Dead and Living

When the lament of some distant bird,
Echoes through the night sky,
And the gloomy eerie air,
Caress the summer vibe.
A yellow flower blooms amidst,
The deserted graveyard of lost souls.

Behind the bright wallflowers,
Appears the silhouette of a sinister ghost.
Gliding through the melancholic cold air,
It reaches my window,
And looks at me with grim eyes,
And the green eyes meet the green eyes.

Years after my death,
My ghost still haunts me.
For I am just a pinch of living,
In a dead body walking among the afflicting.




Big buildings and low sky,
Under which, tonight I cry.
I close the album,
And think if you again,
Caressing the shrivelled rose,
That I still keep close.

The broken poetry,
Which I bled last night,
Still has your vapour,
As it lay unburnt in the fire.
“I have moved on.” I finally said.
And all my broken dreams called me a “liar”.


Lost in streets…

People say that monsoon is happiness, and that is exactly what I was doing that evening. I was seeking happiness amidst the drizzle, with a tea cup in hand, near a roadside stall.

Someone tapped on my waist from behind. I turned and my first reaction was ‘disgust’. “Ah! These beggars again. Why don’t they just leave us alone and let us enjoy this weather.” Before I could express my general repulsion, something happened. I saw his face and it was the saddest thing I had ever seen. I could see the hunger peeping through his eyes. His clothes were half drenched half dry.

Maybe it was because of pity that I smiled at him. I took out a folded 10 rupees note from my purse and gave it to him. He gave me a big broad smile and I realised what genuine happiness was. I bought a packet of ParleG biscuit and gave it to him.

He just nodded and left.

What do you regret the most,’, they asked. ‘Growing up’, I replied.

What all would I not give, just to go back to that time when my only tension was to find the other pair of school socks in the morning. Not finishing the tiffin box and getting scolded by mum, seemed a trouble greater than US war.
I wonder what happened to that girl, who loved playing in rain and making paper boats. What was that exact date and time when I started hating rains and saw them as disgusting trouble. The rain, which was once the element of joy, is now just mud and damp clothes to me. I wonder when did I grow up so big.

I still remember the taste of that maggie, which me and my sister used to eat from the same yellow bowl, watching Tom and Jerry. The maggie, which was once an emotion back then, is now just a junk I eat to satisfy the post midnight hunger. I wonder if cartoon network still show Tom and Jerry and Richie Rich for that account and I wonder if kids still watch them or do they prefer Netflix these days.
Probably Netflix I think.

When did we all grow up so big. What happened to that innocence and purity of our souls. What made us so busy that we could no longer afford to waste a minute appreciating small things. They say, ‘time flies.’ To where, I wonder.

A city that is no more mine!

I am back in this city, which I am not sure if I can call ‘home’ anymore. Yes, it is true that I have a house here, a 2 story building, right across that street and in it are my parents, who with each passing night, are nearing the twilight of their lives.
I am back in this city, but I am not sure if it recognises me. Those streets which were once filled with the laughter of kids, playing sitoliya and chupan chupai in the summer night are now dead silent. Just some stranger in the nook, beneath that streetlight, lighting his cigar and some old song playing on his radio are the only noise. That Kolkata Roll Center shop is no longer there, instead there is that new Momo’s shop.
The crowd is different, people are different and their emotions are different. The neighbours are new but that street dog is old. The only unchanged is this park bench, me and my solitude.



Well, again it rained last night,
Perhaps the sky was once again filled,
With unsaid goodbyes,
And silent sighs.

The pale moon hung low,
Among the stars with faded glow.
Sky was reeking with smell of death,
All for the love, that was dying slow.

A soul of solitary,
Sinking near the cemetery.
Her screaming silence,
And hollow voice,
Heard by the hanging sky.
Rising high like the sun in July,
Was another sigh.
Another goodbye.