The day...

The day,there won't be
The dust,off your shoes,at my door...

I will know,you had to hurry...



The day,you won't break
A bit of routine,amidst the busy habits...

I will know,you had lacked chance...



The day,you won't find
From a dirty crowd of unnecessary rags...

The dried petals of a rose,I had once gifted...


I will know,the geometry of your being,has changed.....

You...

You are not my love...



You are the habit
I wake up to,every morning...


You are the story
I write,bits and crumbs,everyday...


You are the scent
I carry within,every droplet...



You are all of
An impure work,of

My fiction,and,my actuality.....

My girl...

A few of her wild curls
Crumple,on my shores...


The lather,on her eyelashes
Wash away,the marks,off the sands...


Not a scribble of an erstwhile
She's my contemporary poetry...


The gravity within,is an untold
You'd never know,never invade...



She's my untamed girl...

She's my plethora,my seas.....

Nataraj...

Infinity,will end today,to
Begin,all afresh...


The dance of bliss has begun,lighting
The fire of light...


Standing on a toe,his face stoic
He wears the umbilical cord...


He dances to the rhythm,off illusion
The timekeeper held,in his hand...



Ignorance gasps,for a breath of life,at


The feet of Nataraj.....

Mockingbird...

She was a free bird...


Her wings,she flew them to freedom...



A rhythm,she found,by the road
She thought was her's...


Her uncertainties were restricted,to
Crumbs of a stale bread...


She sang a song,off her tired wings
The mirror of an original...



She was a free bird...


She was my mockingbird.....

Have you ever thought...

Have you ever thought...


The vermillion of a forehead,is it a dawn,or a twilight...


The rain drenched sky is impeccable,yet
Your skin smells of a dried filth...


The differences,are they just a difference,or
The whole of it,an Aesop's fable...


The crowd of my city,are they busy,maybe
Just lonely...



So many had to be thought...


Have you ever thought.....

Ides of March...

Another of a kingdom,will

Change hands,this sunset...

A narcissistic lord,will

Fall,to hidden imperfections...

A pal,will write the unusual,for

The sake of a misplaced honour...

Someday,all of it,will be summed,in

A page,of a lost chapter...

Caesar will sleep to the setting sun...

The Ides of March have come.....

I wanted to tell a story...

I wanted to tell a story...

All of it remained,undone...


Bits and pieces,rest,here and there...



Some of it,forgotten,in a night's sleep
Some was burnt,in the ashes of a cigarette
A part of it,lost,in the city's accustomed crowd
A bit,stirred,in the day's temperature
A few had quit,before I did know...

What remained in the pages,remained,off the rest...



My story was left,untold.....

Through a looking glass...

The eyelashes were perfectly dry
The reason to cry,had been forgotten...



The sleep was just a habit,today
The singular dream that remained,had lost an excuse...



The writings were all of a gibberish
The poetry within,had left behind,the memoir...



The life was,but,a profession
The mortal inside,had slept to,a sunset...





He had looked back at him...


Through a looking glass.....

Gravity...

It's all gravity...



The answers I keep looking for,in
The troubled waves,of your hair...


The tears,blackened,in
The dried kohl of your eyes...


The paradigm of a desire,in
The vapour,of a shared cigarette...


The untold,accustomed fiction,in
The unfinished smile,carrying you...



Of gravity.....

Forever...

A promise of a forever,has
Ended,over a coffee cup...


A dream that used to be constant
Scratched,off a night's sleep...


A story I had started,over and over again
Remains,to be continued...


An eternal love song,you wanted to hear
I've dropped it somewhere...



My forever lies,hidden,in

The depth of a dawn,and a dusk.....

Everyday...

You had told me,

Your scribbles are unusual...


I had smiled,insufficient...



I whispered,
Wipe the kohl,off your eyes
You'll know,they are stale...



I'm not learned
My grammar is affordable...



Between an urbane crowd

I'm an everyday.....

My gibberish...

A bit of dirt,a bit of filth
Crumbs of a pastel,and a black and white

Amidst,halts my city,a minute...



A splash of rain and shine
A length of rice and curry,and a singular fish bone

Halfway,clings my dream,a splinter...



At the length of your kohl and lipstick
Lost are some words,unsophisticated...



A busy fly,on its dull wings

I find,all of my gibberish.....

You had said...

A cynical feline,all by herself
Walked the middle of a road...

You had said,it was ill...


A helpless mongrel,all of sudden
Wept to herself,alone...

You had said,it was an omen...



I had asked,why...

Mandates couldn't be questioned...



Between real and reality

You had said.....

Only if...

Erasing the dirt of time,if
I could go back...



In the middle of a day,woken off sleep
The dream of a previous night could be repeated...


The chanced mistakes of an everyday
One by one,could be undone...


The script of surviving,forgotten,in
The search of,a slice of life...



Only if...


I could start,all over again.....

It had rained...

A pair of feet walks by,of habit
Wearing the filth of yesterday...


A distant,dry leaf,sails through
The puddle of a previous sunset...


