Shruti.

When my wounds are fresh enough to rise above the clouds of your empty vocal sounds, I'll know my chase for cowardice and its shadow began with the fool's halo. I need to know how cotton was made with my hair and alive was the forest inside your heart that was shrieked by the sounds of thunder and drum rolls outside the window.

Hysterically, the cadavers are cropping into your bones like stitches of woolen yarn, and you are smoking the snow smelling earth as if you are ashen by your winter. You don't know your name and not your blooming monstrosity, but it's rising flames into the loins of your empty bosom and as if you function as humane as nature you are puking bile.

I am not thinking about you but you are flashing in front of my eyes like faeries and nymphs on feast and inside the claustrophobic walls of my cosmopolitan house I find you the ghosts of English past. The fireplaces are so burnt with coal and wood painting the red on bricks and yet,

you flash like the sorcerer of my life, and yet, this is my monstrous cosmopolitan forests and the walls keep shrinking.

I fear that someday this hallucination of the past is all my today exists with truth. And when tomorrow I open my eyes it's a blank canvas so bright that even my shadow scares my soul to set a foot on earth. Maybe, I am thinking too much with nothing concrete but my city around me. But the cold shrine of winter moon on the swimming pool feels like slithering reptile scales, and I am soaked in all vile liquid and I am consuming it like a supple and galloping meat with a mouth and no air to fill vacuum space in me.

If someday you vanish from the throbbing cells of my antelope brain, and truth is not poison of my morning juice, and breakfast tastes like bakery in all its bloom, will I know my name and the sews I stitched on my gaping wounds, would seem like paper cuts of childhood games?

You have no mouth on your face now, and I don't remember you crook of nose but your spiraling eyes like the storm of the seas, resemble enough to the turbines of the laundry room, and I am staring too deep into the glass cages of whirlpooling fabrics as if you are looking at me, asking me tricks of your existence. And never when my spring break comes, once again, I set my eyes outside the door, hoping a drop of rain would fall on me and it would smell like the joy of soil, sorrows of the sky and ending all hopes of the sun to rise into the oblivion. Just like it used to when days were juvenile and trees were saplings. They needed sun. The sun couldn't face them because the skies wailed horribly.

I name you Michelangelo. You created me this pretty when I was soil and calcium of bones. But you are no artist and flawed like him. I call you so because in the history of my glory your existence will be mammoth. I am me, because you saw me then. But you'll be lost and barely remembered except your creation, the stapled scars of prude boyhood, and so lost will be your face, like so mouthless it is. Soon your eyes will be crawling with maggots and you will be consumed. Rotting the rotten, you'll be into the soil; in the calcium I came from, yet you'll be acid, and churning into the wheel of your eye; and I'll never look at the hullabaloo of soft fabrics in the laundry room. You'll be Michelangelo; forgotten and remembered; and I'll be the paintings of Rome, talking tales of mythology as if you built me in a day.

TW/CW: graphic mentions of rape, sexual abuse and death & mourning

The death of my mother’s daughter haunts the city park. Autopsy was done, she was lying by the curb Her womb was blood Cervix torn Later she was killed Emptying the cervix that labored for her. The death of my mother’s daughter made me question Why was I my mother’s daughter? Why was I killed?

The dead body of my mother’s daughter Lies beside my motionless mother Not a tear Not a life In those eyes, Eyes that once had rage A rage I once Used to share.

Where was my father? Why was he not here? For I was a corpse lying Not the princess Whose world he conquered.

The death of my mother’s daughter Pained me more, as I lurked Like the gust of air. My life was lost, What I left was despair.

No boy, no lover No crime, not any violence A kill had occurred And an act unfair Who would you blame? Who would you name? Who would you call out Label him insane, He who never was Bereft to make the claim?

The death of my mother’s daughter Killed a few more Alive they looked While only I was who burned. No rage was cooler than that pyre No screams were calmer than those flames No life was better than those ashes

The death of my mother’s daughter, Quicker than the rape of mine. Would you call it a crime? Would you sleep on my shine As my body was agile Voice seemed fine, Yet Night and day Body and mind, Ruins of toils Chafing my loins, Ruins of toils Calling me to spoils.

