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

Winters feel less like winters, the sun burns on my fragile skin. December. Tell me it’s

What do you carry in your heart’s bundle? A lineage?

Ami chiratare dur-e chole jabo.(I will go far away forever).I’ll go far away forever—.yet I won’t let myself be obliviated..I’ll turn air to knot your hair.when the bun gets loose..Immersed in your tune.when the sky dozes, wind weeps,.with teary ey

“What will come out of all this?” The day starts with the devil flying overhead,

Do you remember the sunset on the 18th of July? What colour was it?

Summer has imprinted crow’s feet under my eyes, .Yet I have aged only a quarter. .That’s was when .I dunked myself—starting with the crown of my head—into the ocean where The southern sun resides, to imprint upon my face its sheen, .rhythm of miracles, and to honour it wi

Always the same whining about the distances, always the same