The fragrance of the first rain
Loses,in the city's dawn...


Morsels of it,yet remain,in
The potholes of a concrete...



In my lone skies


It had rained last night.....

Last poem...

I could have stood still,if
A bit of rest could be found in the hands of a clock...




At the end of a sunset,if
The lights could be turned off...

In the epilogue of a routine habit
A new is written...

Throwing off the dirt of a yesterday
Moments fade,lacking life...





At your difference,is composed
My last poem.....

My childhood...

I've lost my childhood...



The nursery rhyme I knew well
My first spelling mistake
I couldn't find them,anymore...


A slice of a fresh lie
The search for freedom,in my first cigarette
All of them are,just a habit today...



I've lost my childhood,in
The crowd of a desire,to grow up...


Time has shed skin.....

A story...

You had told me,

Do write a story,for me...



I sat down to write
A story,a different...


There wasn't a scratch in my blank pages...


The story had been penned,at
The length of a nothing...


If,at the end of a sunset,you could find it
Know,it was,for you...



Essays are common.....

Of me and Livingstone...

I walk the same road...



I live,in
The search of an unaccustomed alley...

A path,unnoticed,lost in
A forgotten journey...

A hidden arcade
Beyond the skies of virtue and vice,waits
Being unearthed,off a long sleep...



I walk the same road...


The footsteps of Livingstone.....

One...

I wanted to be one...



Write a first
That had never been written...

I did write one...

One more of that had been said...


The dream of an original
That had never been dreamt...


It was yet another dream...



I wanted to be one...


I am just one more.....

My Calcutta isn't happy...

I couldn't find happiness...



The Howrah bridge stands,adamant
Wearing the city's sweat...

In an inexpensive cup of tea,by the road
The rain drenched tea turns only...

A thick scent in the crowd of a bus
Untold were the people in it...

My city has remained...

What changed were a few pages...



My Calcutta isn't happy.....

A thing...

There's always a thing...



All that was said, and not
That remained,off dreams and actuality
The singular droplet on a tired leaf
A slice of the cigarette ash on the skin
The complete dark of a new moon night
The poetry in your silence
The curve in a straight line...



There's always a thing...


There's a thing in nothing.....

I couldn't write...

A lot remained,unwritten...



Between my today and to be,lies penned
A love story,soiled...


The city's busy congestion,archaic traffic,carries within
Mortal disguise and the skin,off stories...


The desire to sing a favourite,and
Completely forgetting all of the lyric...


The remains of what had been washed,of
A singular footstep,by the sea...



I couldn't write a feeling.....

Yours Chitrangada...

To whom it may concern...



My manhood is,but a mask
I carry a woman within...
I don't respect grammar
I'm an original...
You can rub the kohl,off my eyes
Call me an eccentric...
Your habits never ruffled me
I would still be the same...



Yours Chitrangada.....

I will come home...

I will come home...



The edge of a wild grass
A drop of fresh dew...

The broken earth,off warmth
A sudden downpour...

A black and white canvas
A slice of a shaded pastel...

An accustomed windpipe
The absence of dictates...



I will come home.....

Let me be the blue...

Let me be the blue...



Wearing a length of the sky
Misty,off a rain splash
A slice of breath,in my monochrome citylife
The whole of an unknown canvas
The stanza of an untried song
The feathers on the wing of a wild goose
The footsteps of a dead rose
The rusted railing by the abyss...



Let me be the blue.....

On the death of a cigarette...

At the length of a costed matchstick
Finds life,wrapped off nicotine,a cigarette...



A moment's life,will end in a moment
Carrying within,the wrinkles of yesterday,for a moment...



A few sips,off a crowded smoke,confines
Some,of my lousy habit...


The thick rush of smoke,loses character
And,in a moment,unnoticed,lies forgotten
My calculated moments,some more of them...


Blended,off time,sleeps,a cold cigarette.....

The girl...

The closet,by the chanced arcade
A girl stays on,incessantly...



A mass of wild hair,tied to
A bun,of neglect...



A few dreams,of an erstwhile
Washed off,bits and pieces,in
The crumbs and fish bones,and
A fair bit,of used habits...



The days of a life,clings to
The almost damp,pale churidar...



 The end of an inapt bath...

A bit of yesterday,lingers on.....

I'm not what I am...

I'm not what I am.



I am all of,what
Lies,between the cup and the lip...



I am scattered,in the whole
Of your perception,and
What you would never know...



I am all of,I could,and
What I couldn't be...



At the length of real and reality,lies

My being.....

I'm an artist...

I'm an artist...


I live with words...


I'm intellectually bald
My abstractions are naked...



I'm not different.


I live the simple.



Reviving the forgotten simplicity,is
The greatest form of art...


And
I'm an artist.....

Of men and women...

Men are from Mars.
Women,from Venus.


That's what they had to say.



Both belonged to Earth,of actuality...



They were congruent,in bits,and
Abstractly different,at times...



What had been left,in between,was


The urge,to be the same.....

Of all,that was said...

A lot had to be said.



Some was said,some more,untold...




