In the city of depression, one lady asked me for a tutor for her five-year-old child. I told her I knew a person who was as talented and intelligent as a contemporary Bengali film director. She shouted, 'You have exactly five minutes to get the hell out of my house.' On a news channel, I heard that there was little investment in the Bengali film industry.

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Cockroaches breed fast in the city of depression!

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Outsiders be aware! I invested precious twenty four years of time and money in the city of depression. All my precious youth is gone. In return, this city offered me peanuts and stinky conspiracies.

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They are calling me 'sir' when I badly needed money and a soulful sexual relationship with a pretty woman. That's a reality in the city of depression.

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They are calling me 'sir', when I badly needed money and a soulful sexual relationship with a pretty woman. That's a reality in the city of depression.

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Black jacket disappeared in the city light.
Thunder roared silently inside.
A poem could have started again.
But the desert suffered from no rain.

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Twenty years of depression is not a joke!

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I refuse to be like you. That doesn't mean I don't exist.

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If you hate talent and beauty, I hate you. If you love talent and beauty, I love you. Don't try to hide your shortcomings behind pseudointellectuality. If you do so, I will certainly prefer to ignore and avoid you. And if you still keep on beating your drum for the same, I might wage a war to break your shithead irrespective of consequences. 

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My soul doesn't exist in the city of depression. My body does!

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