Excerpt for Broken Heart by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Broken Heart


By Hiranya Borah

Copyright 2018 Hiranya Borah

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank You for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorized retailer.

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This book contains few poems based on different topics including love, heart breaks, heart burns, jealousy, social and cultural evils leading to criminality. However, most of poems has an underlying tragic feeling of broken heart.

Hope some of you will like some of them.

Thanks to my esteemed readers for their constant support to write something usual and unusual. I love them all.

I am always thankful to all my friends and relatives for their encouraging words. But without constant support of my family members, I could not have written anything for which I shall remain grateful to them.

However, this book is dedicated to my mother, my wife, my daughters and other beautiful ladies who directly or indirectly inspire me to write something.

Thanks to Smashwords for publishing this compilation of poems along with my other books.


A Night to be forgotten

Dancing long curvy hair might be of my lover;

The boy sat and said.

I saw, dew disturbed his eyes;

Twilight of a story or dawn of a new chapter;

I could not fathom.

Dead cannot say;

So the dancing hair could not say:

How beautiful the possessor of the dancing hair!

Hope this is not her;

He could only hope.

I never saw her;

But possessor of the dancing hair might be awesome!

I sighed.

Dusk has descended;

Nobody noticed.

Dancing hair is going to be invisible!

Tide may be coming;

In the eyes of the boy.

Tide, please do not come;

He might have told to himself.

I have a duty to wait;

I want to see the possessor’s swollen face.

The eyes of the boy want to see;

Beyond the curvy dancing hair.

Will she break her promise?

He has asked to himself.

She promised to show her face;

Hiding under the veil, on a specific day!

Coming from a place of teary eyes for rain;

To a place fearful of pouring of water from the sky;

Far off from a society;

Torn between class, caste and religion;

Is he going to lose his heart?

He thought and thought.

I am told;

Wait till dawn arrives.

I could not see the eyes of the boy;

Nor I could see the dancing hair any more.

Darkness engulfed my mind and my eyes.

Both of us are waiting for a new dawn,

With different purposes.

We do not know each other;

Neither have we wanted to know

Beautiful Moon

After a lonely evening,

I could see from corner of my eyes

Darkness is crawling to my small room.

I search for the switch board;

I forgot;

Where it is;

Over my head;

Or on the side wall.

I was about to hit the stool;

Someone carelessly placed on my way;

Or I was on the wrong path!

What science has done for us!

Light becomes available at night in abundance;

No need for moon light to touch;

Your skin and mind.

At the twilight,

You do not fear for darkness;

You will not fear for loneliness;

If you have resources to buy;

Light in abundance!

Far from civilization,

Far from science;

Far from artificial resources;

Even now child cries for light at dawn!

I have drifted away from my dark room;

Still searching for the switch board;

Somewhere on the wall or overhead!

Suddenly my room is illuminated;

Through the open door;

Sweet and soft light entered slowly.

My mind and spirit are enlightened,

With sweet smell of evening freshness!

I raise my head;

To see the source of light;

To know how far it is!

It is a full moon day;

Or it is a full moon night!

I do not know;

But my mind and spirit is full of evening freshness;

The freshness I used to love from my adulthood!

The moon is not far away;

It is at a touching distance.

I dare not to touch the moon;

Fearing for losing it.

Moon smiles at me like my mother;

Or like my sister,

Or like my daughter!

She kissed me on my forehead and told,

You can touch me;

You can love me;

I am yours.

Darkness loosened its grips;

From my room,

From my mind and from my heart!

A Mammal

I do not know;

From where I came from.

I am told, I was born,

As a child to a human couple;

Like any other mammal,

Through a natural process,

Starting from a simple mating of two adults.

I was inside the womb of a female body;

Later on I came to know;

She was my mother.

I also grew

After taking first sip of milk,

From my mother’s beast;

As my first food;

And I began my journey of life;

Like any other mammal on this earth.

After few years,

I am told I am a Hindu;

Few years later,

I came to know about my caste,

When I was abused by a classmate.

While I was in a metropolitan college.

I met a girl couple of years ago;

I did not know her caste or religion.

I fell in love with her.

My love was true for her;

Her love for me was as pure as mother’s milk.

We also wanted to reproduce;

Offspring like any other mammal;

You call them children;

I want to call them;

Only offspring to keep my lineage;

For reproduce another generation of mammals;

We call them Human;

Without caste and creed.

But her parent thought otherwise;

She was thrown out of her home;

My mother says;

She is not from my caste.

I took her to my place;

My father kicked both of us out of his home;

Both the family accused us;

We brought disrepute to our families.

Someone from her family killed her;

Someone call it, honour killing.

I want to join her,

I do not know where;

I do not know,

From where twenty five years ago I came;

Without clothes, religion and caste;

Not even with repute and dis-repute.

But I want to go to the same place;

Where probably still now,

There is no caste, no religion,

No honour and no honour killing either!

A Father, a Daughter and a Beast

He told me to remove my frock.

I recalled,

Two years ago;

My father used to remove my cloths;

For giving me a bath;

Or to change my dress.

I cherish those days of mine;

With my deceased father.

He kissed on my bare body.

That reminded me of my deceased father;

Who used to kiss on my bosom,

I used to giggle on his every kiss,

He used to place on my small body,

A body of three year old daughter.

He forced me to spread my legs.

That reminded me of my deceased father;

Who used to spread my legs;

To clean my private parts;

And to dry it by using the best of the powders.

Still I used to recall,

Powdering of my whole body;

By his tender hands.

But he left me alone;

With a selfish mother two years ago.

She loves only herself.

After taking control of

All property of my deceased father;

Kicking out from my father’s house,

The parent of my deceased father;

Married to her secret lover for years;

Within twelve months’ after death of my father.

She introduced her newly wed husband;

As my new father for the rest of my life.

Yes, he became my father for the rest of my life;

A short life of only one year.

Instead of drying or powdering;

He inserted his finger in it.

I cried aloud in a piercing pain.

