Dear Penmanship,
You were sick for a while, you had a tumor on your back, when your tumor burst the maggots attached you and ate away your flesh. they made it into a large wound of about 10 inches. one could see your bones! and when your wound burnt under the sun, you sat in front a cold steel door.
the door opened and others found you. they sedated you and killed the maggots inside your flesh. Now you are healing, Doing better everyday.
and after four months, we meet again :)


Before Mr Dracula drank her blood and sucked the lady dry, he spoke in his expensive taste of the eccentricity in Gaudi and his spectacular Sagrada Familia of Spain, The Japanese gods and goddess,about Art Nouveau and 20th century modernism, Turkish Deserts and the world's largest orchestra.

And when he bit her flesh,the Lady nervously dabbed her pearl necklace and only wished that she doesn't sound too unintelligent to question what he was doing.


after a social suicide, you tend to lose your reputation with all lousy acquaintances, who you had been trying be rid off all along. Only true friends, family and love remains.

"And this morning I woke up
feeling like a little French village
the Nazis suddenly decided to pull out of
after a particularly cruel occupation." ------------- George Bilgere



Today I felt as ashamed and lonely as a little child whose friends mocked him for being an Orphan.

for the sake of a trivial argument, a close friend suddenly picks up and says,
" Well, you didn't get to see your dying grandmother"

Adult relationships are tricky and i have not been spared.

But i resist like an old blind man who holds out his stick at all who push him around and make fun.



I woke up and i touched the man's pale jet-lagged skin, the hives and rashes spread unevenly on his body. I chuckled because it felt like i was touching a reptile.

But what did i really see?

I reached over to kiss and there in that moment i was cursed with Shantiniketan's legend of Unrequited Love.

Now, in the forest mornings, my heart reflects a green-yellow
and in the nights, a cobalt-blue.

the unrequited ghost of my love is now among the many spirits in the forest, whispering like the wind into the Poet's ears, who is perhaps still writing somewhere.

One with its trees, One with its soil, embedded inside the very legend.


As i argue/holler/grow defiant of my living, my friends lose their patience over my existential angst. They say, Relax! the burden of the world is not on your shoulders,
I deconstruct, destruct, lose sleep relentlessly.

But almost always remember:

"To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget." - Arundhati Roy


In her long years of exile, she was like a poet's imagined forest, full/quite/overwhelmed in moonlight. Her longings echoed in her songs and ripened passion and madness in the forest darkness.

When Love invaded and took her away.

Now an average lover, living amidst limits, everyday she searches the insides of her body for a wild-fire.


I think a lot more than i write lately, i am in this sense of lapse where i cannot speak about the things i wish to speak of.

I still don't know how i have dealt with loss so far in my life.
All i can remember through distant, distant memory is of the early winter evening when on the steps of the Ganga, i lit a candle beside the plate with all that my dead grandmother loved in food, turned around and left.
"It's our custom and once you light the candle you must leave, do not turn back" heard in the voice of the erudite thakurmoshai

And I remember the beautiful Tagore song that my brother played on the back drop in his phone,the sunken faces of my father and my brothers as much as i remember the smell of the soft cotton from my grand mother's saarees.


Every day when the bell rings they all huddle up in clusters. Rats go with rats; termites with fellow termites, pile up in smaller cars and scurry off to their tribes elsewhere.

I put on my bag and walk on a long journey back.

Mama says “But you must have a friend to roll around on the grass and watch the sun with! Guppy you’re such a lonely boy”

I once made friends with Fat Freddy, who took away my marbles and bit my hand. I said “Mama, I aint making no friends, friends bite!”

It was the feast of St. Mary’s and we all had to dress alike. Friends wore similar clothes, lovers wore similar hats and families were under big and colorful umbrellas.

And I was in my porch with a bottle, Mama had said something about being Lonely, so I breathed lonely into the bottle and thought that I would watch it grow every day and become a boy like me.

And some day we both shall be men.

As it goes without saying that in this world there are happy people and there are sad people and there are poets!