I have lost my poetry
in the coloured fabric
of civilization,
that lured me to dance
my ink upon,
unknown of the screams
trapped in the colours
of the cursed fabric!

Black isn't frightening
if She's dark truly.
Voids dressed in colours
of the rainbow kill
enthusiasm of a theist,
deceive the deceived,
mar a revolution!

White is a suffocating camouflage
like emotions of a man
who lost his baby
but saved his wife.
Breaths halt at stoppages
of sketched dreams,
and life...?
Life clings to crumbs
of love,
and gods cling to promises
made to them.

Sunsets invite celebrations:
dances and drinks for teenagers,
nostalgia for old gentlemen,
joys only years can measure!

What does life hold?
Colours or perspectives?
Red isn't love
if it's a crime scene.
Black isn't evil
for the blind.
Pink isn't glamorous
without respect.
Brown isn't earth
for land mafias.
White cannot be peace
for confusing fogs.

Only you can speak
of your colour...
Is it random or constant?
Or is it a camouflage
just like White?

Saturday, 17 September 2016

PLANS: unnecessary excess!

The kiss of globalization was never a plan of mankind! Man wished to be better, connected through wired and wireless channels, do business seamlessly, and be present everywhere. That's why he 'globalized' which unfortunately led to the birth of 'plans'. 
For us in school, a 'plan' meant our study plan which we could not follow. In a broader sense, a plan was just our assumed 'aim in life'- the commonest of all essays that a child faced in exams, and a conversation starter with a Sarma Uncle or a Kakoti Auntie. Truly speaking, a 'plan' was something which you would not take seiously, and something that would never pay off. It was synonymous to 'fictional pre-determined failed thought' (excuse me the nonsensical choice of words). 
Today, a 'plan' is like a diet chart. You either follow it or face the morning curse of constipation. Of couse, it has become necessary as life demands more donkey work than donkeys. But, the thin line- something that separates reality from fiction, dreams from actions, science from future, and so on...that thin line between plans becoming a necessity and an obsession has grown thicker than obesity. The obsession is such that many have started planning for the number of ice cream scoops that they would eat in a party. Doing multiple tasks at one go, eventually losing the appetite for dinner, is the result of our 'plan's. Plans are making us stress more on time and wallet rather than quality time and bliss.
Sometimes, it is necessary to go out with our friends without a planned time period. It is necessary to watch a TV serial with our kids rather than completing the last bit of code on a project that has a far deadline. 'Plan's are important but they need not be part of our newspaper reads, tea stall gossips, and random carrom games. Insurances can be planned, not poetry. A train journey may be planned but not its joys. Projects are planned, not knowledge.
Reason, and grow- plans are only our idea of doing our works to give us the confidence we need. They are important but they are not the only fuels of our life's journey.
Life is planned but as done by Time. 

Thursday, 8 September 2016


Photo captured by the blogger. Anyone is free to use it.
(some realizations in Kochi, India)

A fragment of my will
I picked up in me
from the white sands
of an uncared sea. 
The fishing nets were alive
unlike the urban me
disturbed by little peace, 
noiseless and empty. 

Undefined to me,
my mind yells no word
absorbed as if it is
in the discipline of seas. 
The tree shelters ages
of poetry on demons and men, 
inspired poetry in the last
of the foreign boatmen
who carved love songs
on the salty woods
of their aged oars. 

She moved hastily
like love in my veins, 
veins in trouble
like her hairs
troubled by the winds... 
Mischievous. Teasing. 
I wished not to talk. 
A first time isn't good. 
Admirable she was
at the verandah
across the lawn
I watched in fear
of watching her much.
What if she mistook
my likeness for desire.
But she knew not
how my poetry loves her
more than me, 
a competent contender. 
And she'll never know
I was watching her
across the lawn
for treasure of a lifetime. 

Wednesday, 17 August 2016


(a lover's poem in a free country: dedicated to Indian Independence)

A line of your hair flies and rests
on your right cheek, 
an earring dangling beneath
carries little bells of my life, 
my love that I prayed for
at the temple where lives
the centenarian astrologer, 
old but strong, poor but true.

The bells... 
Oh! The crimson sindur
lies on the brass plate, 
the vermillion a little faded
by the ages of the gods, 
yet it stays firm, 
not a pinch of it
moved when the winds
fell upon the temple bells.

All the precious laws
could not alter man's minds, 
the barriers still boast
of their rusted prowess:
they turned faiths into demons, 
castes into excuses, 
and I thought prayers were
written for all men, or
do chants of the temples
have reservations too?