He laughed aloud

Which sent a simmering fear in my heart.

I stopped crying,

In fear

Or as I lost all sensitivities in my tiny body.

I lost my sense when he abused me thoroughly,

Blood was oozing out;

To see me collapsed;

He became a worried monster.

He strangulated me;

Before he smothered my face

Beyond recognition;

With a hard object.

He dropped my lifeless body;

Inside the septic tank behind our house.

I could have thanked him;

For sending me;

To meet my deceased father;

At a place where tranquillity and peace;

Rule the minds and spirits.

But I could not thank him

With a second thought

Even the rampaging lion,

Who kills the offspring

Of the erstwhile leader of the pack,

Never abuses sexually the young females.

My father was waiting at the golden gate,

Of a small cottage;

By opening his arms to receive

His beloved small and tiny daughter.

Now, there is no stain of blood;

On my white cloths.

There is only fragrance of a perfume

Of pure love of a father;

On the white dress, my father had given,

Two years ago, on my third birth day.

With a smile in his face,

Hugging me in his chest,


This is the place,

Where a daughter can live

With her father forever,

With her head high and without any fear.

Last Wish of a Mother

I knew,

I was ugly, I was rustic,

I was blunt, I was powerless,

I was money-less, I was worthless,

I was less

Of good and appropriate words

With appropriate meaning,

I was hopeless in all aspects of a modern life.

Even then I was priceless

For my family and friends

A few Years ago when,

My husband and young children

Used to love me.

I was always positive

To face any eventuality in those days.

I always tried to use a positive sentence

Even after realizing,

I was in a hopeless position

Or at a hopeless situation.

At all times,

I used to laugh at myself more than others;

Because I was supported by my families;

Whenever I looked at them for their support;

Financial or mental.

But time has changed.

I am reminded by my near and dears every day,

I am ugly, I am rustic,

I am blunt, I am powerless,

I am money-less, I am worthless,

I am less of

Good and appropriate words,

With appropriate meaning,

I am hopeless in all aspects, of a modern life.

Now I am useless for my family and friends.

Few Years ago,

My husband had left me

To face my changed children

Who used to love me once,

When they were young and vulnerable.

Time has changed,

People are changing,

Minds have been changing.

I have been also changed by time;

I am no more positive,

To face any eventuality now-a- days.

I no more try to use a positive sentence

Even after realizing it may invite trouble.

I forgot to laugh at myself any more.

My children think,

I am a burden

And I should make an early exit;

From their life and from this world.

As my death refuse to come at an early date,

They decided to abandon me to die,

Without any medical aid.

Even then my death refuse to come.

One of them suggested;

She can be sent to an old age home.

Who will pay?

There was a silence in the room.

Another suggestion came,

Can we keep her inside her room?

Without food and water,

Till she dies.

Finally, I called one of them and told,

Drop me in a river,

At least I shall not die,

Without water for days together!

I shall think;

That is the Ganga jaal,

You have forced on my mouth

Before my death!!

Birth Days

Birth Day Boy at 55

A cute baby becomes a murky old man;

Still he likes and waits;

To hear the three letter sentence;

Happy Birth Day.

Still he likes to hear from his near and dears;

Many Returns of the Day.

Still he enjoys;

When his elder says;

God Bless You.

He still returns every wish;

With a ‘Thanks’

Or with a ‘Thank you’

Or with a ‘Thanks a lot.’

Still he recounts how his mother;

Kissed on his cheek

Remembering her pain of ecstasy on his birth.

Still he recounts how his siblings;

Fought for little more milk-rice prepared by his mother.

Still he recalls,

How his father gave his stoic blessings.

Now he gets birth day wishes;

From few youngsters;

Whom he considers at par with,

His son, daughters, brother and sister;

He enjoys their wishes with same enthusiasm;

What he enjoyed as a kid fifty years ago.

A small kid still lives inside his old body;

Who loves all the importance;

Bestowed upon him by his well-wishers;

On his D day.

Some of them are elders;

Most of them are youngsters;

Some are as young as

His own grandsons or granddaughters;

He enjoys their best wishes;

Like a small kid of ten;

Even after crossing fifty-five springs of his life.

He loves all of them,

Thanks all of them from his heart.

He hopes to get another;

Happy Birth Day wish and some Blessings;

Just only after 365 days!!!!

Happy Birth Day to My Wife

Few decades ago,

On this day,

A rich man of a big city;

Was blessed with a baby girl.

Everyone one was happy

In welcoming the new 'laxmi' of the family.

But they never thought,

This baby girl was destined to face,

Lot of hardship in her married life.

She was brought up in a family,

Where the main lady was dependent

On few domestic helps

For her daily chores.

To move around,

There was a car standing along with a driver for her.

Though there was no dearth of good matches for her,

She opted for a young officer

With rural modest background.

After her marriage,

She had to leave her studies mid-way;

She had to bring up three children of her own;

Practically without any help from anyone on the earth.

Her husband bought his first car,

After long 16 years' of their marriage.

She had to move around the country with her husband,

Who could afford only one room set in most of his life.

With all the difficulties,

She stood by her husband

In his struggle to afloat in this world.

Happy birth day

To that brave and beautiful lady of my life.

She is my friend, philosopher and guide;

She is my lovely wife.

On My Son’s Birth Day

My wife yelled;

How long you are going to be awake?

You have office tomorrow;

With few meetings on the cards.

He won’t mind;

If you do not say;

Happy Birth Day at 12 midnight.

How I can tell my wife;

I am yet to forget;

The crying face of her;

At the middle of the night,

Before his birth.

I cherish the moment of his birth;

In the stormy night of a hill station.

I know he will not mind;

If I do not call him at the middle of the night;

To say Happy Birth Day.

But my heart will mind;

If I do not say my son,

‘Happy Birth Day to you my son;

God Bless You’.

Daughter’s Birth Day

She kisses me;

She hugs me;

On my birth day;

Or on her own birth day;

Or otherwise.

