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INK Spill

Welcome to my Poetry Corner!

Poetry has a way of sneaking into our lives—sometimes as a quiet whisper, other times as a loud, liberating thought.

I write freestyle poems that capture the fleeting moments, unspoken feelings, and life's raw beauty.

Dive in, scroll on, and let the magic of poetry sweep you away—who knows, you might find something crafted just for you!

Six Skies Away from Peace

My city wakes up to the honks of yellow taxis 

refusing to carry weights of last night’s melancholy...

an open blue sky with a flying bird and the smoke lining of a jet passig adjacent to the bird
serene image of nature with trees and pinkish blue sky
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An early evening of spring
You're dancing barefoot on your rooftop
Jamming with the cuckoos who've just been awakened by nature
Your mother tucks in your hair that struggles to get rid of you and run with the breeze.

You still don't have a phone so your heart's safe in its closet
And your mind is all yours.
Just like the jasmine sticks your father brought in your room
Not knowing that you smashed the vase last night,
(Teenage love cries in the corner of your room).

Your tongue rolls around the raw mango toffee because you're too impatient watching mango flowers bloom
The trees changed their colours without consulting each other
Some went dusty yellow and others turned bright green.
But your favourite are the red leaves lying on your backyard
Long gone memories of the winter.

A half-learnt song and a half-read book is all you care about,
Pushing your fingers into guava jelly that your mother carefully hid from you,
You wish to never wake up in coffins made up of excel sheets and harsh noise of endless mouse clicks.

beige colored lightly flowered at the bordered textured aesthetic background apropriate fo

Where will you run? 

When your home is just a metaphor that the bricks use to warn anout the ghosts living inside?

For how long will you keep your emotions hanging

like the old shirts in your cupboard?

cinematic image of rose burning with flames coming out of it with the blue evening sky at the backdrop

Is it too late to realise that life is never about ticking boxes,

It is always about smudging paints with bare hands and calligraphing your name on it?

picture of a journal entry with vintage pages and roses, a dead butterfly and a poem on the page
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The City's Forgotten Pause

an essay on Maidan, Kolkata

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