// Knowledge is Power //

The nightmare we see with open eyes is much more scarier than the one with eyes closed. There is no escaping, there is no waking up. You have to live it again and again till you are drained, till you have the signs of life.

(Story in the caption.)

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// Knowledge is Power //

When All-father Odin travelled to the well near life tree Yggdrasil for the thirst of knowledge, Mimir asked his eye in return for the water. Odin knew that no sacrifice is too great for wisdom. He gave his one mediocre left eye for profound ancient knowledge. Now tell me would Odin have backstepped if Mimir had asked for Thor or Frigga instead of his eye? No. Such is the hunger for wisdom.


(Story in the caption.)

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// Knowledge is Power //

I go to bed and wake up after a few hours with my night shirt clinging to my stinking body. I see a beautiful young woman in a black dress who tries to throttle me and an indistinct figure laughing behind her. All of this feels so real that I clutch at my own neck and gasp for air. And I always wake up screaming the same name, 'Netra'.

(Story in the caption)

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// Anagapesis //


“Did you ever see anyone shot by a gun without bleeding?” 
Reading Murakami always made me think about the most inconsequential mundane matter as the most significant philosophical thought I had ever come across.


(Story in the caption.)

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so close to your heart that
you are scared to put them out
in the open, to be dissected,
to be criticized and enhanced
they are not just words scribbled
on the paper, they are parts of you
parts of you that serve as your muse
your pain, your agony, your hope
transcribed into words and metaphors
that both liberate you from yourself
and dig deeper into your wounds
that's how you learn to
separate your art from yourself
that's how you learn that
you have to consume this art
rather than letting it consume you.

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// love and identity //

The boy I love has eyes the color of midnight
that spreads a blanket of comfort to my anxiety
and has lips that would put red tulips to shame
softly brushing against mine like an expensive down feather
He reveres my body as his holy cathedral
performing sacraments of divine strokes
his painted verses substantiates my existence and
his warm breath on my nape validates my struggles.

But even the aura of his strong masculinity can’t
protect me from being crushed under my identity
the silent ‘abhorrence’ siren following me everywhere
through spiteful looks and horrendous words
replacing his warm breath by a pang of nausea and
a hand groping my breasts douses the fire of night before.

My love standing beside my identity feels like a cloud
in my desperate attempt to morph them together
they slip away from the gaps of my fingers
like a lost dream, like the sand falling through the hourglass
and I stand there aloof and alone,
clutching my existence to my chest,
like a drowning ant trying to hold a leaf
while my love cries like an unattended child
tired of my despair and threatening to wander off.

(In the caption)

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ପ୍ରିୟ ଶିଳାପଦ୍ମ,

ସମଗ୍ର ସଂସାରର ଦଉଡ଼ି ଯାହାଙ୍କ
ହାତରେ ବନ୍ଧା ସେ ଯେବେ ଭଗ୍ନ,
ତେବେ ମୁଁ ଭଗ୍ନ ହେବାରେ କାହିଁକି
କ୍ଷୋଭ ପ୍ରକାଶ କରିବି?

“ଜଗନ୍ନାଥ ସ୍ଵାମୀ ନୟନ
ପଥଗାମୀ ଭବ ତୁମେ।“

|| ଈତି ||
ତୁ ଯାହାର ପ୍ରିୟ ସଖୀ।

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// flesh and hunger //

Shyama was twelve when her mother sold her to Rajjo Tai for two goats and one hundred rupees. Since then Tai, called as Amma by the girls, took care of her, combed and oiled her hair, bought her glass bangles and fed parathas with ghee. Shyama didn’t require sola pith as her uncle had already deflowered her. She was ready to attend the customers from the first day. At such a low price for a tanned, slender girl with big bosom, Amma had hit the jackpot.


(Story in the caption.)

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