If she is near to me,

She is like my own body part.

When she is away on a birth day;

I feel something missing;

From my wardrobe of love.

She forces me to go out for a dinner;

On her birth day;

Or on my own.

Every morning,

After leaving my bed,

I get her lovely fragrance

Which gives me the feeling of a birth day

Of my darling daughter.

On every morning,

I feel;

Every morning is a happy birth day of my daughter!

On My Sibling’s Birth Day

Now I forget the birth days of my siblings;

Probably, no relevance for me today.

Few decades ago;

Great significance was attached to it;

After all, my mother used to prepare;

Milk rice for all of us on their birth days.

Other than the birth day boy;

Or other than the birth day girl;

All used to fight for the sweets;

Or for the milk rice;

Mother used to cook on my sibling’s birth day.

As we grew;

Relevance of birth days of my siblings;

Reduced like water in the winter in a pond!

On My in Laws’ Birth Days

It is the most torturous thing in the world;

To keep the track of birth days of;

Someone from the other side.

You want to keep the track,

Still you fail at the last.

Then you will feel the heat of Vietnam War;

You do not know,

When an arrow will pierce your heart!

On My Friends’ Birth Days

How much you like;

The birth day of a friend;

Only depends;

How conveniently drinks were flowed;

To your stomach;

Through your tongue;

Not able to speak coherently.

Quality matters for the first few pegs;

Rest were nothing but only few numbers;

But always remember how you drove home,

Till the next birth day of your friend.

Look forward to the next birth days;

Of those friends who invite you alone to the parties.

Always try to forget the birth days;

Of those friends;

Who invite you along with your family,

And serves vegetarian food;

With cold drinks and a cup of coffee!

Who can forget the birth day of a female friend;

In a secluded hut

Some thousand miles away from your wife,

Or vice versa?

On the Birth Day of My Boss

I always remember;

To tell him;

Happy Birth Day;

Till he retires.

I always agree with all of them;

Who think religiously,

It is a sin;

If you call your boss to say,

Happy Birth Day

After his retirement!!

Finally, On Your Birth Day

Looking at your FB profile;

On your birth day;

I just posted,

Happy Birth Day to you.

Could not muster the courage;

To write the last word, ‘Darling’.

But believe me dear;

My heart says;

‘Tell the truth;

You love her till today;

As much as you loved her;

Three hundred full moons ago.’

I restrained myself;

From saying the truth;

Few decades ago.

Should I tell the truth today,

What I could not say;

Three hundred full moons ago.

I was alone on that day;

When you said a final good bye to me;

After the final day of our college mingling.

I kept mum on that day;

Why should I tell the truth today?

My son will say;

The old man has gone crazy;

At the age of 55.

Daughters will say;

Papa has gone mad.

My wife will say;

Wow, he is still in his teens;

Who will mind to have a husband in his teens?

My heart whispers;

‘Tell the truth;

I do not want to die;

With a person,

Who cannot muster the courage;

To tell the truth in thirty odd years.’

In memory of Brave-heart

Clad with a pyajama,

Sitting on the floor,

Reading a letter from his pregnant wife;

Lakhan yelled to his friend;

I have to go home;

Gita is expecting next month!

I too want to go home;

My mom is still not well;

Irfan also echoed Lakhan.

Why you are silent Subedarjee?

Any information from home?

Nothing special, son passed 12th,

Going to college regularly.

They were just gossiping;

In the early morning;

Taking a sip of coffee.

Some were yet to discard;

Lovely morning sleep!

They were not aware,

A group of cowards;

Approaching their tents;

With lethal weapons.

Lakhan, Irfan or Subedar;

Never worried for death;

Nor feared for a battle;

But they were talking;

About pregnant wife or ailing mother!

The cowards blasted a grenade;

Near to their tent!

All of them were ready to fight back;

Picking up their arms;

But fire engulfed the tent;

Closing their exit!

They could have fired back;

But they preferred to die,

Thinking their bullet might hit;

Their own men fighting with the cowards.

They died, but they did not use their weapons;

Thinking they may hit another Brave-heart;

They preferred to die!

Why Can’t Criticise

That scoundrel has died;

The young girl commented about her former boss!

Do not criticise the dead man;

Her mother advised!

Why I can’t?

She asked with an irritation in her voice!

Dead man becomes dear to God;

Mother explained!

Then why every year Mahisasur is slayed?

Why Duryodhan is still condemned?

Why Ravan is burnt on every Dussera?

Why Hitler is criticised for his deed?

Why we criticise the colonial rulers;

All who died long back?

Why we call General Dyer as Monster?

Even Mahatma is not spared for some of his decisions!

Even God is not spared,

Apparently when he does not hear to us!

Then why I cannot criticise;

The person who molested me?

Only because he is a dead man now?

Should we go like politicians;

Who fight tooth and nail when alive;

To place a wreath on the dead body;

And pay their last respect?

Then give an articulated speech;

In the deceased honour?

Mom, I am an ordinary person;

Made of flesh and blood;

Having a small heart;

Which bleeds when it is hurt.

Let me criticise the dead man;

Who gave me so much pain when he was alive;

When he was in power!

Those who were not victims,

Can give a long lecture on,

Forget and Forgive!

The victims, whose hearts bleed;

Will never forgive and forget!

Even death will never cleanse;

The blood that flowed from the hearts of the victims!

Mom, do not show your greatness;

By advising me not to criticise a dead monster!!!!!

An Orinary Man and a Hero

Nobody is an expert

On saying, I love you,

More than I;

He claims before me.

He is not surrounded by beautiful babes;

As I expected, as per his claim;

When I met my friend!

You are joking;

You Bl—y B—d;

I said with a laugh.

He took me to an orphanage;

He embraced all the kids,

One by one and said;

I love you my dear sweetheart!

Then he took me to an old age home;

He said every lady;

Hi Sweety, looking very beautiful today;

I love you darling!

He told the old man,

Looking to the sky with a dejected face;

Hey, old f—g boy,

Why you are so upset today?

