An Invitation



Summer, 2012


When you enter my flat

And wipe you feet on the mat

She will welcome you with a smile

And you will forget your journey of all the mile.

She holds my childhood and boyhood

She is my hiding place if I need a hood

From the chore and melancholy of life daily–

A warmth she carry, a tenderness she carry

And it will get spread on you

when you visit my flat…will you?


Newest Members, Book Fair 2017



A Photo Session, February 2017

National Poetry Writing Month Day#25: A Poem on Emotional Relationship that People have with Particular Kinds of Spaces

I’m not a good photographer so apology for the images being not so good. The featured image is from April 2017 (taken a few days back for the World’s Book Day).


Spell, Bastard, Scandal, Jester & Battle



prince mine own lord wanteth


princesses wast the lady gives

she clasp the moon

and wish f’r a prince

but stepm’ther spell’d

anoth’r princess


his bethinking is like a hare


he dependeth on his back

the bastard got the f’rm’r

three broth’rs fight for throne

on the wall in private

father, fusty l’rd, look on


young l’rd ask f’r m’rcy


off’r a lot of gold in exchange

in the middle of the night

to the leadeth’r of the lombard

scandal remaineth in the chamb’r

bastard an’ther b’rn in stable


fusty l’rd stands nak’d


pricking at owneth buttock

the another young’r that gent 

imitated that gent

th’re wast nay glass between

jester on anoth’r side laughing


the battle trumpet hast been blown


the springeth is in its full col’r

that gent needeth to w’rk hard to earneth

f’r his children, f’r his wife

bef’re that gent wend to joineth the war

oh l’rd bringeth that gent home backeth


Written in Shakespearian English (few I had kept in modern English like jester and wife). The ones that are confusing and may need a stress on thoughts are:

# bethinking: Thinking

# leadeth’r: Leader

# fusty l’rd: Old Lord

# that gent: He or Him

There’s repetition of two animals in this type of illustrations (I had used two ’cause marginalia of the Medieval Manuscript, I think, is incomplete without them):

Hare: According to researchers, these timid and cowardice animals are used to depict a foolish or coward person and his never-thought or just-plunge-into action.

Snail: This is the most popular animal. According to Lilian Randall, from the British Library, the snail was a symbol of the Lombards, a group vilified in the early middle ages for treasonous behavior, the sin of usury, and ‘non-chivalrous comportment in general.’ 

National Poetry Writing Month Day#24: Ekphrasis based on the Marginalia of Medieval Manuscripts.

I sometimes write Ekphrasis so the prompt I enjoyed. But, the challenge of deciphering the marginalia and that too from Medieval manuscripts is not an easy task. But, once I wrote one, I ended up writing four more and that too in the Shakespearian English. Will be glad to know thoughts of you, readers. 

Disturbous Aprilous Mind



disturbed mind want to write….

what, but, shall be the topic of write…

s’thing mischievous…

s’thing rauncheous…

s’thing grotesqueous…

s’thing melancholious…

s’thing natureous…

s’thing presentous


mind is sparrow…

jumping from door to door…

wanting more than more…


# “ous” is suffix meaning “full of”. So, creating some new words courtesy to my disturbed mind. Feel free to comment if you want, after hitting the Like. 

Camouflage (52-Word & 6-Sentence Science Fiction)


She wants to look around, but, she cannot. She is undercover. He had put on her a long coat and trousers with a backpack like human women carries. Everything brightened up round her. He took her up; thrust a wire through the loop of the needle in her hand. These photographers…she whine.

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Photo Challenge #161


Pages (Dual-Elevenie)




Work title

Hard toiled thoughts

Making abstract world reality




Cacography ideas

Crisscross thoughts errand

Writing in flow constantly



National Poetry Writing Month Day#23: A Double Elevenie

Thanks to Gloria Gonsalves for this challenge. Today is World’s Book Day. So here’s to book and the prologue i.e. starting point of it manuscript.


