My guidance.
I held your finger as I walked
through the known streets of home.
You carried me on your feet,
step by step,
as we danced across the room.
I was your little girl.
You put me on your shoulders
and I finally saw through your eyes.
You showed me the world.
You are my baba*,
my sign of assurance….
my light at the end of the tunnel.
As you bring me closer to you,
touching your head with mine,
you give me a warm smile
that says ‘Everything’s all right’.
You are my storyteller,
your reminiscence is my childhood;
I grew up in every little aspect
of your memories.
Some cherished and held close to heart.
Some abhorred and tried to be forgotten.
I have grown to understand your emotions.
I have learned to tread on the stepping stones
that you have laid out for me.
Your shadow has always been beside me,
picking me up when I fall
and wiping away my tears.
You’re my protector
and I hope you always will be.
*Baba is the meaning of father in Bengali

An Invitation

I wrote this poem in two versions because when I originally completed this piece, I had so many different things going on in it. In version 1, I am frustrated and in the process of calming down. In version 2, I am calm and more observant. I did not want to combine the two versions together to make one poem because I find that each version by itself  both conveys and isolates my emotions than that of the other.But at the same time, these two versions complement each other as well which helps me to provide a larger picture.

an invitation
(Version 1)

The wind calls for me.
Its soothing and gentle touch
Beckons me to come and listen to
The cricket’s song,
Outside my bedroom window.
The nocturnal sky, midnight blue,
looks down at me,
Drowning out the sea that laps against my shore.
Blessed, I let go of all my worries, hopes, and dreams.
The white horse comes galloping
And I let myself be taken away.
Who am I?
I am no one,
No one in particular.
Being a no one is indeed a splendid thing.

(Version 2)

The wind calls for me
Through my bedroom window.
Its soothing and gentle touch
Beckons me
To come and listen to its sweet melody.
The nocturnal sky looks down at me
As I find solace in its heavenly vaults,
Midnight blue
and wisps of iron-grey,
Like a field of Kashful* singing
Under a moonless night.

*Kans Grass- a grass native to South Asia

Under Tens of Millions Of Years Old Rubble

Tucked away
Under tens of millions of years old rubble.
I feel small,
Insignificant, and suffocated.
I want to breathe.
I grasp for it;
But it doesn’t come within my reach,
Passing through my fingers like
Tens of millions of ripples.
I speak, but my voice seems to stop short
Before it fully gains its freedom,
Like a fallen tree in nature’s plunder.
If a tree falls in the world’s absence,
Does it make a sound?
A whisper?
It’s futile really.
The more I try,
The more I’m being spoken over,
And the more I’m being buried under
Tens of millions of years old rubble.
You don’t hear me.
You don’t hear me, period.
And you won’t because you’re not listening.
You don’t hear me cry because you would rather not see.
I wish I could fly away from this abstraction
Without giving it a second thought,
Like that fledgling who took flight
At the first sign of danger.