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People often tend to call the vast spreads of Maidan as the Lungs of the city. I tend to disagree. Should we really bind a piece of history to something so banal, a mere biological function? Spanning over 400 acres, the Gorer Maath, translated as Fort's Ground, sleeps like the oldest history book covered in dust at the eternal library without walls that Kolkata is. Every morning since 1773, Maidan has been the silent observer for the city's expanding, ever-changing life.  Gol

One evening around 2 weeks ago my friend called me and asked, 'Where are you?' To which I just replied - Bari jachi Returning vs Going back The call lasted for about a minute, but I never heard a word of that. My mind went numb after vigorously oscillating between - bari jachi vs bari firchi. What's the difference anyway? Just a simple translation to English would show - going home vs returning home.  To go, you have to know the direction, but to return, you have to know th

একবার বিদায় দে মা, ঘুরে আসি  Freedom sits silently, ogling, like a blood-clot in my motherland's throat, Bearing a stark resemblance to Khudiram's scar, Potraying the bleeding bullet holes printed fresh on the morning news papers from the Jallianwala Bagh. It's 1919 and my Nation is turned to a cremation ground engulfing its infants. Staring at the pothole progress today  I wonder how that mother would have survived through the night, How she would've looked at the nation on

In my dreams, Sylvia Plath walks around Murakmi's world With a half burnt cigarette dangling from her fingers , She walks on, crossing...

My God died in a stampede today,  For he was busy laughing at an illicit joke,  Licking off darkness from the humor he chewed on.  On...