Let’s Get Lost…Let’s Create a World…Let’s Read…


Bhova Pagla & Bruce Springsteen (A 6-Sentence “Earth Day” Flash/Micro Fiction)


It’s Bhova Pagla’s duty to keep the street in our neighbor clean–as he thinks of. Thus, after a function or special day he can be seen collecting scraps and all; like on 16th August, he can be seen picking up the National Flags fallen on the street. This comes with his abusive curse–ranging from a son of a bitch to cruder most that I cannot write.

This noon, when I was returning from office, I saw him collecting dried dead tree leaves and humming Bruce Springsteen’s Working On a Dream; elders say he is a Gold Medalist in Bio-Chemistry; it was the divorce that made him pagla, lunatic.

I asked him, we share a cordial relation somehow, of his mission. Bhava Pagla smiled, exposing his gapped teeth set behind the heavy grey-bearded chin, “alright! That’s professional whistling right there…am working on a dream…to build a tree in this concrete jungle…”


#Pagla means Lunatic, eccentric person. 

The Fall of Dronacharya



It was the fifteenth day,

Krishna asked Bhima to kill the elephant named Ashwatthama;

Yudhishthira was asked to do what he had not done yet then.

Bhima kills the elephant with his mace and yelled: “Ashwatthama is dead…

Drona heard and first believing it then deny; how can immortal be dead…he had said.

He asked Yudhishthira the truth.

Oh, what has happened then no one knows. 

The man who never lied in his full life ’til then said:

he’s dead…your son has been killed…Ashwatthama is dead…

And then he paused (hesitation or an act enacted) and in low voice completed

It’s an elephant, though…” Wheels of his chariot, that never touched ground touched.

The chaos of war camouflaged the last words (or is it the sore father’s soul)

Dronacharya put down his sword Asi and lament in the high tone;

He laments for all the misdeeds, doings evil in the Kurukshetra Battlefield.

Dhristadyumna, son of King Drupad, forward with his sword; his destination awaits.

Arjuna tried to stop him; killing an unarmed warrior is a cowardice act…he dictated.

But, Dhristadyumna was born from fire for this sole purpose; no one can hold him back.

Before much ado, his sword decapitated the meditating penanced Dronacharya. 

He laughs to being in success for keeping his promise to kill Dronacharya, 

Made to Pandavas. Lesser he knows that he would meet the same fate a few days later.


The poem is based on the Drona-Vadha Parvha of Drona Parva from the epic Mahabharata.

National Poetry Writing Month Day#21: A Poem that Incorporates an Overheard Speech

The speech of Yudhishthira is one I, and many of us Bengalis. has grown up with. Whenever deception or some sort of treacherous means has been used to win over the situation, we say and also heard often and sometimes, “Ashwatthama hoto…eetea gojo…” (Ashwatthama is dead…it’s an elephant…).

The Featured Image is Mahabharata Battle Scene “Valiant Brothers at War” painted in Kamasan Style and procured from NOVICA site.

29 (A Birthday Post)




This street knows me very well; has seen me grown up.

This street had taught me to cross the road and to learn varied car brands.

This street is what I adore; where I walk lorn when I need a shelter from all humdrum.


The school that I had studied is not a small one. The teachers who were there had retired

Or had left the school. Still, when I meet them, they talk to me like am that spectacled kid.


One is not in contact for a decade; it was me who had stopped the conversations.

We had a fallout on a girl; he loved her I loved her. My first love was that.

These days when I think of once, I think if I could bring those days back.


One is not in contact for half a decade; time, at first, then, life is the reason sole.

He dreamt of becoming an Indian cricketer; playing for the country.

Last time I saw him, we talked on he had become a nine to five employee.


One is going to get married a few days later; I’m waiting for this day for so long.

He is the first with whom I had my first drink. He is the one who had been there

Whenever I needed help, whenever I needed a consultation.


One is busy with life; Facebook, Whatsapp all we’ve; his birthday is same day, not month.

We start off, being foe nineteen years ago, and ended up being friends, being a team

working together. He is a brilliant handsome guy with no affair, no addiction.


One has got married and now a wife of a lawyer; living in Delhi; she was my closest once.

She was the only girl for who I didn’t fall and she knows that well. We do not talk much

now but when we do Apocalypto has also to sitbeing despised.  She is my angry teacher.


