Me- A prayer

By Amal Bhattacharya

What a conscious fleet of being unconscious,
Yet to know history or books of knowledge we treasure,
Little is done in me of making of a human out of a demon,
My blind folded eyes are yet to look beyond measure.

I often felt my heart and mind burdened between,
What I wish out of life and what I just do,
I know not the truth, yet I want its glimpse.....
But an eternal joy, I feel scattered every where in the blue.

I keep wandering through the pastures of my mind
To seek infinitude, to know where the fathomless mounts!
A way away form the torrents of the worldly scores
Beyond the horizons, when there's nothing around

At the break of the dawn or at the setting of dusk
I often thought and walked alone seeking my solitary mind
I often heard.. the world shouting and asking "who's he"
O what a pity...not even myself... yet I could find!

Hurriedly every time I strode and wiped my tears and shook
My heavy heart dampened with longing woes and pain
"Tell me O Lord, how many more trials I need to take"
"Tell me O Lord, how many more strikes to go in vain".

Let me your hand of love now, O Lord..
Half is gone and less than half to go
Lift me and hold me in your heart right now
Let it not be too late, let it be today... not tomorrow.

The day I lost my own land

By Kamal Kumar Tanti

A first glimpse appears through my childhood magnifying glass,
As seating over a hard stone, near to our own land.
I remember my parents weeping and consoling each other,
As the bulldozer had pieced our own land, own home.

Those cruel people, on the bulldozer, had nothing their own.
They were neither our well-wishers nor our enemies.
They came to finish their duty, and the same day,
We lost our own land and identity.

I remember, I stood up over the stone and
Started pelting stones on them, though I knew it’s useless.

I remember of picking up all broken pieces of my magnifying glass,
On the same day, we lost our own land.

My parents were born-farmers.
My grand-parents were born-farmers.
And I, son of a poor farmer.

And the same day, I remember watching my parents’ helpless pale faces,
Crippled of being lost all the farmers can have in a lifetime.

Those cruel people had drawn a border line,
Between me and my land, my home.
Those political people defined a border line,
Between me and my weak, apolitical parents.

I remember people telling the final truth of our destiny;
We lost our own land, our own home and own self,
The same day, we lost our land.

When the bamboo flowers…

By Nayanthara

The massive, warrior bamboo has flowered after so many years…
A deadly harbinger of famine, poverty, pestilence and destruction.
And so are the dirty, rotten scars of yesteryears
that has once again appeared uninvited
casting a pale shadow on her cherubic face
and deep, dark marks beneath her beautiful eyes.

A woman in her mid- thirties,
she had endured some of the most traumatic moments in life.
Separation from an alcoholic husband,
Repeated emotional harassment from her in-laws,
Rebuke and contempt from her indignant family members,
A failed suicide attempt,
One whole year amidst a world of anti-depressants,
Regular, painful visits to family courts to avail custody of her son…

Enough and more for any mediocre woman to go completely insane.

For the last two years, she had been staying alone in her small house
with her son, the ultimate love in her life.
Cocooned in a world of her own -
a world of new-found freedom and extreme peace,
she had begun to love life, to cherish life in all its myriad complexities.

The old scars had, by now, visibly healed, disappeared magically
like drops of water on a sponge
and she feverishly hoped that life wouldn’t give her the chance
to turn back its dusty pages of memory
until, a few days ago…
she happened to see ‘him’ in a shopping mall
holding the hands of another woman;
perhaps, his new girlfriend or wife.
It seemed he didn’t notice her,
or, at least made a deliberate attempt not to look at her.

For a moment, she stood frozen, speechless,
 her body cold and numb, her thick-set eyes curtained with tears,
and all around her were bamboo flowers;
their powerful scent slowly strangulating her sublime womanhood.

Dome of a Cynic                                      

by Shantam Goyal

I dwell in the World of mystiques and truth,
Except, it was what it was, and is not now.
The dome of death is where I reside, 
In a world that’s no longer mine.

A world that boasts of ends and laments,
A world which I wish to leave, so dearly,

If and only if my heart had the choice,
But then, the irony….
We, the most intelligent of all,
Who were shaped from nothing more than dust (which is not ours in the first place).

We stand worthless before the raging storm, the slashing waves, the beasty rains.
For we were made to know, but no to rule,

We were made to dream, but not to catch,
We were only made to come, and to leave,
A misery that was not our choice.

If this is existence, then why exist?

If this is a dream, then why not wake up?

Why is it that we insist on life?

When it is nothing more than a journey,
To the destiny of death.
Suddenly, out of the grey, the koo of a koel,
Issues from the nearby tree,

Which itself sways with objectionable glee,
It sways from the breeze which blooms up roses,

Who look up into the sky, outlined with sanctity, 
which covers my dome.

The dome which always was, and will be,
A site for dreams to dwell,
Undisturbed by the death of a cynic.
For once again, the realization dawns upon me,
That the dome of life, is where I reside.


He Is Quick


He is quick, thinking in large images
I’m not quick; I keep thinking all the time
The arch of his brow keeps unwanted people at bay;
And I look at things; a multitude of emotions sweep me away
He seems to look vulnerable when he sleeps
I hardly get sleep; as I sit awake gazing at him
He is steadfast, quick to retort
I look at myself in the mirror wanting to cry

He walks away a mile with me
Hand in hand
And there are something’s in life
Difficult to understand

He moves away swiftly from troubles, keeping them at bay
And I always waiting for him, always something to say
He is gentle, yet so firm
I’m sensitive and vulnerable, unyielding to the tough winds that come
His touch sends a thousand swords blazing
And my gaze penetrates deep into his soul
He is a master at the way he throws his charm at me;
And I sit wondering how much in love I am

He walks away a mile with me
Hand in hand
And there are something’s in life
Difficult to understand

He loathes the absence; and wants to return quick
I sit facing the infinite abundance of the sea
Waiting for him to return from the other side
Waiting for him to return from the other side

He walks away a mile with me
Hand in hand
And there are something’s in life
Difficult to understand


By Anjali Dewan

Relationships are deteriorating,                                   
Obnoxious smell emanating,                                       
taking away the fragrance,                                           
 of love and compassion.                                             
People move apart,                                                      
fabric of interwoven thoughts                                    
torn to shreds,                                                                
the weaver weeps.                                                         
Hands which held the                                                    
threads of togetherness                                                    
are bare, bruised.
Everything is just the same,                                          
Humans are like automobiles,                                              
running from place to place,                                                    
to find themselves.                                                                    
No time to wait for others.
They are a part of the race,
when actually there is no race.
Man wasting time in trivial issues,
stress engulfing everyone,
Is this the life I wanted to live?
Away from everyone,
In my cocoon,
Feeling dejected, rejected.
I am like a piece of stone,
I was in the king’s crown
Like a shining jewel.
Today I have no identity,
Bleeding heart cries.
The vicious cycle of life
and death carries on


Kamal Kumar Tanti
Amal Bhattacharya
Anjali Dewan