Love on Facebook; Social media, internet, and I (2)

I am in my fourth year of my happy live-in relationship. People visit us and while leaving, they would touch my shoulder earnestly and tell me “you guys are made for each other”. Do we know that? We know!

Ironically enough, we met eachother through Facebook. I hardly use it. Four years before, when I was in my last year of graduation, one dull evening, I received a friend request from a petty junior. This is what I referred to the friend request- petty junior friend request. My friends laughed at it and said, a friend of ours referred us to the junior for notes and books (we had the same major). I accepted the friend request.

One day, I saw a poem was uploaded from the account. I was wasting my time scrolling through the FB feed and getting thumb arthritis, when I, just like that, texted him. “Ei chele kobita likhish?” Hey boy, do you write poetry? After four to five hours of seeing the message on FB messenger, he replied yes. And then the conversation started. We didn’t sleep throughout the night till it was almost morning and mobile phones slipped from our hands and we finally slept for the two or three hours till we ran for our classes.

Within a few days, we gave up attending classes, which we knew was bad but never regretted. We weren’t just fools. We were then fools-falling-in-love. Even if I attended a few classes, I kept scribbling poetries on the back of my notebook. I hardly knew what was going on. We talked and talked and talked. I stopped even hanging out with my friends.

(to be continued…)

Dear readers, tell me if you are liking it. I shall then continue with much more enthusiasm.

Social media, internet, and I (1)

I lived seven years of my life in a bowl like residential school. We often joked it to be a central jail. By the time, I came out of the bowl, the world was basking under the sudden boom of Facebook. Everybody made a Facebook account, so did I. But being a diary person all through my life, speaking my heart on Facebook wall was difficult to me. And there were the prying known faces of friends and relatives and acquaintances. I crawled back to my diary and hardly used the FB account to write anything. Then came WhatsApp and Instagram and so many social medias. I restrained myself the same. Over the years, I realized, it wasn’t because I was shy or private, that I couldn’t use the internet to write. It was because I didn’t have the proper audience who would understand and appreciate the tone I would write in. In the hope for that audience, almost longing, I am writing these blogs. I am trying, once, again.

Randomly musing

The day is bright, the sky is clean blue, some branches and some leaves are in pretension of dying. Everybody is warning everybody – the weather is changing. All of a sudden one would realise, yes! The the city is coughing at the same time. The skin is always hungry of layers of moisturizer.

In such a weather, in such a day, why is that some kind of dryness, too, gets stuck in my throat? Why does the heart feels empty? Why does your soul longs for some unknown place?

In such a day, I daydream of old friendships, of old love, of my very first love.

A proposal.

A proposal.


With a rare softness

An extreme one

Put a scissor

For an ultimate quest,

Of being alive,


Oh dear beloved,

Clip of agony,

The residual insecurities

Of our hearts


The beauty is awaiting

Bring it to my womb,

Let it grow there


For once and for all

Let the fairy tale begin


Through me, ah, through me


Hey, Readers

Its been a long time since I posted the last time. I won’t lie saying I was busy, I wasn’t yet sure whether to continue the blog or not. The answer is NO.

I really want to thank the 30 people who followed me. Only a countable number of posts, and my inactivity, but still some people found our posts worth reading. More interesting posts would come. Readers, please keep coming.

The Bridge to reality is falling down

I write my today’s post to all the hypersensitive souls.

Does it ever happen that somebody casually comments something, and we spend several days ruminating the same thing in our minds? It can be a word of praise, it can be a word of contempt. Sometimes some people make us feel so low that we start picturing that person as a devil with big nails and teeth. And the people who make us feel better suddenly turn angels. Why everything so extreme? Why are we made to define the extremity of emotions?

These questions bug me so much. I am on a perennial wait of disappearing one day from my room. People are always kind to those who disappear. Let it be exile, kidnapping, death, anything.

The passionate teacher of our college, he doesn’t like me I guess. His old eyes suffer from pride cataract. After all Cambridge University is not the parameter of my passion. I am passionate about poetry. I loved poetry since I was a child. My writing is bad, for I don’t write their language. I write mine. I burn myself to make words and phrases, to write a sentence. My small, easy words come from my soul, not from a mere dictionary. If Gertrude Stein could be mad in her verse, why can’t I? People use hypocrisy as perfume in every fold of their “self”.

I wish I could walk out in the soothing darkness, and black out all of a sudden and never come back to this world.

The chaos in my house burnt the ties between him and me. My only bridge to reality is breaking. What am I suppose to do? I am fainting.

Let the show begin!!

A sheer curtain like something secludes me from the world. I see, I observe, I absorb, I think but I cannot touch it. The world—I do crave to be in it. Sometimes, I accuse it of careless parenting. My poems, my writings are my constant attempt to reach out to the world. These are my screams. O World! Hear me. I want to talk. I do love talking. I am all alone left in a high tower except an ardent lover who visits randomly.

Before this blog, I had two more blogs, and a Facebook page—all failed. The page did achieve 500 something followers. The problem is my retreating nature. I shrink back in myself. Its comforting that my present readers don’t know. I can be anybody…and everybody. This time I would fight myself to continue this blog. For I believe, my words would flutter over this earth and blossom new spring.

Let the show begin. Good morning readers!

Thoughts that crumple between pages: Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse

Some lines dog behind us even days after completing the book. I have “greatest works of Virginia Woolf” in my possession since nineteenth March of 2015. I tried to read short stories from it, I failed. I tried “Mrs. Dalloway”, it could only partially absorb it. In my last vacation I thought of trying “To The Lighthouse”, I did read but couldn’t complete it for various reasons, one among them is the monotony in the characters. Even though I didn’t complete it, a few lines kept me haunting as a sweet poem does—perhaps, this is the magic of the lyrical quality in Woolf’s writing. So, Readers, here are these line. I hope you would love it too.

For him to gaze as Lily saw him gazing at Mrs. Ramsay was a rapture, equivalent to the loves of dozens of young men (and perhaps Mrs. Ramsay had never excited the loves of dozens of young men). It was love, she thought, pretending to move her canvas, distilled and filtered; love that never attempted to clutch its objects; but like the love that mathematicians bear to their symbols, or poets their phrases, was meant to be spread over the world and become part of the human gain. So it was indeed. The world by all means should have shared it, could Mr. Bankes have said why that woman pleased him so; why the sight of her reading a fairy tale to her boy had upon him precisely the same effect as the solution of a scientific problem, so that he rested upon the contemplation of it, and felt, as he felt when he had proved something about the digestive system of the plants, that barbarity was tamed, the reign of the chaos subdued.

(Painting saved from



I wish I could be with you, next to you, wrapped in your fragrance in a cold winter evening like a shivering body lying beside the warmth of motherly fire. After a hectic day, I could’ve rested my palm gently against your warm cheek. I wish I could be there with you, just to spend time talking about the most illogical matters in the world, or to remain silent–to drown my self into your eyes, in the serenity. But, my reverie shatters into pieces, far away, far away, from the toil of unuttered emotions to the pebbled shores of derangement. I keep my secret desires and unfulfilled laughs in the safest coffer of my heart , and I forget to open it again, scared of the world, maybe of myself.  I can’t afford to have a look at you, beloved.  I’m not there to soak tears from your eyes, let me in, it’s cold out there.
Refuge is not that pleasant anymore, shelter me, oh love, forgive.