One is a busy entrepreneur; I like her; I had told her, but, she had said nothing ’til now.

We don’t meet much. We don’t talk much. But, when we talk I let her do the talking

Because I like to listen to her. She carries a vibe of positivity around her.


One is my brother from another mother; he’s there when I broke down;

He’s there when I need to be clicked; a score and a four our friendship running its show.

We quarreled, argumented enough to severe the tie, but, it’ll never happen I know now.



I had grown walking in these alleys, bylanes, byroads. I’ve known my city through it.


The store that is at the bylane, few minutes from my home, was the first from where

I bought my first cigarette and lightened it there; keeping an eye around. I was late-

seventeen then; the wine shop that is few minutes from the shop is from where I had

My first bottle of vodka; I was in late nineteen then. Street, friends all have changed now.



I don’t know what owning a house means. Here and there and still I am a tenant with

Ma. I had grown up in different houses, different streets, different neighbors. And I

what I today is of all these factors, all these aspects.



I had cried first when Didi left for his in-laws house after marriage.

These streets had seen us growing up. Had seen her love story getting unfurl.


Now they see her with her son every morning or evening on way to school or

Park. The park that is there just a few minutes from my home had seen me carrying

The lad for an evening stroll or taking him for the pandal hopping during Puja.



The road that goes by turn into crossing the new police station, there lives the man

Wisest I’ve ever met. He was not my teacher, but, also the one who used to read my gibberish poems When I had started writing. From him, I came to know of my father a lot.

Gibberish poems when I had started writing. From him, I came to know my father a lot.


At his place, in his tuition, we met. The bylanes, bystreet, neighbor had seen us roaming

Hand in hand. I do not remember whether it had rained or whether there were the roads

were full of fallen leave when I had held her hand first time.


Now she is a mother of one little daughter. And one of the dearest friend I have from my

Growing period. Love, you ask nothing there. Because we were young, we were

Recognizing the world then.  So discard that thought, mon ami(e).



Changes are inevitable. That’s why the field where I and my friends used to play or

Chat; where the annual fair and many more small fairs used to held is now a stadium

With a mall beside. There are apartments, expensive buildings demolishing the old.


The stretch of bypass that used to be desolate almost after nine, is a busy one. The

Darkness cannot be found as they are halogen lighted. The number of vehicles, public

Buses have increased. This street has grown with me one can say, I can comment.



The road that leads to the Petrol Pump, where the Durga Puja is a popular one

Had seen me walking with her in a wet April evening. Weaving dreams besides

Giving her a walk through the streets names and where can they lead to.


The Mall, I mentioned, had seen us on a date for the last time. The street that leads away

From there had seen us traveling for the very last time together. The street is witness to

Many of my life happenings.


A few months later it had seen me walking back home in drunken footsteps with my

Office colleague. I hadn’t cursed her, but, had lament for her. This street, these bylanes,

These bystreets had listened to them.



She had come to our home on a September evening and had leave one April evening,

One year and seven months later. She used to stand there at balcony looking out at

The street. She liked to keep standing there and with failing eyes used to look at the

Crowd, at the people, at me going to the office, at Ma going to the office.


This street has taught Ma how to ride a bus for the office. This street had seen her going

To her office on the first day with her father. This street had also carried his hearse–

I was seven then. I vaguely remember him. Helping me to board the school bus.



The street has seen me grown up. The street has carried the last journey of my Dadu,

Dida. The street had let me walk with my lovers. This street also accompanied me

When I need to talk to self or need to be calm. At night, it is my muse.


The street, the people, the shops, the shop owners all know me by name. Some like me

Also. Due after due, order after order–they never said a word to me except few.



A decade or so from now, when I’ll bid farewell, I wish of a wet April morning or

Melancholic dry leave-filled street of November to carry me.


That day, my friend, do not follow me. Do not crowd behind my hearse. Because I

Do not want the street to feel left out. Instead, celebrate my farewell not my life.









(the clock shows it’s quarter past twelve)

The moon is yellow on the sleeping, though awaken, city neon sky

The crescent it is. The streets are halogen in color; they’re empty

Like today’s page of my diary. A car whoosh as a word crossed my mind

Disappearing behind my line of sight into the darkness of the night.