I could have booked a caste too
but I would rather bet on you. 
Your earrings interest me:
they bring back my soul
from the grave of
a poisoned land. 
The lonely line of hair rests still
on your right cheek
now reddened by sindur. 
I wish to move a pinch of it
and place on your forehead
burying all barriers, 
killing all excuses, 
bringing back my freedom
in a free country
seven decades after!

Friday, 8 July 2016


You kept a part of my night
in your daring sky
like you stole some love
from my bank of breaths.
That some love glows in you
in your self like a smile-
yellow shades amidst red,
red warmth that excites the blue.

I watch you like my bride.
I feel you shall carry my life, Dawn
to the dead country over the sea,
but I promise I shan't carry a penny
nor shall I bring crumbs of evil.
You may find some breath in me, though.
But worry not, those shall be for you,
my Dawn, like the smile you kept from me
in the night that fuelled the romance!

Sometimes the dawn is more beautiful than the day!

Wednesday, 29 June 2016

MARS: bonds of time

[Dedicated to MARS: a family of 4 simple engineers who derive their joys from the simplest of things.]

O' the playful calm,
a veil He carries of
joys and charm,
quite sensible and alerts 
the travelling crowd:
He knows of the West
just like an owl of the barn!

He crafted a robot
from a hard paper box
and strenuous efforts,
could even sketch
a girl without slightest errors.
He is as silent as the wind,
as bold as the storm.

When the candles are lit
where light seems fit,
He writes in red ink:
dinners for the beauties
and roses for the beasts,
but His love stays still
unmatched for the other three!

A chord when He strikes,
lonely hearts He befriends,
Lyrics when He sing,
He gifts us purposes.
He builds music
just like the Spring,
He sings life
just like the Priest! 

Saturday, 7 May 2016


Rough winds and tireless rains
like a graduation's uninvited guests
trouble my yearning to be romantic,
and ruin my trousers' pressed fabric!

The dust...
(O' dust of hell)
scrambled my eyeballs
despite the tough shawl,
and I couldn't see her:
the market sits twice never
this week is gone
shouldn't time take a jump?

However, she mustn't mind.
I am only a stranger amidst
wild melons, organic potatoes,
rough winds, tireless rains.
I am a mere poet alive
in dreams of mine
writing on her spectacles
just wanting nothing
but for the market to sit
twice a week:
I shall watch her smile
twice a week,
but the dust...
(O' dust of hell)
scrambled my eyeballs
and I couldn't see her once! 

Friday, 5 February 2016

REWANT PAUL - the greatest art thief!

[WARNING: Read the entire piece or you will miss the most important part of this post.]

"Deception is an art, and stealing art is a deception!"
                                                                    -Rewant Paul

History is like a tempting piece of dark chocolate. All that seem true may not be so, and all you had imagined may be so true! Now, this depends on history, not historians for historians are no detectives or truth seekers; they write what they see but do they truly see what they see? Confusing, isn't it?
When Vincenzo Peruggia robbed the Louvre of the Mona Lisa in 1911, no one thought that the greatest art theft of history had been done until the next day. Many say that Peruggia believed the piece of art must be returned to Italy as it belonged there. But who was Peruggia? There are police evidence of the one Peruggia, and his biography. Doyle had written Sherlock back in the 1800s, but minds then could not develop a sense of observation. They could not find the real man, the sole mastermind behind the Mona Lisa case. 
There at the tailor's lived Rewant Paul. He was an artist at heart, and made his paintings by night. He believed that his arts were apologies to the Maker for man had turned so brutal on earth, fought amongst themselves leading to a War that saw no end. He kept his arts a secret; no one knew he could do anything except stitch some simple wears. His most beautiful pieces were 'The Cannon of Life', 'The Drunken Lady' and 'The Light of the Dark Street'. 
The theft of Mona Lisa was his masterplan. He had a blueprint, but he wished not risks for himself; so he hired Peruggia, a skilled thief, for the task. His motive was to study the Mona Lisa for a week, and return it to the Louvre. He was the one who directed Peruggia to sneak into the Louvre as a worker and steal the painting. 
Peruggia was a small time thief, but he was perfect in timing. Rewant observed him for weeks, and saw a passion in the man to clean stuff easily. In fact, before his death in 1924, Rewant drew an art of Peruggia stealing the Mona Lisa from the Louvre. The art was in black coal on a white cloth so that the fact remained concealed in a piece of item that could be easily ignored; he carried on with his art not to reach heights of fame, but to ensure that his ideas might just exist: such were his beliefs.
When Peruggia stole the Mona Lisa and hid it under his dress, he chuckled to himself:"The world's most sought after painting lies in my gown." On hearing this later, Rewant and Peruggia laughed out heartily, thus throwing a sense of success to the whole affair.
Rewant practised his art on pieces of cloth that were discarded at the tailor's. Perhaps had he been a demonstrator of his phenomenon, he would have been counted as one of the greatest painters of his time. But Time is a moody entity: it may turn fiction into reality, or design reality as bookish stories.
That's where this piece ends, and this is where it must end. Neither today men know who Rewant Paul was, nor do they know of his affair with the Mona Lisa. May be, he is just a fictional character of a tale created by the writer of this piece, or he stands out as someone in the mind of an imaginative idiot.
It doesn't matter if we had a Rewant Paul or not; what matters more is that this piece must have been an exciting read.