The death of my mother’s daughter Was an end I desired For my mother perished Why a daughter Why a maiden Why no omen Why no evil Why her cradle Left so barren Why her husband Sobbed no spoken Why her daughter A tragic token, She wept And mourned enraged, My mother’s daughter left no trace For all the perils To her devil entrails Burned with ashes Neither evils nor remains No just crime could ever pertain.

My father’s daughter had died in vain A conqueror so vague Loss beguiled the pain in might Not life, nor light No home of mine My father’s daughter had died, And in death I couldn’t even smile.

আমার একটা বাড়ি আছে। সেই বাড়িতে আছে, আমার বাবা; রোব্বারে সে কাগজ পড়ে, সারা সপ্তাহ সে হিসেব করে। বাড়ির রান্নাঘরে ভাসে মায়ের বানানো মশলার গন্ধ এবং তার ঝাঁজে বিরক্ত আমার মা। আমাদের এই ছোট্ট তিন কামরার ফ্ল্যাটে সুখ শান্তি, ঠাকুরের প্রসাদের মতই সাধারণ মনে হয়।

না না! প্রসাদ বলতে সন্দেশ, জিলিপি বা পায়েস না।

আমাদের সুখ হলো নকুলদানা ও মিছরির মত গৌন, এবং তাতে নতুনত্ব বলতে বাতাসা বা কিশমিশই মুখ বদল। সহজে পাওয়া যায়। চাহিদা কম তো তাই। হয়ত তাই জন্যেই প্রসাদের মিষ্টত্ব না রোচে মনে, না লাগে জিভে। ডাল ভাত ও খিচুড়ির মতো স্বল্প সুখে ভ্রূকুটি দেখিয়ে পিঁপড়ের বেগে জীবন কাটাই আমরা।

আমার ঘরের ভেতরটা একটা আস্ত জগৎ। রাত্রিবেলা সেটা অন্যরকম এক ব্রহ্মান্ড। সেখানে আমি একা; আছে ঠান্ডা হাওয়া, অগোছালো বিশৃঙ্খলতা, চুপচাপ এক মুখ, মৃদু একটা গানের আওয়াজ, সুনসান রাস্তার ব্যাস্ততা, ও অফুরন্ত নিস্তব্ধতা। ঘুম ও সকালের রোদের সেখানে বেশ বন্ধুত্ব। অনিয়ম, বেনিয়ম, ঠিক, ভুল; সবটাই সেখানে আড়ি-ভাব। ভূত-ভবিষ্যৎ সবটাই সেখানকার বর্তমান।

বিশেষ কিছু বলার থাকে না আমাদের এই বাড়িতে। অথচ সুখের নকুলদানা বিচিত্র কোন কারণে, কমে গেলেও, একেবারে নির্মূল কখোনই হয়না।

In my head I have imagined you laugh twenty different ways, yet I am confused, exactly which one fits your cheeks and the tint of your lips, the baritones of your voice, and the tingles of my stomach. Astonishingly I am thinking all these at an hour so busy but I, I... desperately need to think about you or my head would explode worse than a jackfruit in summer and putrid than its smell. And then I am in front of the mirror, and I see my tangled hair and my bright eyes; somehow, I feel you would call me sweet despite my disheveled state. You'd clasp me tight in your arms and I would be gasping; I'd like it too. Our hands are red and far; and it's fine as poetry ‘cause how they fit together when we would pretend lovers, as if it was real and all the eyes knew what we were. Together we would feed the cats and now, how they roam around my feet asking for the stains, tainted, painted, on my hands, the red from your veins.

Body so numb, as heat is only to receive for last, it held; those hands that held you. Yet, Tonight, I can see you pale and blue in the reflection, along with my dolled face, a bun up high; and hands unstained, manicured in French. And forgetting everything, I run towards you, witnessing your existence once again, despicably trying to haunt this fine afterlife. But... You are endless, and the ghost of everything I slouched away from; pulped it into arson and burned it all. Yet, you stand in front of me, mosaicked in the shades of every good byes I ever swore... Yet, You stand in front of me, and I can't think of you. True like a corpse, as I remember you, just as we danced, every stain like the mulberry spots; ugly freckles of horror; you are a ghost and a story. Which I buried, bare, and banned. Gone, are you! So, with the smoke of my fireplace, let me extinguish; all the soul that stands dead to me. And tomorrow when I wake up, I'll eat my cereal with bliss, and breathe my name, all over this abode; smiling in Lolita.