Prevalence silence is now that an erratic mind needs to delve into the creation.


The moon, my eyes went to, from my window of my room is showing its marks.

You know, what are they…they are mountains of the moon…my Grandma had taught,

Once, I was young and was gazing at the moon when there was a power cut.

You know…after a couple of years when we’ll get marry we’ll see the moon together…

I’ll wrap you in my arms…your head will rest on my bosom…she had said once.


I’ve got a pack of cigarettes, nine in number. Three or one more will get burn.

In the darkness of my room the edge glow like a firefly. Reminiscent of

Childhood knocking where there were trees, there were shrubs. And

There was much darkness than now. And the blinking fireflies used to dance

On those little verdant neighbor of mine like the daisy chain hang in a festival.


An ambulance runs in haste. Its siren had been heard before a few seconds ago.

Now it is seen as the white flash with blurred siren light. The resonance remain

As posit before washing away with time. The man (or is it a woman) will live

For the night or not is the thought I played on before moving on to another.

(Death has a under-the-breath relation with the night I deduce before moving on.)


A crow caws putting a halt to my chain of thoughts. This little balcony of mine

Is misty from the smoke of the cigarette. They caw again. Are they asleep?

Or are they calling out of sleep? The depth of silence got redefine as they caw

From my neighbor neem tree. I inhale the nocturnal breeze before lighting another

cigarette. The flapping of wings was heard. I look around at my sleeping neighborhood.


The breeze is serene. It sings in a somber tune. Few like me wants to sleep but can’t.

Like my neighbor. She is sitting on the parapet of her window and talking on the phone.

I have seen her. But, don’t know whether she has. She may have seen the flicker of

My cigarette. I’m not sure ’cause she is a silhouette in the street light. I also used to

Wake like this. Not long ago. But, long ago, once. The rhythm is now melancholic.


The urban development has erased many things, made extinct almost many things.

Like the civets. Two are, now, on the prowl walking with an elan on my corner

Neighbor’s flat. One seems to be elder from size; another junior–may be its child.

Once, when the season was summer or monsoon, we’ve to keep close the doors

And windows protecting the fruits and meals from this notorious nocturnal hunter.


You feeling sleepy… drowsy…do not surpass your yawn; don’t keep the urge of

Sleep to be unsaid. Sleep. Sleep, my friend. I’ll be here, right next to you

(If you want) or right at your head reading in the dim street light or just

Typing down my ideas slowly and silent as a mouse shall be or thief shall be.

Sleep. Sleep, my friend. The night is coming to an end.

(the clock shows it’s half past three)


The featured image is Nocturne: Black and Gold – The Fire Wheel by James Abbott McNeil Whistler (1834-1903)

National Poetry Writing Month Day#17: Nocturne

A-Z Challenge Letter N for Night…N for Nocturne…

16th April



We’re not lovers a’more, nor are we acquaintances…


The rose, once red, now discolored and an obscure mark in the yellow pages,

Dust it and blow it away in the wind when the wind will be of winter or late summer.

The emptiness, stretching over on my bed, will be looking for you–

always or may be for the time…


If we catch up with each other in the crowd,

Just halt to shake hands and ask…nothing…by lips, but, let eyes speak…

(Or) we can just steal a smile, if not, a glance;

If he asks you, or she asks me, then we can (and will) come up with s’thing…


If the past comes up in a random conversation or while making love,

Then pass it on as a mistake; a mistake that was innocent at the core of heart…


The dreams that we had weave together are now meaningless…

The promises made are now nothing just documentation of a love, happened once

We’re not lovers a’more, nor are we acquaintances…

But, the heart of mine still seeks a chance encounter to rewrite our story of love…

Even after all this time…a year…even after you have become now of s’one…


We’re not lovers a’more, nor are we acquaintances…

The poem is inspired by the song “Maana Ke Hum…” from the upcoming Bollywood movie “Meri Pyaari Bindu “.

The featured image was her favorite. 

National Poetry Writing Month Day#16: In the Form of a Letter to a Person, Place or Thing or in the Form of a Back-and-Forth correspondence.



