Digging is hard work, especially if you're digging alone. The drop of sweat that, Originating from the hairline has trickled down the inevitability of your brow and now trembles upon the lash, Let it cloud your eye. No one is there to look at through the haze No hands disturbing the air, no feet pushing… Continue reading At the End of the Heart, There is Steel
In the dream, I am walking. The chain around my foot rattles like a hungry snake. Yet I am walking, floating... down the sleek black streets of my past as if there is no chain around my ankle. As if this rain-soaked evening is as fresh and untainted as the day its first memory was… Continue reading Look Elsewhere
If the gods were real, what would I ask of them? Riches, comforts, unencumbered health A home with white walls and a courtyard with trees A river to swim, a river to drown A meadow to walk without pain A release, from pain. If the gods were real, should I bow to them or accuse… Continue reading If the Gods were Real
Trigger Warning: Trauma, Self harm, Intimate Partner Violence
The heaviness in your heart is not for the world to see, yet who to share it with, but the world? Who to cling to but the unknown, the unfamiliar? Love can heal, they say, but what if love is not enough? What if the hurt you carry has spilled one too many times and… Continue reading Unfamiliar
A life update about three hundred words too long on which I procrastinated for two years.
Just some beautiful dragons by Russian artist Arseniy Lapin that always manages to delight me.
We are the children of clouds, hiding from the day and waking when the Sun sets. We walk gingerly among the remains of the day; concrete, sand, and stones. We press our ears to still-warm walls, and listen to the sound of heat leaving their frames. It lingers a while, echoing through the brick and… Continue reading We the Children of Clouds
'Jaago Rai' was first published as a series in a Bangla poetry blog, and garnered quite a following. The poems were collected and published in 2013 as a little black chapbook illustrated by the poet himself and created by a little collective of madcap writers and artists who called themselves 'Houdinir Tnabu' (Houdini's magic tent).
On days like this, I don't want the pain to stop. I wake up dreaming of sumptuous steaks in golden platters and my stomach turns. The weak but insistent rays of a late-winter sun struggle against my dusty blue curtain and I try to wipe off the smug faces of my uncle and aunt sitting… Continue reading Love Will Keep Us Alive
In Other Words 