Brain Pain


Nourished and caressed his blood cells,

The tropical Sun’s ordeal,

From the Ganges, humid winds and moist spells,

His body, a mirror to his years,

While post-school, ceased ticking his brain,

At the epicenter of his central nervous system,

Evolved a tumor out of his skull’s membrane,

Only perpetual childhood now to nurture,

Cancelled were all his bookings to a manly future,

Cherish every second was what the docs prescribed,

Now he could be gone any moment, medication surrendered,

Thereafter, his parents gifted him a young bride,

The child locked in a man’s shell had to hear wedding bells,

Chucked out of his ancestral house, deserted to die,

He smiles in a squat on the floor of a mental facility,

Chuckles innocently, “I miss Mom, she used to play with me, sleep by my side,

I miss Dad; he saved me every night by sleeping with my angry wife”


(A Salute to sapiens that surround us…)



Image credits:

Was Under Repairs- The Verse Factory


Apathy stains wore its equipment,

Corrosion from gales of compromise had it dysfunctional,

Cylinders of creative lubricant dangled empty,

Staggering under debts of the womb,

Worst fears of its crafty artisans turned true,

None could make it to work,

For needles of mediocrity were scattered bare,

Flooding roads of my town, pointed everywhere,

With lamed logistics, a hungry nation to scare,

A stagnant fleet of trucks, dusty with lethal punctures,

Maintenance craved every inch of its infrastructure,

Servicing had been the need of the hour,

Engineers blocked the exit, while to mend forced in entry,

Barred the ailing entrepreneur from notifying,

“Under Repairs – The Verse Factory…”


(Sincere and Heartfelt Apologies to all my beloved and precious readers for being away…

For this pothead, rehabilitation was the surprise gift of this kind society.

With my return, awaits you some white-eyed poetry…



Image credits: )

Happy Independence Day!

Back then, the brute was blunt,
Antagonism was far more proclaimed,
The villain had the balls to spit enmity,
In public, throw up stinky contempt,
Shone our target, we knew where exactly to head,
Fouled us for no cards red, had us boil in a soup of rage,
The hungry was taught sour lessons of dignity, self-respect,
Swords, cannons, then bombs of dissent,
We bought him down by the neck, sought was Independence,
But, it was retribution for all the pain back then,
Now, the enemy is far more sly,
Unseen it lingers close by,
Having applied that lotion of technology, it awaits in disguise,
To strike from behind hedges of pretense…


(India celebrates its 66th Independence Day…)



Image credits:

Sharp a Contrast!


Save us from the wrath of the day,

In shorts with folded hands,

Bowing our heads to the Goddess, we used to say,

Our class queues ascended in that assembly,

From shorts to trousers, cardigans to blazers we grew gradually,

The Poet now ran in our veins, Tagore rang in our ears,

His verses stood against time,

A part and parcel of our morning prayers,

Our pledge for life to fulfil His dreams,

Where men would radiate parity beams,

No matter how fair ripened their cream,

They’d to work on only themselves, individually,

Each drop should contribute to an ocean someday,

An ocean of voices, thoughts and actions for equality,


Ten years down the line,

Now a stranger to that school,

Caught up in tougher currents of life,

I was coming down from a relative’s birthday party,

Stopped to pick up fags on my way, three hours to midnight,

A vegetable seller was getting home, back from his day’s work,

His only helper, his seven year old kid walked beside,

Adolescent eyes to the shop shone, ran the kid towards me,

There was something that he wanted to buy,

“Biscuits, I need them Dad”, he screamed back,

A big smile on his face, forgotten the day’s hard work,

Two local bakery biscuits, he’d won it all it seemed,

Biting into it slowly he walked ahead, elated in leaps,

“It’s already dinner time,” cribbing, his father followed,

The birthday that I’d just attended, seven turned a six year old,

She almost wrecked havoc in that decorated venue,

Her parents had brought her a new Samsung tablet phone,

Unhappy she growled at them,

“You know what I wanted a Sony Xperia Z,

Now I can’t even think of snaps marine.

Clicking those fishes with my hands dipped in that aquarium,

How will I click underwater while I swim with my pals?”

I overheard, switched into a state of shock,

Quickly recollected my naked little analogue years,

Pinched myself back to reality to find her sitting gloomy,

Her mom was away to change the handset,

The party continued, but I ate and left,

Saved myself of the predictable drama in store ahead,

And here I was, igniting both the fag and the engine, stray dogs bark,

The vegetable seller, his kid and cart fade away in the dark,

I sigh in wonder, “how sharp can be that contrast!”

Missed Tagore, his innocent world with light for all,

I drove away with our pledge, the Poet’s dream gargling on my mind…







Image Credits:

The Postman


Cycling crooked on cobbled ways,

Jingling metal, tinkling bells to another May,

Buttoned in uniform, the postman rides away,

Through coughing houses, withering crude,

The wailing Mistress of Longing, “Wait, take us too”,

Through old aberrant grills,

Locked in greenhouses of mediocrity,

Combed and robed into a stranger with the happy look,

Desire’s young labour plead freedom true,

Glimpses of shadows drooping out of the balcony,

Spitting out rusty lessons, throwing up sanity,

Postures on windows, miniatures once, then magnified,

One by one, they all disappeared for their seeds to re-appear,

Only altered the tone, rang the same wails,

Familiarly helpless beamed through grills old, stares new,

His spectacles caught passing reflections all,

For messages unstamped, he could never spare moments few,

He’d kept himself busy, chose to breathe important all the while,

Probably, he’d always known he would soon run out of time,

Till this day, he has served focused blind,

Could divert him none, could distract him none,

When the witch cried, he’d never looked back,

He made it alive to the gallows of Innovation,

Now, at his ceremony of Extinction,

He stands broad-shouldered, proud and firm,

Done with flashing his dutiful spine,

Lands a wreath on the grave of the Telegram,

Kindles lamps of a billion memories, nationwide,

Bows in front of the evergreen Goddess of Change,

Then, wears his golden swim suit, holds on to his pulse,

Ready for the plunge into the quicksand of history,

Into those blue waves of time, he leaps out of sight…



(This post is dedicated to the dying postal service in India.  The 163 year-old telegram services permanently closed down on the night of July 14, 2013. For more, visit:




Image Credits:

Those Many Days…


Those many days with you beside,

Were spent gazing sails of boats sailing by,

Sticky you remain on my eyes, lips and cheeks,

From the little Sunlight concealed behind those clouds,

I am knitting love into your shawl,

Sticky you remain on my fingers, hands and shoulders…

Now the meaning of love lingers from your nails,

Into your ears, I’m adorning my tales,

I’m staring empty at a thousand evenings in veils,

While the city’s tearing apart on the other side,

While the traffic’s cacophony’s sucking our dreams pale…

The way you were wrapped around,

Ice felt sleepy, it did lose its chill,

I search you around, here and there, every now and then,

Before, the train signals green again,

A stone on my chest, a smile on my face,

Begins the same journey to our own ends,

To pick and pile currents of life,

My pace at the dinner table remains,

Love’s not grown old here,

Like those potato skins,

It peels out a lil’ everyday,

For a newer Me, for a fresher Me,

Sticky you remain on spade-hands of my wall-clock,

Those many days with you beside,

Were spent gazing sails of boats sailing by,

Sticky you remain on my eyes, lips and cheeks,

Sticky you remain on my fingers, hands and shoulders…



(Directly inspired from the Bengali song, “Je Kota Din (Those Many Days)”, scripted by the young and talented music composer, Anupam Roy.

For the song, visit: )


Image from :

Gates of Sanity


Defined muscles of ore,

Power of metal, iron ribs,

Naturally carved Greek, mightier than Jupiter,

Served silent, served calm,

Welded for the roughest of rough,

Brains sly for evil on the streets, minds polluted dirty,

Souls seeking unbinding freedom to annihilate,

It stood tied feet, cups rubbing against each other, firmly grounded,

Angry, ready to take on enemies from both sides,

It drew a lot of hatred, attacks and ambushes,

No matter, it relentlessly comforted eyes sucked dry of hope,

It could never be tolerated by enslaved ghosts,

Tirelessly, it covered, guarded the light on sanity,

Ensured the flame flared unperturbed,

Out of reach of devilish gales,

Blown out of mouths of poisoned vipers,

Tired clinging futile onto the wrestler ingot’s child,

Their infectious fangs of slavery,

Pain starved conscienceless, it simply couldn’t care less,

Larger than life size locks bolted its grip, caught it sealed,

Flaunted twelve levers day and night, smiled wealthy unbreakable,

So thought the inmates, bouncing off it back and forth,

Like balls on the squash court,

Vigor certified by time, it has failed every try,

All the guts and gush to breakthrough,

It wouldn’t be growing older, not very soon,

Rang its earring, ‘Ting Tong’, that sultry afternoon,

Stairs whispered, discussed the unknown intruder,

They respired heavy, watchfully eyed,

Steps were hurling down,

Time to unlock, open up…




(Based on the so called “Unbreakable Detoxification Centre Gates” of the country’s toughest rehabilitation facility, Kripa Kolkata (an entirely no-camera zone))



Image from :

He runs on…














If you have wheels,
He has his legs,
Untearable muscles,
Stretchable nerves,
Magical arteries that auto-heal,
Immortal strength,
Inexpensively invincible to time,
The drops, the chill and the shine,
Bells tinkling fatigue-less,
Since, the city was a kid,
In years prime,
He runs loaded, overloaded,
And, often empty today,
Hungry against beeps, honks, conks, machines, a mechanical age,
Maintained his steady undying gallop,
Concealed remains his divine syrup,
His secret to time-piercing sustenance, survival, evergreen energy,
On the hot-tempered irritated speedy wheeled streets of Kolkata,
Unwheeled, Unchained, Unmotored,
He runs on…






Tea Pair










Hands for each other,
Her spotted sari,
Against his white shirt,
Four hands, twenty fingers,
Racing time on a tired flame,
Burnt, Injured tea-pans suffered on,
Took lessons of sustenance from,
The charred boiling breakfast bowl,
Tiny plastic cups quacked,
Hungry fleet of lips,
Relentlessly Munched, Sipped, Smoked…




(Image from

Charisma on-the-Go…







Passion, Fervour loses it here,
Fails to capture my mind,
Eyes are drawn,
Sight is sought, stretched,
My vision is won,
Defeated by her charisma,
No matter,
How strictly on the journey,
How intensely compartmentalized…

I shouldn’t be looking,
I was, I wasn’t,
Her glamour,
It radiated,
Got me winking,
Almost blind,
Spent conscious,
I looked open to the window,
Hard into tinted glass,
Stations, hills and trees,
Vendors scream,
Porters, passengers run,
She reflected through everything,
Gleamed,beamed strong,
Her skin,its shine,
Outshone all,
Now, the train had a Sun…

Painted in honey,
With smooth brushes of silk,
Thinned in milk,
Exhaled maturity,
From every pore,
On all sides,
Sucked in respect,
From nostrils,
Used to an air of honor,
Her invisible boundaries,
Neatly chalked round,
Got me craving,
To live it till the end of the earth,
Wait for her rebirth,
For her to spring into her teens,
To serve me her fragrances,
Her soup of youth to taste,
Until, she screamed at her little one,
Got me ready to laugh-off my wait,
Pinched me back to senses,
Kicked me start,
For a more realistic bait,
She was too good to be true…