Iztiraar (Ghazal)


An interesting prompt it is. Ghazal. I, being, an avid listener to Ghazals of Mirza Ghalib sung by maestros like Ghaulam Ali, Jagjit Singh and more had tried few in Bengali mainly, but, never in English. So, here’s an octet as an attempt. 

The word “Iztiraar“, in title, is an Urdu word meaning “Restlessness” in English


Darling, don’t expel me from your bosom, on night like this.

Darling, don’t lorn me to find path to home on night like this.


The lips, that say words, sing songs like the prayer at break of dawn,

That are vials of nectar, don’t let them remain parched on night like this.


The hair that you have set free, now straying in this night serene breeze,

And are touching your waist, let, me get lost in that on night like this.


The eyes, the deep brown hazelnut ones, grazing at the full yellowish moon,

Allow me to kiss them and close them in the fulfilment of our love on night like this.


National Poetry Writing Month Day#13: Ghazal

Please, forgive me if I committed any mistake and it’ll be grateful if you point out that.




Sylvia Plath is one of my favorites American poet. When today I read her featured interview, I want to write something like her, something like “angry” poem. I do not prefer to go out of the prompt. So, I write for the prompt–the Bop inspired by Plath. Let me know what you think of this attempt of mine. Will eagerly wait for all of yours comments.

An issue arose as I woke up that morning–an April morning–few days ‘fore my

birthday. The issue I would not be able to define. It was somewhere between anger

and disturbed, between cursing and writhing. It was like someone had chained me

to the hook–by the neck, by the ankles, and by the wrists; I wanted to scream, but,

I could not because of the others and the morning serenity they were basking in.

I felt to lie back and close my eyes, but, they were adamant. They want as they were.


Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep


I lie. I lit a cigarette. The smoke swirls up and got splashed–flat and dismantled; the

fan overhead seems to be moving in slowest speed and slowly softly chanting. I felt the

loneliness coming up from my foot; breathing on my legs and it soon will be upunder to

the waist. Fuck….I cursed self. And put my hand under my head. Loneliness sighs and lies

down beside me. I felt sleepy; a cloud of drowsiness swimming over my eyes. The taste

of the cigarette was bitter–it is at the end. I want to write. I want to vent out. I want to be

satiated; I want my heart to be sore. But, the shackles were clasping me; new cigarette

light up, like a phoenix, from the flame of the last one. The loneliness seducing me on a

fresh trial. I got up and looked in the mirror. Another me standing there bared all.


Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep


I walked to the balcony. Everyone running; everyone fleeing. The cacophony of the

traffic was at high, composed at a haphazard, zig zag note. My eyes roam ‘fore fixating at

the neighbor’s attic. The girl, living there, standing in her innerwear and applying color

on her lips. The haunted feel pushed me to see her as I  decide to walk away; it breathes

on my shoulder letting me think the rejected act the best now. Fuck…I say aloud and walk

to the bathroom. And put head under running tap over the filling tub. Melancholia I’m in.


Give me a paper and a pen…if not…then give me cyanide…give me something to be asleep


National Poetry Writing Month Day#11: Bop Poem

A-Z Challenge Day#9: I

A Bop Poem inspired by Sylvia Plath form of writing






Any day you can’t see

the crow which has a

notable white stripe over

the protuded beak and

a queer round head, two

or three or a dense bunch

of hair brushing the breeze

of the late cloudy noon. Yes,

a late cloudy noon or early

summer morn or autumnal

eve it comes and sit on the

grill of my ‘lone balcony. It 

never caws. Only bask in 

the breeze closing its eye.

Bits of biscuits or bread or

rice mixed with curry, when 

offered, it look at first like it’s

trying to read my mind, then

hop on the grill for few turns,

looking a’one is there or not,

‘fore it start having the offering

and then fly away after knocking

the grill with its beak. You can’t see

the crow any day (you want).

