The only problem in our ‘Shahebiana.’ Is our complexion, that’s not ‘White.’ Still, we don’t stop trying; use ‘Vinolea,’ Powdering our skin in layers, with might. We are back from the West: a few, We destroy the Congress in a chew. Although our Shahebs are our God, We make them angry on a nod. Whereas, we walk like the Shahebs. And give speeches in perfect English; But in the time of crisis: steadily we run, Like every other Bengali son.

And the crocodile cuts through the burbling rapid, mossy snout blinking with sun.

The plane begins its descent past the customary carpeting of sepia clouds,

You’re a traffic island in our consciousness, O Rabindranath!

Every word I write is contemporary  My pain is urban

I slip into your hut and salvage bones, a soul,

May love guide our path forward May joy bring us together. Shubho noboborsho and long live resistance.

One of these days, you will lose one or two limbs to the slow erosion of years, the same silence that took Grandfather’s stories mid-sentence.

Once in a full moon, Ophelia's flowers received full bloom, beside the daffodils, But they never saw eye to eye, as a narcissist only stares at her own reflection

This forest is a tideline–deep with stillness,  where, 

I read poems often, and recently I came across a book titled Fenaphul. The cover—painted with soft blue and white watercolour splotches—immediately caught my attention. I decided to read it when I learned that it had received the Oitijjhya-Shantanu Kaiser Literary Award 2025 and was written by a young poet.

I miss those spring days when the sun lay on my skin

When your bright beaming dark eyes, matched mine, locked like a stubborn vine,

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.