Tuesday, 10 April 2018

Existentialist Hues

"A world that can be explained by reasoning, however faulty, is the familiar world. But in a universe, that is suddenly deprived of illusions and of light, man feels a Stranger...It is this divorce between man and his life, actor and it's setting that truly constitutes the theme of absurdity." -Camus.

By misleading life to believe that we want to live, we at times cause life to leave, insisting upon ourselves a rejection caused by life (Like Meursault did). Katherine Mansfeild's twilight vision "The Sea is Stormy, Everything is at the Sea", ...a storm that tumults and is a turbulent life force, leading to the self realisation ...we are all strangers to ourselves; as Kafka observes "Life remains an empty interrogated chamber". True revolt against absurdity? No, not in death but continuing to live, pushing it to the extreme :Man's true DEATH.

Yet Camus believed that We all want to live and be happy but life offers us none of that chance. Period.

Friday, 6 April 2018

In Memoriam..

It's orgasmic to see how people die ...their presence .... in your life. Yet they are alive. It's terrible to feel how you live in their conscious conscience yet die in their ....moments. It's perhaps vulnerable to think how deep their touch had been like a necromancer's magic mirror reflecting all your intense blood. You want to touch that mirror and taste that blood but like fleeting ephemeral dust they evaporate. ....the moments die an untimely death like you did inside me. I killed you. Yet, in some other solitary night shall we meet when you meet me alive in my words , soliloquies and asides.

I may know a previous you or a later you. But but. .but the you of this ....these moments is dead. I killed you.

Friday, 2 March 2018


"We should meet in another life, we should meet in air,
Me and you.”...Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much – so very much to learn.”- (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.)....It's all a myth. No one understands, none.

What I desire is more than solitude, a self reclusive life... self confinement..A bastion of silence where you can no more hurt me with your words, your threatenings -of not forgiving, of never coming back. I want to sing lullabies to myself and put myself off to sleep. For once. Death is a far fetched dream. An unattainable ideal...

Friday, 29 December 2017

These Days

Kill me with pungent nothingness
Or better strangle..
This City is dead.
So are the Voices. Of Empathy, connection and togetherness.
The song from the Flute has lost its tune.
 Migratory birds now quench for a map.
Roads are dusty, vision is choked.
I am dying a slow painful death.
Where I cannot find you.
Dear resistance.
Drown me, make me mad, Haunt me.
But come back.
I am You.

Saturday, 29 October 2016


আমরা সবাই একা. সবাই. শুধু মাঝরাতে একটা ভয় আজ পেয়ে বসে, মৃতদেহের পাশে মানুষ থাকবে তো? নাকি শেষ যাওয়াটাও চুপে চুপে, একা..সাথীহীন, সঙ্গীর আশায়. কিন্তু শেষ যাওয়াটাওতো একারই হয়. নির্বাসিত দেখলাম. "তোমরা কবিতা বলতে দিতে চাও না..লিখতে দিতে চাও না.." আমার মুখ বন্ধ. হয়তো আজীবন. কেউ শুনতে চায়না. সবাই ভালো থাকার কথা শুনতে চায়, হয়তো মা ঠিকই বলে: কষ্টগুলো একাকী ভোগ করতে হয়. বন্ধুরা ছেড়ে চলে যাওয়া খুব কষ্টের. কিন্তু কাছে থেকেও আঘাত করা? বুঝতে না পারা? জেনে বুঝেও আঘাত করা? আচ্ছা সত্যি কি বন্ধু বলে কিছু হয়? আমিও নির্বাসিত..সুখ বিমুখ জীবন থেকে ধূসর একাকিত্বে. আর কিছুটা নিজেই নিজেকে নির্বাসন দিয়েছি. আচ্ছা, মাঝে মাঝেই মনে হয়, আমি যদি না থাকি, আমার ডায়েরিগুলো কেউ পড়বে? কোথাও কি একটুও বুঝবে? একটুও? নাকি সব পাগলের প্রলাপ বলে উড়িয়ে দেবে? কত অভিমান জমে..কত না বলা কথা..কাউকে বলা হলো না..
তারপর মনে হয়, কেউ কি সত্যি বোঝে? কেউ কি ফেরে?
মাঝরাতের গুমরে গুমরে বালিশ ভেজানো..সেগুলোর রেশ আছেই ডায়েরিতে, ব্যাপ্তি নেই..কদিন ধরেই একটা কথা খুব টানছে, শেষ যাওয়া ...
মৃত্যুও তো নির্বাসন ই! একাকীত্ত্ব ও. 
Awkward pauses, silences and being silenced. They are narratives in themselves, which, we, as women, choose to forget and utter to let relations flow. We often pause to see, to delve back in acts and look back-in anger, in pain, in helplessness. Silence, in itself is political, so is abuse. We withdraw in silence, mourn and get used to the drudgery of silence.
Silence as a revolt,
Torn in between worlds
Through Journeys,
For an identity.
There is this other side of the silence. Being Silenced! Like a mother who threatens to leave the baby if she continues to being a nuisance. There is this violence to abandon, to teach a lesson and make a permanent scar on that "identity". You can't shout, you can't complain because you are supposed to be strong and independent. You resort to silence. Then, it is renamed and fabricated as ego. The ego of a "feminist". It hardly matters how reluctant you are to play the role, the game continues. Denial of episodes, denial of truth, denial of lived experiences. Your reason is questioned and so is your judgement. It all comes down to "just a conversation". The chain continues. Awkward pauses, silences and being silenced.

Monday, 1 August 2016


How can you desire music from me that soothes your nerves?

You Have choked my voice. Taken my words.

I speak your language. The language that is gendered.

I sing the pain of my heart Man. The music is dead.