Some had clinged,onto
The morning cup of tea,fresh from a sleep...



Some were knit,in
The monochrome smoke of a cigarette...



Some got washed away,with
The dirt of yesterday,off a rain...



Some of it,confined,in
Every morsel of a poetry...





Some of it,yet,unsaid,for


The lack of an address.....

Charulata...

Charulata wakes off one more sleep.


Bits and pieces of dreams,draped in the folds of her saree.



The vermillion on her forehead,smudged
A bit in the coffee cup,a bit in the lentil rice...


A bunch of unruly hair,peeps through
What had been tied to a bun...


Stuck in the arms of a clock,lies
The secrets of a busy memoir...


The loneliness,a routine habit,lies
Hidden,in slices of Tagore...


A sudden,unknown desire,lies
Stuck,in a leftover fish bone...


The person is washed off,everyday,in bits,as
She learns to put on an unknown surname...





Stuck in the antenna,lies one kite,lonely
Married to last night's stale leftovers,my Charulata.....

Transparency...

The moon stood constant
In
The still waters.



But
I had lost myself
To              
The clouds of time...






I looked at the mirror.
He looked back.


Some stranger he was.



The apparent had lost its distinct.



I had lost me,to them.....

Smoking is injurious to health...

And they say
Smoking is injurious to health...




A bunch of colours,and metaphors,and
The same lies,talked off different lips.

A cancer consumes us,slowly.

They call it government...




And they say
Smoking is injurious to health...




How much I splash colours
My skies remain bloodless.

Another parasite feeds on one more of our daughters.

They call it a mistake...




And they say
Smoking is injurious to health...




A thousand dreams pile up the bin.

Another of an original,lost in
The chaos of the ordinary.

They call it society...




And they say
Smoking is injurious to health.....

Was it me...

The pleasant breeze did kiss
All of the skin,it could find.


My sky was burnt,of
Thoughts and cigarette ash.


The air had love in it.


My breath was soiled,of
A lost innocence,and
A forgotten simplicity...




I stood there,but

The mirror was murky,or,was it me.....

What was left...

You had left my door,and
We knew,there was nothing left...


I reclined in my deckchair
Picked up a novel,but couldn't read a page...


I looked back at the table.


The half-left sandwich,the lettuce leaves
The scar of a rich lipstick on the coffee cup...


Carrying all of you,within
They had been left behind...




You had left my door. But.....

I couldn't write...

What remained of a leftover cigarette
Filled in,every wrinkle of my brain.

I sit down with my diary
The desire to write a new tune.

The whole of life
Tagore had penned it all
What was left,in pieces
The others drew a full stop to it...

My pages remained a complete blank
I couldn't write a fresh poetry...




The government has changed hands
The blue of the sky redone.

People stand by each other,and
Sings love,on air...

The soil smells of change,yet
Calcutta is decidedly Calcutta.

I write the same poetry in a different name,because
I couldn't write a fresh poetry...




Be it Ranjana or Charulata
Bela Bose to Nilanjana
They breathe the city,in
Halter neck tops and tight jeans.

Altitude is got,off high heels...

The song-seller of yesterday
Roams the streets and by-lanes
Living in bits,off his harmonium.

The difference of the grey skies,and
The metallic tramline,ends in
One more of the same chord.

One more page lies crumpled in the corner.

I tried and tried,and yet
I couldn't write a fresh poetry.....

Dawn and dusk...

The fingers that once held him by the hand
Wrinkled of time,tremble...


The shoulder he used to complain to
Dried,off the last of his tears...


The eyes he searched his answers in
Weathered by defeats,that couldn't be forgotten...


The first poetry he had stolen to write
Rusted in the yellowed pages of neglect...


The unspoken dream that was never dared
Buried deep down his actuality...






A son and a father walks along
The difference of dawn and dusk.....

That night I rained inside me...

The sky was too black
Hiding in it,all the grey of life
She had to give in,once for all.


That night I rained inside me...






The skin of a dead dream
The dirt that had piled within
Some habits had to be forgotten.


That night I rained inside me...






Days that had grown distance
The memories contained,in my wrinkles
I had to give up lingering.


That night I rained inside me.....

The life of a dream...

It was another of a morning
Basked in the broad daylight,until
I woke off the dream...



All of it was just a dream...




The girl I met at the bus stop
The secret wish on a singular eyelash
The innocence,long lost
They were all a dream...




The hundred dreams that died everyday
In bits and pieces...


The one dream
I thought was my reality...


They were never there,never born.

All of it was just a dream...




The missed call,I had never missed...


The poetry I was writing,or
I thought was my very own...


They were there...a dream.....

Theory of relativity...

I could laugh and yet not be happy...

It's all about parallelism...




I could just walk down the road
In search of new,you could think.


And only I would know the story
Of
A lost traveller...




I could sit down and write
All of a gibberish...
And you would call that poetry.




I could just spill some water off a glass
And you would debate it
Half of a fill or emptiness...




I could just speak aloud to me
And you would call me a lunatic...


The side of the asylum you stand in
Defines normalcy.....