A chipped teacup, warmed in my hands, Is love when you stir in the honey, unasked,

In cold evenings, when the forecaster predicts a scatter of hail to fall

Using a hashtag is activism In a world of biterature.

My brittle nails become the sharpest knife Under the light of obscure scrutiny

My memoirs of 2025, do you know I want to forget you?

To love is to hold the knife To love is to do the math To love is to carry a box full of fruits To love is to buy flowers, Either way you carry the burden of it, of love.

One morning, God asked His angels to make a heart. They did not know what a heart was.

Spectral land—you are bleeding hollow; flesh and bone at the precipice of ruin,

In my wildest imagination, away from all rhyme or reason, I weave my realm, unbridled and free, craving for the unfelt and extreme, by all standards but my own.

The Little Boy.He sold magic .mostly for free, .wrapped in candy wrappers, .joy and spring-coloured rosettes, .and, at times, priced at .a few tufts of dandelion threads.

The unnamed You can get lost trying to  get back to the exit at the Vatican Museum. 

If every leaf that falls is a memory you’ve forgotten, then let my ink become rain— so you might remember how it felt to grow with me.

Tea breaks, the perks of a bike ride.

"The ghosts still sing in Shantinagar" is one of the winning entries for our Halloween themed writing contest, 'Spooktober: Bhooter Adda'

War scenes creep like a daily soap to watch for seasons on mobile screens now;

The torn tune of a broken violin.Signifies the evanescence of joy..So many faded voices intermingle .This day and the night. .Moonlight has disappeared .In the sky overcast with commingled clouds. .The wind is sombre with the sadness .Of Bismillah’s ‘she

I train myself not to meet their eyes— those begging at corners,

In the hush—footsteps fill the laden streets, .grasshoppers teeth to return home. Veiled divine mother, .she blooms in shards—from under the rain.from beyond the sallow moon.in her lion’s gait… tidal sorrow pushing through .your swallowing metropolitan heap. .

I wake up to the smell of coral jasmine Those mushrooms in my garden of dreams.

I have become the smoke .In someone’s teacup at 8,.The quiet breeze that flickers a candle–.before the call to prayer..Dhaka, you burned me to ash.And tried to mold me like Hephaestus .As if I were your forged blade,.Your myth-woven metal..But stil