Sorry, Asifa


Our depleted conscience will,
some day,
sink deep in the earth and
await the world’s end.
We’ll be a sea of dead pigs
walking in the garb of men.
What’s that?
All we care for is the
head to be held high –
not our’s, but Napoleon’s head.
We adorn him with the
crown and
our minds wag their tails.


Copyright: Souptik Banerjee



The Curse of the Dead Leaves


‘Twill be 15th April tomorrow.
We’ll light a candle on our front porch
or at the India Gate.
The hounds will smack us
and draw our blood.
The squirrels will still say
you brought it on yourself –
By choosing a wrong set of parents,
by being kind to that pony
and lurking alone and
by having a hole between your legs.
Facebook and twitter will
burn for two weeks –
burnt by people who
died with you, or by your killers –
shameless and not dead.
The lamps will gradually die, un-dieing us.
For we’ll live again.
In the confines of a cold
little tomb shut by a sigh,
your little maimed body
will die
as our Facebook, twitter and
our obese minds
will swim through the
Indian Premier League.
Some little weed will creep
from the graveyard as
Liverpool will probably play
the Champions’ League final.
Soon, you’ll be completely dead
and the World Cup will grip the planet –
England will probably win.
Days, months and years will crawl.
At every corner of the cursed continent, an Asifa will cry

and die.


Copyright: Souptik Banerjee

For anyone who cares:


Sorry, could have used the word glimmer somewhere in the piece, but didn’t feel like doing it.


A Tribute to Joy Goswami

Sorry, this one’s in Bengali 😉


কাফকা নামের কেকটি খেতে যেদিন
পৌঁছে গেলাম মন্জিনিসের ঘরে
আমার নিজের মেঘবালিকা সেদিন
চড়লো এসে মাঝরাতেতে ঘাড়ে.

ফুঁ মেরে এক ক্যান্সারেতে
ঘুম তাড়িয়ে বললাম আমি,
“মেঘ হয়েছিস, বৃষ্টি হবি?
দিস ভিজিয়ে মনের জমি?”

সে বললো, “বৃষ্টি হবো নাকো,
তার বদলে বাদলা হাওয়া হয়ে
তোমার মনে বৈব সারাদিন,
জাগিয়ে দেব থাকবে যখন শুয়ে.”

বেরোলো এক দীর্ঘশাস,
মেঘবালিকা তার ধাক্কায়
হয়ে গেল উথাল পাথাল
ছড়িয়ে দুঃখদ নীলচে হাওয়ায়.

সে এখন উড়ে বেড়ায়
এদিক সেদিক এখান ওধার —
সাতটি সাগর, তেরো নদী,
গুনে গুনে বাইশ পাহাড়.

এত ঘোরাঘুরির মাঝে
যখন আসে আমার কাছে
ঘুম ভেঙে যায় রাতবিরেতে,
চোখ দুটোতে বৃষ্টি আসে.


Copyright: Souptik Banerjee

(Please provide due credit if shared)


It’s the kingdom of beans,
and beans are its prey.
It’s the era of shrimps,
and shrimps are at bay.
For every inch you tend to fly,
stick to the manual,
don’t stray.
For your meagre beanhood’s
sake, don’t stray.

It’s the kingdom of beans,
beans we all are.
Beans we ever tend to stay –
rich or ripped ass poor.
If you ever aspire to sprout,
they won’t even show the door.
Highway not an option,
consequences galore.

They’ll ram you,
split you and
incise through
your skin and
leave you to rot
to a pinch of dirt.

You ask me who they are?
Of course, they’re beans.
In fact, they’re the more equal beans.
Remember Orwell’s Napoleon?
All beans are equal,
but some are more equal.



Laments of a Venus Fly Trap

Lured by Miss Havisham’s quirkbox,
Philip messed his doe-eyed childhood.
The sight of gran’s pink dress
almost killed little Red Riding Hood.

Love kills black widow spiders –
lovers turn dish for their partners.

For some never committed vice,
Desdemona paid with her life.

It’s a big world, a bad world –
a whacking weird one each day.
Love makes some hay before
betrayal shoves it away.


One afternoon, a vagabond
dragging blissful puffs off
his cheap cigarettes,
will be oblivious
to the erstwhile
flapping its satin winglets
to leave its cocoon and fly
off and suck dry
all hints of a civilization that
lets its clueless children cry
and unceremoniously die.


Hello WordPress, it has been a while.

Post written as a response to Suddenly

The Other Slice

The line has high static this afternoon –
words almost incomprehensible.
The female voice at the other end mutters something –
about some Burri being bedridden.
The voice rings a bell in the mind’s ethernet –
a definite connection, one of the
most prized marbles ever misplaced.
A voice I used to hear for a large part of the day –
every day and its night –
as its owner’s eyes quenched on me,
as my famished eyes devoured the owner,
before my prying fingers ran
along the smooth skin of her cheeks
and met those eager lips,
before my greedy hands rummaged in her back
as our parched lips pounced on each other,
before I lost my entire conscious self inside her
and we were reduced to two slices of pancake
to be eaten separately, by separate people.
I reply, “Burri? Strange name.
Must be a wrong number. Bye.”

A Parched Lament

The rain came again last night

and it brought you

after twenty years.

While the thick needles

plunged from the sky and

hit the earth – its buildings, roads

and the cold dry stones shed tears,

you floated through my door

to quench my eyes.

My tired eyes rose to see you

saunter in and hold my hands

as my heart leapt a dozen feet

and my arms wrapped you in an

embrace as your nails tore my back.

The rain played its clarinet

through the long night, and

we made unreserved love.

Your soft skin adored me while

your eyes caressed mine

and your lips clasped my heart.

At last, before I drooped asleep,

I did hear the rain slacken.

In the morning, I rose to see

you gone – like a finished dream.

Also did you carry the rain away.

The neighbourhood, already dark

with some corners but moist from last night,

longs for the next rainfall.