I love you, old bl—y hack.

His presence in the orphanage,

In the old age home,

Illuminated hundreds of faces!

All look forward to his next visit;

Then my friend took me to a Gosala;

He talked to the cows;

Everyone with a different name;

Saying ‘I love you, black beauty’ to one.

I love you, red monkey,

To another one and so on!

He took me to a garden,

Introduced his friends in their best attire!

In the forest,

He talked to the trees;

He uttered the same sentence,

I love you, my friend,

Darling, Sweety and Sweet heart or Honey!

Everywhere he was acknowledged;

With an open heart,

With open mind and arms!

He goes always empty hands;

But with a smiling face,

With a sympathetic heart,

To all these places.

At the end of the day;

I agreed to him,

He is the best master in saying;

I love you!!!!

I asked him,

What is the secret?

He tells none;

Half of his income;

Earns from different resources;

Goes to different Orphanage,

Different Old age homes;

Different Gosalas;

For maintaining,

Parks, forests and gardens;

For maintenance of

Roads and reservoirs;

For the defence of the country and so on.

How much he earns?

He does not know;

But he never cheats the country

While paying taxes;

He is an ordinary man;

Like you and me.

I understood,

To be a hero,

You need not have to be an extraordinary man.

Do your duties properly;

You are a hero;

On your own right!

Tell all of them,

I love you,

Whom my friend tells!

My Ego

Staying in a locality,

Where everyone’s ego is

Larger than life size,

I also tried to rear an animal,

He or she is my own ego!

I pampered him,

I introduced him to others as,

My treasured Self-Respect!

When I say about others,

I say it as ego;

In my case it is just self-respect!

But I have changed my thinking now;

Keeping the views of a friend!

One of close friends;

Once told me;

Whenever I say;

I am from a backward village;

Where electricity reached;

When I was in my graduation;

When I say; I saw a city;

After my matriculation;

I am not saying those sentences;

It is my ego;

Who is uttering those sentences!

Whenever I say;

I am the only member of my family

Who hails from rural India;

Or when I say,

I am the only member of the family who studied,

Not in English medium school;

My ego is saying those proud sentences!

When I say I am from a poor family;

Flashing of my ego is evident!

When I say;

I started learning cooking at the age of four;

I am just boasting!

When I used to say;

I worked in the remotest places of India;

My ego is telling on my behalf.

When I say,

I am sending my children to Government schools;

That is also nothing but my ego!

But sometimes I think,

If my ego is so big;

What about my friends;

Who flaunt about their,

Elite economic backgrounds,

Or their elite schools!

When they say they used to ride on their own car;

The moment they arrived this beautiful world;

That may be their just a revelation!

When they say,

They do not know cooking;

That is their profound humility!

When they say,

They worked in many world class cities;

But not the remotest places of India,

Those are nothing but humble submission!

Now I realized;

I am the most egoist person in my neighbourhood,

In my own fraternity;

Amongst the friends and relatives;

To be condemned;

By the humble elites!

Do not Love me: My Sweethearts

What is love?

Is it sharing of good days and bad days alike?

Is it standing by you when you are depressed?

Is it just sharing a bed?

Or just sharing a bank account?

Or just staying with you without sleep;

In a hospital when you are ill?

Or roaming in a mall hand in hand?

Or just eager to know your welfare?

Or just to wait for your phone call at night;

After everyone goes to sleep?

Hugging in public,

Or saying I love you in public;

Is that the ultimate love?

No, my knowledgeable friend told me;

With a whisper!

Sharing of your pass word of FB accounts;

Sharing of your pass word of your mobile

And sharing of your PIN of your Credit card;

That is the modern definition of Love!

If you can share these three with someone,

You love him or her;

Without any dilution;

Your love is eternal;

Your Love is heavenly;

Your devotion is complete!

My friend confided

If it is so,

Please do not love me;

I told to my sweetheart;

She released me from her arms;

With a smile, void of innocence;

Void of love.

She extended her hand for an amount;

That I had promised to her;

For the intimate time with her.

I found no difference;

Her with the lady staying in the house;

We conveniently say as brothel.

Tragedy of life of an Artist

He had never been a friend of mine.

He had never been a foe of mine.

He was known to me,

I was not known to him.

I could not ignore his presence,

During two years of my college life with him.

He was the darling of the girls;

To our silent envy.

He had mastery in curricular activities;

Which made him closer to the teachers;

Again to our envy.

After two years of limelight;

He was denied admission by the same teachers;

Who once adored him;

On the ground that,

His academic result was not enough for an admission,

Into the prestigious college.

I met him after twenty long years;

With a lousy dress;

With a vague look in his eyes.

He could not recognize me as expected,

He did not recognize me earlier also.

I introduced myself as his classmate;

An extremely insignificant classmate!

He smiled at me;

How time passes;

Once you were a student;

None cared for your existence;

Today you may be important;

I am a burden of the society;

As a drunkard, as a failed man!

But still I respect you;

As an eloquent student;

Who was cynosure among the girls of our time

To our envy!

He again smiled and asked for few bucks for a drink.

We sat on a table of a bar,

Ordered for a scotch;

Onlooker looked at me with a surprised look;

Probably my dress was not matching with my friend.

I ignored those eyes;

Gulped few pegs with that poor fellow;

Thinking myself great in his eyes.

Then both of us left the bar,

With a promise to meet each other.

I never tried to meet him again,

I do not know, if he had ever tried.

Few years back I am told;

He died of liver ailment;

For over dependence of alcohol;

Leaving behind his uneducated wife

To look after aged mother and two teenaged children!

He was a failed man;

Like many who preferred;

A life beyond academic excellence.

No obituary was published for a failed person.

Some of us licking our lips;

To pounce upon another prey in his hapless wife;

Or on his teen-aged daughter.

Whom we clap on their success;

When they are young;

We never make them economically viable;

Otherwise who will entertain us?

Whom we shall humiliate;

For their livelihood?

