No one’s asked me how I am doing in a while
In Bengali, we usually say, “Cholche”
Meaning – And so it goes

I have never really felt at home in my house
Accommodated, but not welcome,
Truth be told, I felt quite alone

The Krishnachura by my
window was felled in the storm
A dump of sand now – where it used to be
I hunt for signs around this house now
I know there are
places, where I hid bits and pieces, of me.

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The Apology Text I Will Not Send.

drunken mishaps           are a souvenir from the past

I can’t seem to let go of

you didn’t want our demons to meet

so you left with yours

leaving me with mine



This morning I woke up

with a mouthful of regret

I stayed in bed, for most of the day,

and thought how a restraining order

was probably invented for the likes of me

failing at goodbyes so hard

we make a fool of ourselves


I wanted to leave you wildflowers

and a Kazuo Ishiguro paperback

with the gateman downstairs

before moving,

Write you a note             that said

“This is farewell – if you want it to be”

I won’t anymore

So I’m leaving you this poem instead

Here’s hoping I don’t end up still,

leaving you those flowers at the gate.

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Writing poetry to find the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference. Actually, negate that last bit. I never know the difference.

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Forgetfulness is magic

                          we live & die a little each day

I used to think it tragic

         now I wouldn’t have it any other way

It’s the remembering

that makes life tedious

Who said what –  did what – to who(m) 

Hoarding these memories thinking they’re precious

Isn’t the moment just as precious too?

I’d never thought of forgetting this way before

I see it now, for the gift that it is

What are cliches, but oft repeated truths?

Ignorance yields the highest bliss.

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Calcutta Summer

Calcutta Summers pass by in a stupor

No wonder I have so many memories – unaccounted for!


You sleep to wake & wake to sleep

ruminate on all the social graces, you’d promised to keep.

Day turns into night, Night rolls into day

The only thing to do really, is stargaze – and pray for rain.


When the Sun is thankless, air constricted,

You’ll know those dreary months are near

Not much to do besides lie about,

and wait for the heat to disappear.


Of course, the summer storms are pretty –

Our seasonal maritime guests ..

Her lot dances about with thunder,

And in lightning, they come dressed!

Riding winds that know no speed limits

Or respect for traffic signs;

Even the Sun hides when they beckon for the day

Behind dark clouds, and a fury – almost divine.


No there’s really nothing remarkable, besides,

about Summer in the East,

You drowse about, as even us, infidels, pray

for the Goddess to tame this beast.





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