The Skies That Are Unruly

The skies that are unruly,
they reveal themselves—
to the kite, peaceful in its aimless flight.
Or sometimes they arrive,
in the hands of an opened envelope
pulled from a forgotten mailbox of an old house.
Sometimes,
in the raft of clouds,
sometimes, in the tender fragrance of ‘shiuli’,
sometimes in the searing blaze of sunlight.
And sometimes,
standing at the open door of a raging storm,
in a desperate attempt to gather oneself—
they reveal themselves!
The skies that are unruly,
in their own way,
And graced with perfect composure!

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তারা ধরা দেয়, 
ছন্ন ছাড়া হয়েও তৃপ্ত ঘুড়ির কাছে ।
অথবা কখনো 
পুরোনো বাড়ির ডাক বাক্সে খুঁজে পাওয়া,
খোলা খামের হাতে ।
কখনো 
মেঘের ভেলায়,
কখনো আটপৌরে শিউলির গন্ধে,
কখনো ঝলসানো রোদ্দুরে ।
আবার কখনো 
প্রচন্ড ঝড়ের খোলা দরজায় দাড়িয়ে,
নিজেকে গুছিয়ে নেওয়ার আপ্রাণ চেষ্টায় 
তারা ধরা দেয় !
যেসব আকাশ অগোছালো ,
তারা নিজের মতো নিজে কিন্তু বেশ পরিপাটি!

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As the darkest shade of the earth, instill stillness
Tonight,
The moon, the calm listener, is gifted a dark crimson hue.

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That Little Bit of Yours

I won’t ask
how carefully you’ve tucked it away,
nor how tenderly you’ve adorned it.
I’ll only whisper—
don’t weigh it, don’t count it;
for I’ve heard the math of giving and taking
has been flawed for centuries,
and perhaps will always be.
But tell me—
in the house where selflessness lives,
does night ever truly fall?
So, with whatever little is yours,
throw open that window
to the midnight sun,
and let its light spill in.

Stay well—
and keep the world well,
in your own quiet way.

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Raindrops tap on the window,
steam rises from my cup,
and for a moment,
the world feels soft and slow!

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Nights breathed, between paused memories.
Empty silence,
Two different terraces.

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Life - abyssal voyage 
Yesterday, I went to see a new house—
A beauty in every corner.
A garden, tenderly dressed, in the courtyard,
An open terrace,
A veranda for resting chaos.
The garden carries whispers of spring,
Where birds arrive to play;
The terrace holds a marketplace of moonlight,
And the veranda must greet the most tender dawn.
There is more—
A fountain spilling silver,
A boulevard painted in colors across the street.
Yet—
The old furniture will not remain.
Nor the playhouse of memories,
Where time was never counted
With those childhood companions—
They say such moments
Do not belong in the glittering city of modernity.
And so, I wonder—
Today, I may wear the cloak of modern,
But tomorrow, perhaps even my name
Will be written down
In the ledger of misfits.
No matter—
A big house may hold no shortage of rooms,
But the heart—
The heart carries endless space.
And so—
You are invited.
 

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The Drifting Mind


It will return,

before the night gathers itself—

tonight, under the full moon.

It knows my unease with the swelling tide,

the quiet panic of losing.

And that old promise— that the ebb will always

bring back what was carried away?

Only a story we tell ourselves.

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The words and tunes that touch the tired soul…

After a long, weary day, music brings its gentle comfort—

From country-pop to rock, from ‘blue notes’ to Pannalal Ghosh,

From Farida Khanum to Rabindra Sangeet to Lata Mangeshkar…

And the list goes on. The slow, soothing notes after a loud day

Are nothing less than a magical potion.

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Freedom was won with valor, wrested from the claws of torment.
A nation once dreamt of breathing, beneath an unbound sky.
Now, decades on, the heavens remain wide and generous—
Yet liberty gasps for air, and humanity decays with each passing minute.

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