The winds are agressive, rampaging through her careful twists and curls. But she doesn’t mind, her eyes trace the barbed wires and her mind has flown a few hundred miles, into crowded streets and colourful alleys. Wuth each fierce burst of the monsoon winds her heart aches. The harder they blow, through dust worn leaves and empty pathways, the more it aches.There is laughter, there are memories being made, there is a little love here and there and promises of friendships that will soon fade in crowded street and colourful alleys.
But the emptiness never leaves . It’s always there, in all those laughter and memories.Heavy, dark and persistent.
It never leaves.Never.


The winds, heavy with an agressive intent, rampages through her careful twist and curls. But she doesn’t mind.Her eyes trace the barbed wires and her heart flies a few hundred miles, into crowded alleys and colourful street corners.


I’ve missed rickshaw rides and iced tea obsessions . I’ve missed your laughter and silent drives on familiar - unfamiliar roads . The love, the laughter, the food and Doby’s slobber-they haven’t filled my photo galleries in a long time.
My chechklists have remained untouched and my smiles have become a little empty.
My emotions have become a little over dramatic today and so have my words.But just this once . We’ll go back to our lives tomorrow.Your factory floors and my classrooms.


"There are three things I won’t do in life: smoke a cigarette, sleep with a stranger and get married to you."

He smirked. His kind of smirk, born out of an ingrained sense of reckless abandon, carved out of cynism.
“The last two are pretty much the same.”

She lied there without a reply, allowing the distant blares of 2am parties to sweep away the teasing silence.With eyes fixed on the stillness of the ceiling fan and lizards darting across cobwebbed corners, she memorised his presence.

Fingers the drew whimsical circles on her palm.Breaths exhaled in exhaustion, smelling of mint gums and coffee.The unconscious drumming toes, under the worn-out comforter, against her thighs . The heat of him, the smell of him, bringing back a handful of crisp April mornings and empty Dhaka streets. The rhythm of his breathing, ragged with asthma and corporate demands.

She knew all this . She remembered . But the constant foreboding of an oblivion, of a permanent end stormed in a corner of her head . Persistence and constant, like his drumming toes.
So she lay there, her nakedness covered by his heat and a shared comforter. And she memorised.

Collecting years in hours, counting infinities in moments.

"Years haven’t changed you," he said. His voice as light amd dreamy as the circles he drew on her skin.
“Neither you.Except for that receding hairline,” she spoke,masking the human ambiguity of heartache and happiness with practiced humour.

He laughed, “You’re beautiful. ”
She smiled, “I know right.”

He went back to drawing circles.She kept on gathering infinities.


It is in the nature of human beings to leap upon instincts. Instincts, that are more often than not just a mix of hormonesand effervescent emotions.
It’s a mad, chaotic affair.
But then again, the best stories come from chaos and madness.


"Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you’ve learned, but in the questions you’ve learned how to ask yourself."


It’s the fleeting exchange of smiles and glances across yellow and red tables and under the summer sun on a playground. It’s the collective cry of delight in picking up  the fallen white blossoms that lie in wait after the first  of monsoon.

The smell of photo-copied business books and giggles that echo through an empty classroom. It was the common room table, smelling of blue paint and holding the residue of our daydreams, wedding plans and gossips. It’s the invisible group circle at tiffin break and Pepsi bottles, the engulfing heat and bubbles of laughter which made it bearable. 

It’s the notes scribbled on books and in-between differentiation problems,that silently passed around to ink smeared hands from tell-tale smiles. It’s sitting side by side on yellow staircases in silence and peace as the last bell of the day rings.Or the climbing narrow grey ones,with aching limbs and passionate conversations, that turned into whispers as soon as Ms.U approached.  

It’s in nicknames,secret codes and our own vocabulary created through years of random conversations and teenage imagination.

It is finding hilarity in each other’s flaws where other’s find annoyance.

It’s the mid-night birthday wishes, incoherent words filled with love and overlapped with simultaneous squeals of excitement. 

It’s never letting go of each other as we squeeze through the crowds of Chadni Chawk.

It’s birthday surprises at 7AM on a weekday.

It’s baking pizza and bringing doughnuts when one of us need it the most.  

It’s the hug that says all that we forget to say during conversations.

It’s the chat box that blinks at 2AM n the morning with 267 messages from our conversation thread.The one place in cyber space where we dump all the colourful mess of our lives without the slightest hesitation or fear.All our problems,joy,gossips and laughter contained in 267 messages.From London woes, to Canada’s chaos to Dhaka’s dilemmas,it has it all.  

It’s the instant shot of joy on seeing each other on a bad day.

It’s when you can do absolutely nothing together and STILL have the best time.

It’s growing to love iced tea because one of you have an obsessive compulsive disorder when around iced tea.

Its the sudden sense of emptiness tha hits you in the middle of a roaring crowd and you realise that your laughter wil always remain incomplete without each other. It the rare phone calls and frequent cups of coffee. The lazy summer evenings spent in making aam bhortas.Always a little too sweet, a little too spicy. Its in the odd plans and predictions of a future where we take each other’s presence for granted. It’s in the belief that whether for a bowl of aam bhorta and nachos or to share troubles and sorrows, you will always show up. Always.

Out of a canvas. #sky #beforethestorm


Looks quite like the road not taken. Let’s see were the krishnochuras and cracked pavement leads to.


This is how love looks like.


Of nationalist hearts and vagabond souls.


Best mangos are the stolen ones.
#summer #precious