How can you desire logic from me that matches your reason?

You have shattered me for centuries and continue doing so.

I carry the stamps of your violence. The violence that has no name,no state, no country.

I sing the pain of my heart Man. Feelings are dead.

How can you speak of Equality that was never there in the first place?

You have had given only that much that sufficed your needs-my language, my voice, my freedom.

I reject your singularities of plural equality. The equality that is baseless.

I reject by singing the pain of my heart Man. Equality is a myth.

Tuesday, 14 June 2016


বন্ধু বলে আসলে কিছুই হয় না.
বন্ধুত্ব বলেও
কিছু মানুষ শুধু ভাবতে ভালবাসে যে তাদের বন্ধু আছে.
এবং তারাও বন্ধু.
এটা মিথ.
বন্ধু মানেই নোংরা, মুখোশ, একা হয়ে যাওয়া.
বন্ধু বলে আসলে কিছুই হয় না. 

Wednesday, 9 December 2015

Reflections from Exile- (2)

Things come to an end: friendships, love, faith, trust and hope. That's the rule of time. That hope to belong, that desire to touch the sky and forgetting the pastness of the past. Those who left, throughout, never bothered to answer: why they had to. Yet, their footprints amicably remained amidst the cornucopia of memory cells:disjointed, fractured. Their fragrance, existence have been trunkated safely within the labyrinths of this wild, intense soul, Always took it for granted, it was my fault. Desires like thin plumes of smoke have smothered to nothingness. Time? Or a vain attempt to belong and sojourn, search for love that was to be found nowhere, that perhaps never existed. "সমস্ত ভুবন সব মরু সম রুক্ষ হয়ে যাবে একেবারে..আকাশ বিস্তীর্ণ ক্লান্তি...সব শান্তি চিত্ত হতে করিবে হরণ..নিরানন্দ, নিরালোক, স্তব্ধ শোক,মরণের অধিক মরণ."

Enough now, dear love. Too many chances blur the desire globe. How many times can we actually extinguish our expectations, light them anew only to be thrashed then and there, steadily, conspicuously, religiously??? That's the blood of time. The questions remain and reiterate within this juncture of fragmented places, new discoveries need to be addressed. We need to sustain to some illusions to belong. "যদি ভালবাসা নাই থাকে, শুধু শুধু একা একা লাগে,কোথায় শান্তি পাব কোথায় গিয়ে, বল??? কোথায় গিয়ে?"

Thank you, all, those who left. All those, who uttered: i understand, but never did. Thank you roads, thank you. Thank you all those journeys i made, but never reached, letters i wrote, but never posted. "ছেড়ে যেতে হবে, তাইতো মূল্য তার..." Memories, love, desires, attachments, see you around in some other time frame, some other parallel globe.

"স্রোতের প্রবাহ...চিরদিন যাবে চলি .."???

Tuesday, 8 December 2015

মুক্তি অথবা মৃত্যু?

যে সব রাতে ঘুম নিতে হয় খুঁজে?
সেসব রাতের যন্ত্রনাতে আমায়
আমি চিনতে শিখি নিজে
সেসব রাতের বাশির সুরে
আমায় আমি খুড়তে শিখি নিজে
রাতের তারা কান্না চাপে বুকে
অন্ধকারের বর্ণময়তাতে
শীতের পাতা পরশ লাগায় মুখে
বন্ধু-বিয়োগ জঠর পোড়া ঘাতে!


Tuesday, 27 October 2015

Pre-birthday Realization.

People don't understand. They can't. Because they have this scale to judge your each move. You were wrong in doing this, that. Fuck! Why can't they just shut up and accept? Is it too difficult to think from someone else's perspective? Perhaps, finally, i have a mask too. Of happiness, of joy. Because people stay only when you are happy, you can entertain them- like a clown or satisfy them like a whore. None stay during black nights of desperate loneliness.*Perhaps everyone does not deserve love. Love is meant for only white lily skinned, beautiful women, women who are sexy and ready to take the plunge.  Does not matter anymore. I am happy. Happy to act, happy to be alone. Happy Birthday to me! :) 

Monday, 5 October 2015

মেয়েছেলে মেয়েছেলে মেয়েছেলে

এবারের মত তার বিক্রি শেষ. আবার পরের Season.পরের বছর. আবার মুখে রং মেখে রাস্তায় দাড়ানো, আবার বাজারে নামা.বাজার হওয়া, আবার গতর খাটিয়ে ব্যবসা. পরের বার আর পরী নামবে না নিয়ন আলোর রাতে. মনগুলোতো বিক্রি হওয়ার জন্যই. ফাকা?একা?, বাবু? ফাকা? আবার পরের বার. এবারের মত তার নিজেকে বিক্রি শেষ. আবার পরের Season.

Friday, 2 October 2015


ভুল করে ভুল করতে পারো,

Ego'র দমে জিততে পারো

ফেরার দরজা আটতে পারো

Silence' এ বাধতে পারো?

Sunday, 27 September 2015

So it is and So it shall be..

There are no words to describe
How one lives or dies,
Words will always make the 'trivial' ones' suffer,
Non-registering how pain like death and some other
Secret pockets are, but, to be borne alone,
unsung, un-lamented, and duly silenced.
Existence, may run past charms unsolved.
Forsaken for a desire-
Unmitigated and often, unwise.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

Do they?

Do stories find their end? Stories of imaginary homelands? Do stories find us? Or do we search them, weave them, and they then themselves find their end? Or do we find for them? Or do 'they' find for us and those stories; their end, our end, stories' end? Questions remain, unanswered. Like stories, open ended. Quest questions and, then, we question quest's quest. Another story begins. Another quest. Perhaps, another home? Do stories find their end?