Or at their failures?

We treat them like a cock in cock fight;

If the cock loses, we kill it and eat its flesh.

Art, culture, sports can make you famous1

But will not give you enough money,

To marry a beautiful girl;

Once one of my seniors told me;

When my first poem was published.

I recall his statement,

Whenever I remember my friends;

Those drowned in the midstream of life

As a non-entity for our society.

Princess meets The Prince Finally

Part I

While walking in the twilight,

Before descending of dusk;

Feeling like a dawn;

In a narrow street of mind;

I met the free spirit, with a broad smile.

The smile was as broad as the Palk Strait,

Dividing mainland of India and Sri Lanka.

Her smile as deep as an ocean,

Gave a hope to live for another day,

As a prisoner of love.

Every grin of her, every giggle of her;

Energise me for another walk,

In the narrow street of mind.

Part II

Blood was oozing out from her heart;

She was weeping like a dying deer;

Hit by an arrow of a blood thirsty hunter.

Why are you crying my child?

I asked with a tender voice.

She replied with a sigh,

He promised me to keep on holding my hand;

Even during a tempest.

But he left me in lurch,

In the midst of turmoil river,

At the first scent of an evening fragrance,

Causing a feeling of dusk in my mind.

With salty sweat of my life,

I gave a healing touch,

To the bleeding heart,

With a slim hope,

She could see the dawn in her life again!

Part III

A prince with a heart of gold,

On a horse back, galloping like a warrior,

Of love and passion,

Kneeled before the free spirit,

Asking for her hand forever!!!!

Her broad smile came back,

Like a broad sunshine,

In the early morning.

I thanked the God;

For making me the messenger of Love;

For the Princess with the bleeding heart;

And the Prince with the Golden Heart.

Servant of the Lonely Princess

I was in the midst of many successful persons;

Feeling like a fish out of water.

The lovely princess smiled at me,

As if we were friends of thousand years.

I smiled back with a bow;

I knew how to bow to a princess.

Her eyes told me;

She might not be happy!

I could not talk to her,

I was instructed to seat behind her.

Her curves disturbed me;

I was not supposed to look at those.

She talked to someone in his ear;

He laughed loudly.

I felt insulted;

My princess ignored me.

Next moment, I was back to the realty;

She was a princess;

I was a subject to serve her.

She was talking to the person;

Next to him intensely;

Again I felt jealous about him.

I wanted to change my seat;

So that her fragrance would not hit my nose.

On the next moment, I came to the realty;

I cannot change my seat;

I am a servant to serve them;

Without a choice of my own!

Her blouse could not support her;

Ever expanding desire of mine.

From behind, I could see her marble coloured back;

In my wildest imagination!

I would have loved to touch her;

I came to the reality; she is my master.

She stood from her chair;

She did not require permission for that;

I was not permitted to seat when she was standing!

She waived her hand to follow her;

Somewhere I did not know.

She was brisk in her walk;

I was following her;

I have to obey her,

I have to serve her.

Broken Plate

Sitting in the drawing room,

Heard the sound of a broken utensil.

There was silence;

I understood it is my better half;

Who had completed the task.

I was waiting to hear,

Sweet sound of my wife;

Accusing me for keeping;

The unbroken utensil on the wrong place.

But it was still silent;

I was worried;

Was it a lull only!

But nothing was heard;

Even after minutes of the sound of broken utensil!

I was worried more;

I dared not go to the kitchen.

But I have to go;

I thought after long few minutes!

Finally, I went to the kitchen;

Only to find the broken plate;

Made of China clay;

Given by my mother,

On my daughter’s first birth day.

My wife was still standing there silently.


From the window of my room;

I can see the sky;

I can see the stars;

But not the moon.

Stars give the temptation;

To twinkle like them;

To sparkle like them.

I cannot see the moon,

From my room, from the window.

One day I came out of my room,

To find out the moon.

At sunshine you cannot see moon;

I waited for descendance of dusk.

Dusk descended,

But moon was not there.

Someone whispered,

Moon is visible;

Either in the first half

Or in the second half of the night.

I patiently waited for the moon to appear;

From dusk to dawn;

But it did not appear.

I was disappointed,

But not disheartened nor unhappy.

The sparkling stars talked to me;

Throughout the night;

Giving me company like true friends of mine.

They told me;

You cannot see moon on a cloudy night!

But how I can see you?

I asked the twinkle stars.

They smiled and told,

Because we are real;

Moon is nothing but a mirage!!!!!

My Stupid Mom


When he was born, she might be 25,

Might be younger by a year,

Or might be one year older.

She could have been free,

Like my daughter of 25.

She could have taken care of,

Her twenty- five-year-old body,

Like any other modern girl around me.

But she preferred to make her son healthy;

By feeding her blood and sweat

For long two and a half years;

By torturing her ailing body.

She must be the dumbest woman,

I have ever come across in my life!

When the boy was three or four;

She used to carry him to the school;

Along with her;

School was away by miles from home.

She never complained for her sleepless nights;

When he was ill, forgetting her own illness!

During Bihu and Puja;

She used to take him;

Different places with a festive attire;

Wearing her three- year old Patar Mekhela!

She used to give him the best of the food;

Keeping rest of the junk for her;

But always smiling!

She saved money for years together,

To replace her torn dresses;

But that ended up;

On his college dress;

But still she never complained;

And she was still smiling!!


She became lonely;

The boy left her alone at her home,

Situated in a remote village;

To live in a big city along with his family;

Still she was smiling;

Blessing him for his bright future!

She was ailing;

He had no time for her;

He was busy with his own life.

She died alone;

None was with her except a young nurse;

When she breathed her last.

She died with a smile on her face;

A satisfying smile;

With her last words to the nurse:

God bless my son;

He is the reason for me living so long!

Thank him for his love for me;

He made me a proud mother;

He has given everything to me;

He is always a bundle of joy to me;

He is my happiness.

