Of what I left behind

—the place where

I let the weight of the city slip out of my body,

left my soul to float, tied only to the trees,

let my mind be whisked away, free, by the clouds,

and returned having:

filled myself with all the air I could breathe,

wearing the scent of those mountains—a scent like that of water bursting upon mossy rocks and disappearing between one hundred year old trees;

filled my ear with the sound of those gurgling—whispering streams

So the next time you ask me where I’ve been—

—away, away, up and upwards where the clouds are disentangled by mountains,

where the sky turns purple and crimson and golden all at once and whose silence heals your soul,

there, just there

I have been set free.


About why we’re never meant to be

The early morning sunshine and you with your milk coffee—a vignette not quite for me,

Because baby,

I’m made of bittersweet black coffees
and late night film-watching sprees.

Dark skin, darker chocolates
and even darker dreams,
don’t really fit in the whiteness of your New York City penthouse dream.

And you with your love for neon signs,
forever oblivious to my trust in the night,

with your earphone music in your
tubelit office at midday never noticing the green garden below,

with your obsession with edges
and all the while I keep falling off them

with your sense of incredulity about my
daily contentment derived from a sunset behind cloudy mountains

with your mania for store bought yogurt
when I taught you how to curdle milk at home

with your compulsive notion of enforcing boundaries
while talking about breaking mine.

So, when I think of what it is I fell in love with

I think,
was it your light brown eyes that appeared a little skeptical in the cafeteria light

Was it
the (deliberately) unsure way you touched your perfect hair,

Was it
my misinterpretation of your confession for the starlit sky

your love was of the patches seen through windows
and in between concrete jungles?

You knew and I now see,
our love was doomed from the beginning
Because baby,

hate the pause of journey in between two cities,
the loneliness which you must fill with parties,
hate my bougainvillea filled balcony and
the occasional worms that crawl out singing,
You hate the sense of comings and goings
and that is the


I exist in.

আমার Kolকাta


bumping off buses and cars and subway stations and trains overflowing with the dead


cowering behind shadows,


like the stench of battery acid

consuming the night sky


Kolkata, tall and uneven,

filthy underneath its colours

spicy and sweet,


under a swarm of bloodsuckers and flies.

My city collapses on itself:

looser than rubber band stretched for three hundred years,

tight as a virgin arsehole

Now emerging from beneath,

spilling through the cracks and grills,

like liquid tar, burning cold


by and by,

slowly slipping into my veins

s l o w l y

drowning me alive, one with the dead.

Fear not,

I whisper to myself every single morning

it is almost over.


Edit: another cliché title which I like better.