One of these days, you will lose one or two limbs to the slow erosion of years, the same silence that took Grandfather’s stories mid-sentence.

Once in a full moon, Ophelia's flowers received full bloom, beside the daffodils, But they never saw eye to eye, as a narcissist only stares at her own reflection

This forest is a tideline–deep with stillness,  where, 

I read poems often, and recently I came across a book titled Fenaphul. The cover—painted with soft blue and white watercolour splotches—immediately caught my attention. I decided to read it when I learned that it had received the Oitijjhya-Shantanu Kaiser Literary Award 2025 and was written by a young poet.

I miss those spring days when the sun lay on my skin

When your bright beaming dark eyes, matched mine, locked like a stubborn vine,

A chipped teacup, warmed in my hands, Is love when you stir in the honey, unasked,

In cold evenings, when the forecaster predicts a scatter of hail to fall

Using a hashtag is activism In a world of biterature.

My brittle nails become the sharpest knife Under the light of obscure scrutiny

My memoirs of 2025, do you know I want to forget you?

To love is to hold the knife To love is to do the math To love is to carry a box full of fruits To love is to buy flowers, Either way you carry the burden of it, of love.

One morning, God asked His angels to make a heart. They did not know what a heart was.

Spectral land—you are bleeding hollow; flesh and bone at the precipice of ruin,

In my wildest imagination, away from all rhyme or reason, I weave my realm, unbridled and free, craving for the unfelt and extreme, by all standards but my own.

The Little Boy.He sold magic .mostly for free, .wrapped in candy wrappers, .joy and spring-coloured rosettes, .and, at times, priced at .a few tufts of dandelion threads.

The unnamed You can get lost trying to  get back to the exit at the Vatican Museum. 

If every leaf that falls is a memory you’ve forgotten, then let my ink become rain— so you might remember how it felt to grow with me.

Tea breaks, the perks of a bike ride.

"The ghosts still sing in Shantinagar" is one of the winning entries for our Halloween themed writing contest, 'Spooktober: Bhooter Adda'