Tell my son,

To forgive me;

I could not give him,

Best of the educations,

What he had right to have,

Best of comforts;

What he deserved as a son.

Tell my son,

I also loved him equally;

As much as he loves me.

But I could not provide him,

Everything what his peers used to get.

I wanted to give him everything;

What a son wanted from his mother;

But alas!

I may have failed as a mother;

She breathed her last with a sigh!

Young nurse told her son,

She was a nice lady;

She loved you very much;

Wiping her tears.


But I thought with moist eyes,

She might be the most stupid lady;

I have ever met.

None will ever dare to compete her;

In her dumbness or her stupidity!

I always wanted to tell the lady,

Your son never loved you,

As much as you love him!

I always wanted to tell her,

He never cared for you,

As much as you cared for him.

I always wanted to tell her,

You have given him everything,

Which he never deserved.

I always wanted to tell the lady,

He has not given you anything in return;

For what you have given to him;

Your blood, sweat and your youth!

I always wanted tell the old lady,

He deserved nothing more from you;

But, you deserved much more from him;

The thankless and selfish son!

But alas!

I could not tell her anything;

When she was alive,

She would have loved;

To hear those words from me;

Yes, because she was my stupid Mom!!

Change of Priorities

After a typhoon,

Having a trail of destruction,

Having a resounding silence,

My mind became as cool as a cucumber.

How long mind can be kept confined;

In a narrow steel jacket of,

Dos and Do nots?

It is a mind of living human,

Not a rule book;

Written in 1882,

Amended however many a times;

To govern a state;

Before or after its Independence.

Government can change priorities;

What is important today;

Tomorrow, it may be just a bull shit.

Then why we cannot;

Change the priorities of life

To bring luck and happiness to our lives?

But we are wary to change our priorities;

Always we are insecure about our own future.

I am also doubtful

About my family and the society;

As I know their Ostrich like behaviour;

Towards any change of our priorities

But I have decided,

To reallocate my priorities.

I am feeling good.

Are you with me?


Difficult to Forget

Encircling me like an octopus in her arms;

Asked me whether I loved someone in my life!

When I said, yes I did,

She asked me whether she is my wife.

When I said a no to her question,

She asked me why.

I told her, I do not know,

Somehow it did not materialize.

Do you still remember her?

She asked me kissing on my bosom.

I told her, it is difficult to forget her;

That is why, I surrendered to your arms.

Is it your wife whom you kissed first in your life?

She asked me.

When I said a no to her question,

She asked me why.

I told her,

I did not meet her as a teenager.

Do you still remember her?

She asked me kissing on my bosom once again.

I told her, it is difficult to forget her;

That is why, I surrendered to your arms!!!!!!!

Is it your wife with whom you slept first?

When I said a no to her question,

She asked me why.

I told her, my wife was not around to rape me

When I was mere nineteen.

Do you still remember her?

She asked me kissing on my bosom.

I told her, still I hate her;

That is why, I surrendered to your arms,

To forget about that long bitter night.

In Memory of My First Love

I envy the poet;

Who has the guts to tell the world;

I loved a girl, whom I ditched;

Or who had ditched me.

Whenever I see your smiling face,

With your husband and your family;

I cannot tell the world that I envy your husband;

Like the poet who can tell the world,

That he is sharpening his pen;

To write a poem on your obituary;

Or on the obituary of your husband.

I can drink a gallon of wine;

To forget the memory of the past;

Sleeping together with you on a floor of concrete;

In the absence of a cot.

I can drink gallons of beers,

To forget the hot kisses on your lips

With empty stomach for days together.

But I cannot write a poem on you;

The moment I think of you;

I forget the right words for the right feeling

Of my bleeding heart.

‘Can you remember those days

When I loved you more than myself?’

I want to write this in a poetic verse.

I envy the poet who can write that;

In a poetic cacophony.

I always envy the poet,

Who can make others cry;

Showcasing his bleeding heart.

Whenever I want to write something

About the winter night;

When you tried to warmth my shivering body

With your tight embrace;

Everyone sees vulgarity in it.

I envy the poet,

When he expresses his vulgar moves;

In a poetic innocence.

Now I want to write something in memory of you,

My first love, my sweetheart

Will you help me

To write a line on your beauty;

Or on your innocence,

Or on your honesty;

Or on your betrayal

In a poetic verse.

First Kiss

First kiss on the lips of a damsel,

Cannot be erased

By wiping out your lips by thousand times.

Stain remains for ever.

I was nineteen,

She was eighteen;

It was a pitch dark corridor.

I knew she would not mind for a kiss on her wet lips!

It smelt salty,

Tasted rosy;

Oh, I am sorry;

I am still faltering in my words.

Her wet lips tasted salty,

They looked like rose petals.

We locked our lips for few minutes.

She was not my lover;

She loved me;

I did not love her.

I am sorry dear,

You gave me the first taste of the lips of a damsel;

But you are not my lover.

Killing the Virginity

Me sure, all will laugh;

If I say, I killed my virginity;

To an elderly girl,

Before I crossed the barrier of teen.

They will correct my English to write;

I lost my virginity to a girl,

Who arrived this world much before me.

When I was a free bird of nineteen,

I was on a holiday trip;

To a village of knowns.

A girl of twenty-five,

Known to me for years;

Became unknown to me on that night.

She was able to squeeze me everything out,

On that fateful night.

She was not my first love;

Nor she was whom I kissed first;

She was known to me for years;

Became unknown to me on that night.

She killed my virginity forever!

I never loved her;

If role reversed;

I would have been put behind the bar;

For raping a young girl by a youth of twenty-five.

I must confess;

I did not like the first half of the night;

But liked the action

From the second half of the night;

For the next three nights.

From the next vacation;

She was my lone attraction;

For going to her village;

Till her marriage to a distant place.

She was my first lady,

With whom I slept;

Whom I never loved.

She is not My First Love

It is my candid admission to God;

She is not my first lover;

She is not my first lady,

Whom I kissed on her lips!