#A’one is anyone

A-Z Challenge Day#1: A for Animal (Crow)

National Poem Write Month Day #1: Kay-Ryan-esque Poem (Please comment on my attempt)

Stream of Consciousness Saturday (04/01/2017): Any

Time (Confessional Poem)



the year is coming to the end last we saw each other, we talk to each other.

the second year it is we kissed first…the memory that haunts me most…

how I feel I’ll tell you…definitely…will tell you…but will we ever see each other again…

you had said we’ll meet after twenty years or so like this…but, these days I feel I’ll not be long…

I may be here for a decade or so…

the year is coming to the end last we saw each other, we talk to each other.

the second year it is we made love for the first time…lying on my naked–

you had promised not to leave me….and made me promise to not to leave you…

the memory murmurs around me when I’m all alone…in the room…in the crowd…

the time was on our side…not long but a few months ago…I’ll wait for you on the other side–

of the time…to get my bidding kiss…to hear the bidding speech from you….



27th March (Confessional Poem)




the shirt that you had gifted…the light purple check shirt…I don’t wear that a’more…

the tee that you had gifted…red in color…which you had put on my naked body–

on my birthday…I don’t wore that a’more…then there’re a black tee, a white shirt…

I don’t wore any of them…how can I…all of them carry the memories of yours…

carry the evenings when in excuse of trying them on you took off what I was wearing–

and then after making love you put them on…how can I wore them….


the mobile that you had gifted I, though, use till now…s’times I post my blog using it…

s’times when I get angry on you…or when you memory titillated me–specially when–

I think the lips that I used to kiss and that shall belong to me; the body that I used to–

adore, that I used kiss all over–are now s’one else…s’one else touch those lips, —

s’one else now adore the soft skin…yes, it’s hurt…that’s why the screen of the phone now–

has a scar, a hair line one, on it…after I had threw it in a moment of over-agony…


today’s date…another thing that I want to forget…that I wish shouldn’t had happened…

I think I’m the only one cling to that memory…that late spring eve, when we had kissed–

at the foot of the equestrian statue of Colonel Outram at Victoria Memorial…two years ago…

this memory and lots more haunts me…pushes me…

the shirts are now a crumple piece of cloth shove at the corner of the almirah…

the phone…I wish could get lost…or could get out of service beyond repair…


the memories are the only one that I can’t throw away…do you remember me…

do you recollect me…our moments of love…do you ever thought of calling me…

didn’t you thought of ever giving our, not me, relationship a chance…

didn’t you ever thought of returning to me…


#A’more is anymore and s’times is sometimes

Daily Prompt: Purple

We Few…#4


The night has its own depth, own symphony.

Dogs bark, car screech, sudden caws and we few…

Some of us awake now talking to love one

(a magic flow in the calm compose breeze)

Some of us reading and writing

(silence is best for creation sayings go)

And some are like this poet

In darkness thinking whether to break down or reminisce old days…

Kolkata, how was your day…

Satisfaction, Wave, Fable & Snaps (Haiku/Senryu)



summer eve outside warm

sultry traffic most red cold

Uber satisfaction


all finding roots life

reincarnating wave splash

young life war starts

[Dedicated to Alan Kurdi]


roots usurped long ago

young now old reminisce those 

days fables they are

[Based on Bengal Partition 1947]


new root of research

Cassini bud on April 

Saturn here we come

[CassiniHuygens click and sent pictures of Saturn]


Wrote while on the way to a Marriage Ceremony…long drive it is…so in meanwhile written these Haiku on my cell phone & posting it from here…

This Night…



the melancholic night just has starts

embrace of love is all I wants.

wants to dip in your scent, in your perfume

wants to listen to your voice, any talk any tune.

aur tujhse haseen tera pyaar…tu jane na…


the storm that raging over the city this night

hustle that the trees are singing this night

let it get mix with our pleasure

composing a tune that will be only our…

lag ja gale ke phir yeh hasin raat ho na ho…


# Aur tujhse haseen tera pyaar…tu jane na…: A line from the song “Yeh Nayan Daare Daare” from the movie Kohraa (The Fog), 1964. The free translation of the line can be–“Most loving than you is your love…you don’t know that…

# Lag ja gale ke phir yeh hasin raat ho na ho…: The opening line as well refrain of the same name song from the movie Woh Kaun Thi? (Who Was She?), 1964. The free translation of the line can be–“Embrace me this night which will never come again…