[NOTE: Do not believe in the author's character, Rewant Paul, because Mr. Paul may be just another literary prank!] 

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

Friday, 29 January 2016


[NOTE: The story never ends.]

"Kill the sun, slaughter this man. Let's take him away to where he belongs...to the death box, to the coffin designed in black velvet," shouted the man in black gown on Mr. Pinku Mukherjee's face, his half veil disclosed not his identity.
"May the crows feed on his blood!" he continued with same sense of vigour and hatred.
Piku was frightened like hell. And his fears numbed him when he realized that the man was Mr. Death himself: the representative of Hell's Congress. He pleaded but his voice could not reach the man's ears, as if vacuum had surrounded. Mr. Death finally pulled out a machete on which were engraved the words: "May Peace be Irony."
Pinku could not determine his actions. His hands were tied behind him with the Hell's Handcuff built from shrapnel and pieces of broken glass. And before he could speak, there went the glittery edge of the machete and...
"Oh! My God!" screamed he, and jumped out of his bed. The alarm was ringing and Pinku could not understand for the first few moments if he was alive or was he just a soul! As his heart beats steadied down to normal, he just cursed himself for watching horror movies a night before.
He dressed himself for work, and ate his breakfast. He reached office as usual. Mr. Pinku was a different kind of guy. He followed rules strictly, and enjoyed alone. But that did not made him a freak. He could speak for hours on a subject, and the women liked him too, but he kept a distance. He did not consider random gender intimacy to be moral, for he believed those things hurt, and although he had never been a participant, he opted to stay away from these. He liked life to be simple, and that was why he was the Best Employee for three times in a row. He never competed against others; he loved his way and others loved his way of work too. In short, he was not abnormal, and led a peaceful life. Only that morning's dream was a bit too loud!
Pinku finished his tasks and returned home. He lived alone in a small compartment. His parents lived in his native village, both teachers by profession, and he was here, working in a company that worked on smart home appliances. Pinku boiled some cauliflower and fried them. He crushed two eggs and scrambled them on the pan. He had a sweet dinner. He opted not to watch another horror film as that morning gave him real jerks.
He chose to sleep. When he woke up, he found himself in a dark room, his hands tied to a chair. He was sleepy, but the blood on his wrists frightened him. Apart from cough syrups and paracetamol, Pinku had never seen a doctor, nor had he seen blood. The blood oozed out from the wounds on his wrists. He tried to suck some blood and spit when he cut his lips. Just then a candle glowed in the dark. He saw none but he screamed, "What the Hell!" His hands were tied with the same Hell's Handcuff he had seen in his dream. As he turned his eyes towards the candle, he saw someone standing...that was Mr. Death himself, the representative of the Hell's Congress. Now things were beggining to get real. These were the Dream Stealers: they steal into one's life through one's dreams, and kill them as planned. Pinku knew not what to do. Gradually the figure approached. He pulled out his machete upon which were engraved the words: "May Peace be Irony!"
However, unlike his dream, the figure was silent and then spoke.
"Those words were only for your dream," he uttered as if he could read Pinku's fearing mind, and laughed in terrible echoes.
Then he stopped teasing his prey, and swooshed the machete to maximum stretch and ...
Pinku kicked his room-mate out of his bed. Pratap yelled in pain, and cursed him. Pinku awoke to find that that was just a bad dream, and found his friend lying almost shattered. He realized that he had had two dreams within a dream, and laughed at himself. Pratap was still cursing. Pinku felt sorry for his friend, and said, "Mr. Death, are you okay?"

The story may not end here. What if, you are still reading a dream, and there's more to this story. I had told you: the story never ends, my friend. Have a carefree sleep! Smile!
This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.