Even she is not the first lady,

With whom I slept.

I cannot recall,

How many lovers I had;

I cannot recall;

How many ladies I had kissed;

I cannot recall,

With how many ladies,

I had slept.

Please give her the power;

To be the last lady,

Whom I want to kiss,

Whom I want to love;

With whom I want to sleep;

Rest of my life;

Because she happened to be my wife;

Who had sacrificed everything for me;

Her body, mind

And may be love for someone else.

I want to die young

Oh God!

Please hear my prayer!

I do not want to live up to 100 or more

To see my loved ones

On their 100th birth day.

I want to leave

When all my loved ones are around

And scream,

'What! that b--d has gone,

Without any prior intimation!

He was -- years younger than I.

Bless me to die

Before losing my appetite to see,

A beautiful face at the top of a beautiful figure.

Bless me to die;

Before I stop envying a husband;

Having a beautiful wife in tow.

Bless me to die,

Before a girl of 25,says,

I look like her grand-father.

Oh, God! Pass an order to your ambassador of death

To come to me

While I will be jogging;

After a lady half of my age,

Smelling her evening fragrance;

Or her morning freshness.

Let me die before a nurse is appointed;

To push my wheel chair;

Without enjoying touch of her bosom

On my fragile body.

Let me die,

Before my children starts talking

About the legality of euthanasia.

Oh, God! Let me die,

Before I forget the name of the beautiful girl,

Who met me few minutes ago.

Bless me to die

In the arms of a beautiful lady,

Whom I love;

Does not matter,

Whether she loves me or not.

Bless me to die

Surrounded by beautiful people.

Bless me not to die

At the edge of a hospital bed,

Surrounded by people with white coats!

Death of a Complete Woman

He is dead.

His face is still with a smile;

A smile of peace.

How to react at his death?

Who was he?

What relation I had with him?

I want to know at his death;

Which I never bothered to know;

When he was hale and hearty.

He was not my father;

Nor my father in law;

Not father of a friend,

Not even father of a friend of a friend!

He was not my brother,

Nor even brother in arms,

Nor not even a blood brother!

He was not a friend of mine,

Nor friend of a friend!

He was not my lover;

Nor even lover of a friend!

He cannot be my husband;

I have a loving husband of my own!

He was too old to be my son;

Nor even a friend of my son!

No, he was not boss in my office;

Nor he was my subordinate.

He was not boss of my husband;

Nor a subordinate of my husband

No, no, he has never been a foe of mine;

Nor of my husband!

He was only known to me;

A man with a magnetic personality;

Whom none could dare to ignore.

I was always attracted to him,

I always wanted be in his arms.

His arrival made me happy;

His presence made others immaterial;

Even my husband, even my son

Became immaterial to me.

He never touched me;

As a woman or as an object.

He talks only;

Talks for minutes in private;

Talks for hours in public

He used to infuse positivity,

In my shortcomings of body and mind.

He forced me to feel beautiful;

With all my shortcomings in body and mind.

He used to make me comfortable

At the worst hours of my life.

He used to bring smile on my face,

When someone tried to humiliate me in public;

By putting him into his knees;

Through his articulate words.

He gave me a feeling of a complete woman;

Even without touching me.

Now he is dead;

I want to die with him.

But, I need not have to die anymore;

I am already dead,

The complete woman inside me has died with him.

Death and Birth

Who says birth is beautiful,

And death is painful?

Birth may be painful for a mother,

All the years to come!

Death may give immense pleasure to a father;

Who wants his daughter to die!

Ask the feeling of a mother,

In a remote village of my motherland,

Or in a metropolis of India,

Bigger than the size of a country of Africa,

On the birth of third daughter,

How sad she is!

Ask her father,

If she is a still born,

Or dies before her first birth day,

Or she dies before her fifth birth day,

How he feels;

You may notice his smile before he speaks!

How children react,

On the death of their income-less parent,

Should I repeat!

How parent will react on the news;

Their maid has given birth a child,

Thanks to their teen aged son!!!

How will they react on the news,

When both maid and her child died,

At the time of delivery.

Ask a wife of twenties,

How happy she is,

When doctor says,

Her husband is no more at 85,

Leaving behind properties of crores!

At the birth of child mother may be happy,

Father may not be happy;

If that is the weapon to blackmail the poor fellow!

I am not a MCP;

Therefore, this caveat;

This may be opposite also.

At the death of a person,

A group will be happy;

Another group will be unhappy.

A country may be happy at the death of terrorists;

The neighbouring country mourns their death;

Declaring them martyrs.

I can damage your eardrums,

By telling about crying people at birth

And smiling people at death!

So, my friend,

Do not go to submit your sincere condolence,

At the death of a wife,

When the husband is preparing

For another marriage of his choice!

I did the mistake once,

The poor husband told me not to be sad,

Birth and death are in the hands of God.

We Have to Think

Dowry Menace

I attended a party;

A few years ago;

As she stood first in her MBBS final examination,

In an elite medical college,

Of the largest city in India,

With all modern amenities.

She is beautiful,

As beautiful as Madona of the mythology.

Again I have to attend her marriage party today;

She happened to be

The only daughter of a close friend of mine.

I asked him,

Hope, no dowry you have to pay;

For your beautiful and intelligent daughter.

He smiled with a pale shade of sorrow,

Rather I have to pay more;

Finding a matching groom

For an intelligent girl it is tougher;

Than getting a son in law for an uneducated girl.

I asked myself;

Should we stop our daughters;

For going to an institution;

Highly specialized and expensive;

To save our money for giving a hefty dowry

At the time of her marriage?

Big Issue on a Small Tissue

One film star in India commented;

Virginity in India is,

A big issue on a small tissue.

After taking a degree,

From Oxford or from Harvard;

In nuclear science or in management;

At the time of marriage;

He wants chastity membrane of his wife;

Yet to be torn;

That privilege of tearing of the membrane

Should be enjoyed by him only.

