Forgiveness

The mist hangs over the rustling river Like haunting memories without a shape The scarred moonlight, reflected in the water Broken and vulnerable, like our open wounds The silhouettes of the mountains Looming shadows of words spoken in malice Naked branches, covered in ice Hardened skins, hiding our hurt inside You light a fire with…

Yellow Lilies

It’s been two years since We walked on our secret trail. Two years to the day since, We trod on the warm grass The gentle wind, your caressing fingers Whispering softly in our sail. It’s been two years now, We promised each other We would come back here, Lie gently, by the sparkling river You…

Moments

We are created of irreversible, inimitable moments, Inescapable, undefined kinks in a routine. The defiant, unmistakable signs of life Like peculiarities in a conversational flat-line. Imagine that moment in space, when a flash of lightning webs across the fractured clouds. If you slowed it down, you could retrace the lines that it draws on the…

Metaphors

Our love is like the wintry afternoon, gentle and comforting, With a warmth that ebbs and flows, of a transitory extravagance The sunshine that washes onto our feet, soaking into our callous souls Streams into the scarred windows of our fragile, unstopping hearts Our thoughts, caught like spinning dust — for once our weaknesses Our darkest desires…

Conversations at Midnight, With a Fiercely Independent Woman

My typically Bengali girlfriend, brings to the table, decades of organic and traditional formulae – passed on to her by her mother, and to her mother by her grandmother and so on – like intergenerational letters, written in ink on parchment – replete with the emotions of decades – that have become a part of…

All Things New

Like every other Bengali child in the colony, I was handed a box of crayons the moment Igrasped the fundamental art of holding my neck straight.My ungodly screams in the middle of the night made a lasting impression too, as I was sent off to learn the ropes of Rabindra Sangeet before I could say…

About Magic and Second Chances

There’s something incredibly enchanting about a wintry midnight, when a city is drowned in slumber. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about the golden streetlamps that hover over the expressway – like tall, sun kissed trees that have weathered centuries of storms and decadence – as the world around them grows into silence. There’s something magical about…