20 Years Older

20 Years Older

When ancestors plant apple trees:
Future generations expected to sit underneath;
apple pies and marmalade
to be baked and eaten under its shade.
Süssmost/apple juice fermented,
fermented through weeks...
Cause when ancestors plant more apple trees:
Cider, cakes, jams and happiness
are expected out of it.

what's inside


chackit! chackit! chackit!
It staples away. One tiny metal pin after another.
Holds so much strength, as it puts together separate pieces,
composing a comprehensible whole.
Inseparable. Unless hacked out mercilessly, without hesitation.
Strange how similar it is to life, with many-a-staple through us,
holding us together, bound tight.
Housework, ambition, children, marriage, norms,
After releasing one, there comes another.
We are overwhelmed, yet like hungry street-urchins
we cannot let go. Even when it tells us to,
chuckit! chuckit! chuckit!


While getting jolted in the station crowd,
I wonder if I can spot your-like?
Someone who’s watching out
to protect any little girl-child.
Looking up to see nothing but a mass –
a crowd of thoughts block my sight.
I get mercilessly tossed and tussled
through judgemental thoughts.
Old faces, new faces, aristocrats,
bourgeoisie and the poor –
fiery thoughts, cold feelings of pain and despair:
Chaos. Crowd. Chaos. More.
A crowd in my head, crowding my life,
where there isn’t enough space;
yet everyone fits in so perfect!

I walk on, through crowded streets
oblivious to acrid feelings.
Crowd of faces, with crowded feelings,
on a crowded street, jostling around
a clouded person! I walk on –
miserably lost in the crowd.


Electric blue darkens itself and vanishes
a red aura rises –
Alarming! Vehement-hue.
Touch of ominous, invisible, invincible whirling aura –
It's dancing flames burning lividly into my eyes;
as if to dare me to join itself in the play
Close your eyes.
Dark night.
See its brilliant reflection against the mirror,
held by her bridal-hands. Against her burning red veil —
carving itself an image, on the back of our head.
Norms. She is a prisoner.
Life. Not for a girl-child.
Death. She doesn’t get respect.
Fire. That’s how she finally parts.
Fire to mouth, bones to ashes, ashes to clay, clay to water.
Ganga. Ganga. Ganga.


Accidentally surfaces
a new brand of narcotic.
Not distant from freedom…
foolproof timely understanding,
of symbolic cruelty.
Overstimulation, jubilation,
indulgence: Euphoric feeling
of the first high!
Lenience is addictive.
Getting dazed, yet no escape:
it will still be there, when awake,
running havoc in the bloodstream.

Spreading to flow into eternal circulation, –
escape from the lap of a polluted world
awaiting damnation…
A successful administration of
“Knowledge”:A new brand of narcotic!

reader reviews

“Powerful. That's how her words hit me. The poems in this book are beautiful, fierce, and tell so many stories..”

Sudeshna Ghosh, Goodreads

“A brilliant, intense, brutally honest one that sets you thinking. Loved it.”

Sohini Roychowdhury Dasgupta, Facebook

Loved the Journey of the girl to a woman!

“The Rebel girl has not only morphed into a woman but has chosen to weave her words beautifully around subjects that are close to everyone's heart. I loved 'the immortal freedom' 'gobindbhog' 'matrimonial' 'rails to calcutta' 'stapler' 'desire lost' are some of my favs.
Her words are deep seated and profound and can make any reader ponder over the intensity of the matter.”

Ruch, Amazon