If her hymen has already been torn;

Even due to some other reason,

Her character is doubted;

May ended with a divorce;

If lucky;

Next fifty years she would be humiliated,

On the slightest pretext.

Degree from Oxford or from Harvard;

Could not change,

The mentality of an Indian MCP.

The degree from these Universities,

May fetch a big salary;

But never illuminates the heart of the Indian MCP.

Someone once told me,

Fat salary can fetch you a large car,

A large Bunglow at posh area,

A beautiful wife also,

But cannot make your heart large.

Long live Indian MCP;

At least till then,

Robot takes over the humanity,

From the lesser mortals like us!

The Philosopher

He is a true philosopher;

He was a master of philosophy;

Before he is a doctor of philosophy.

He delivers best of the lectures;

On modern life and science;

He had thousands of fan following in FB.

He is a man of knowledge;

We all admire.

He is a man of social science;

He wants eradication of all evils in the society.

He is a strong advocate of widow marriage.

But when his son wanted to marry a widow;

His advice was pragmatic.

Go and enjoy the hapless lady;

But never bring that used whore;

As your wife or as my daughter in law.

If she sheds few drops of tears,

Throw few bundles of currency;

Without showing any miserly attitude;

Towards the so called lady love of yours.

He remained a philosopher for the mass;

And pragmatic father for his son.

Rape or Consensual Sex

A young girl of thirteen;

Raped in broad daylight;

Law says

Under certain age;

Even consensual sex is also a rape.

All the defending lawyers are trying to prove;

She was above eighteen;

When the crime was taken place.

A thirty five year lady has been gang raped

By a group of young boys; half of her age.

All the rapists were

Between eighteen to twenty;

Lawyers defending them were trying to prove;

All were below eighteen;

So that they can be tried,

Under the sections of Juvenile law;

That will give them sufficient elbow room;

To get minimum punishment,

Under the existing law.

What a strategy;

To save the rapists in India;

Sometimes increase the age;

And for the same reason,

Sometimes reduce the age!

That is the Law system in India!


Physician and His Roving Eyes

He is a physician of repute;

He is a true professional in his chamber;

Has never done any un-professional thing;

Which is against the ethics of a doctor.

He knows;

Breast is nothing but a combination of,

Few nerves, tubes and an ounce of fat.

But very sight of vibrating breasts,

Under the cloths makes;

His manhood hardened.

The same feeling never disturbs him;

While he examines the breasts of a patient;

By putting his hands on those

Vibrating breasts without any cover!

His friends accuse him,

Of having roving eyes,

On every beautiful lady;

With vibrating breasts;

Under the T-shirt,

Under the blouse,

Under the tantalizing bra;

Or under the cover of an Indian saree.

He is a man of contrast,

With roving eyes outside the chamber,

And a true professional physician;

Within the four walls of his modern chamber;

With a king size bed;

For the patients with breast cancer!

Good or Bad

He is the pinnacle of contrast.

Is he really a good man?

Or he is really a bad man?

He himself doubts about his own character;

Is he a God for worship?

Or is a devil to be condemned?

He helps everyone he knows;

Friends and foes alike.

He respects every relation,

That mankind has evolved;

Over the years and over the centuries.

He is ready to sacrifice his life for;

His daughters, niece and wife.

He is ready to sacrifice his life

For the dignity of

His adopted daughters,

Daughters of his friends;

Sisters and sisters of his friends.

So you must be thinking he is a good man.

Perhaps yes, perhaps not.

He looks at the curves of

Every unknown young girl of daughters’ age

With his lurking eyes.

Through his roving mind;

He undresses every young lady on the street,

In his dirty imagination.

He visits brothels of every city he had visited,

To satisfy his unfulfilled desire,

That his wife cannot meet.

He behaves like a saint for all he knows;

Plays the role of a sex lunatic;

For all the unknown young ladies;

Or on the bed with a whore.

Is he not a man of real contrast?

Danger Around Us

Conserve Water

Water, water, water is everywhere;

Not a single drop to drink.

Stuck in the midst of a sea,

The Great Emperor thundered;

In disgust; two centuries ago.

His distracters were happy;

His followers shed tears.

I was terrified to visualize;

The thirsty faces of the lower ranked soldiers.

They were ready to offer their blood and sweat;

To quench the thirst of the masters!

I saw the fears of death, a slow but sure death,

In the eyes of low ranked soldiers.

Middle level officers were on the next line;

To prove their loyalty.

Distracters claim, many were thrown;

To the unending wavy salt water;

Many were killed.

His worshippers never believed;

The claim made by his distracters.

After two odd hundred years;

A small nut like me;

Cried for a glass of water to drink;

In the ocean of muddy water;

Black water, grey water and so on.

None is ready to shed blood and sweat for me;

To quench my thirst.

I am looking at my son;

I am looking at my daughter;

They are carrying canister of black water;

They have to quench their thirst with black water;

By filtering them;

That is the only way to survive.

I am looking at few generations down the line,

None is appeared to be alive;

All are lying like lifeless animals;

Not a single drop of water to drink.

None is there to hear me;

None is there to criticise me,

None is there to disregard me,

None is there to praise me.

All are appeared to be dead;

Not a single drop of water to drink.

Muddy Water: I am the Ruler of my Destiny

Water with mud is coming out;

From each and every tap;

All I could survey.

All trees have been fallen;

To the axe of the ruler.

Ruler is not independent;

He has an old father.

He used to like flowers;

One day he plucked

All the flowers for his flower show.

All his followers praised the ruler;

For the beauty and fragrance of the flowers.

For the assassinated flowers;

The trees cried silently.

The tears of the trees;

Flowed from hills to the plains;

Created havoc for the subjects living on the foothills.

Years entered into the history books;

None realized ‘history repeats itself’.

King can do no mistake;

The old proverb says.

The young king imported;

Sharper but sturdy axes;

To cut the hapless trees;

Of the Hills; of the plains.

He ordered for obstructions;

For the river; for the rivulets;

To construct our houses and our hotels.

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