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Raining Love - Poem

The balcony breathes with me, a slow, uneven lung of concrete and rust. Clouds drag their heavy bellies across the sky, and I can almost hear them groan. Your absence is a weather system of its own— a storm folded quietly inside my ribs, where thunder is memory and lightning is regret. The rain begins, not as drops, but as thin silver threads, pulling the daylight apart like fabric worn too thin. I lean back and watch— the world dissolves into watercolor shadows, and your face appears in every blur, half-formed, as though the sky cannot decide if it wants you real. Even the sparrows are mute today, their wings beating against silence, their small bodies like thoughts I cannot finish. I miss you in strange metaphors: like a mirror missing its reflection, like a garden missing its bees, like a song missing the very air it needs to exist. And still, the balcony holds me, an anchor for a drifting mind, while the clouds fold and unfold above me, as if they too are trying to remember your na...
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Echos of the Skinless

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Chapter One: Stench of the Unseen The apartment was a tomb for the living. Mold etched shapes like forgotten runes along the corners of the ceiling. Rust bloomed like rot along the hinges, and the refrigerator groaned like it remembered better times. The floor tiles wept moisture through their cracks, the walls bled mildew, and every surface seemed to sweat a sickly residue, as if the room itself were trying to purge him from its guts. He had no name anymore. He hadn’t spoken it aloud in years. It lay somewhere in the static of his worn ID card, buried beneath smudged lamination and expired dates. Once, a courier asked his name through the intercom. He froze. Silence. Then a grunt. Then nothing. The delivery went back downstairs. He had a job—technically. Something in data mapping. Rows and rows of meaningless cells, like an endless stream of meaningless words spoken into a dead phone line. He worked from home now. They said it was remote access. But it felt more like exile. No one eve...
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The Book

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I don’t remember how I got here. The air in the bookshop is thick, as if it hasn’t been disturbed for decades. Dust lingers in the dim light, swirling in the air like tiny insects. The old wooden shelves stretch high above me, bending inward slightly, forming a narrow passage between them. Books lean at odd angles, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. The shop smells of paper, mildew, and something else—something wet, something breathing. I can’t recall why I came in. The streets outside are dark, slick with the sheen of recent rain. The neon sign above the door had been half-broken, flickering erratically, displaying a name I didn’t quite recognize. And yet, my feet had carried me inside, past the threshold, into the silence. A man stands behind the counter, his head tilted slightly, as if listening to something beyond the walls. His skin is sagging, parchment-thin, stretched over sharp bones. His eyes—no, his eyelids—are stitched shut, crude black thr...
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The Curse of the Vigilant-Poem

They carved their laws into my skin, Bound my soul in chains of sin. They fed me love like poisoned bread, Then left me starving, left me dead. Their hollow gods, their empty creed, Their plastic smiles, their rotting seed— I spit on love, I curse the name, I burn the world that lit my pain. I am the sickness they can’t cure, The scream that festers, dark, impure. Their touch disgusts, their words are bile, I am the outcast, born reviled. No mercy left, no faith, no light, I thrive in chaos, breathe in blight. A walking plague, a burning scar, I am the reckoning. I am war.
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I love Potato

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Priyanka Sen’s life was a meticulously choreographed ballet, an intricate performance of success and control. Every morning, she woke before the city stirred, before the sun dared to spill its first light over Kolkata’s horizon. She never needed an alarm. It was as though her body had been programmed—a machine of precision, discipline, and ceaseless forward motion. She stretched her arms, feeling the firmness of her toned muscles, the result of years of ruthless self-discipline. Her breath was steady, her mind already calculating the day ahead: a leadership summit at the ITC Royal, a video conference with international clients, a school meeting for Ayan, a dinner party at The Oberoi with investors, and somewhere in between, a ninety-minute workout, perfectly timed meals, and an hour of mindfulness meditation—because that’s what successful people did. She turned toward her husband, Rishi, who was still lost in sleep, his breathing deep and peaceful. He had the luxury of resting. Priyank...
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Embers of Desire - Poem

Come closer, love, let your fragrance weave,   Through the curve of your neck, the rise of your sleeve.   Let me taste the fire on your parted lips,   Feel the heat where your heartbeat dips.   My hands will linger where shivers ignite,   Tracing your waist in the hush of night.   Tongue to your collarbone, slow and sweet,   Drinking the sighs where our pulses meet.   Fingernails teasing down satin thighs,   Your breath unsteady, laced with sighs.   Wrapped in the heat of desire’s embrace,   Lost in the rhythm of passion’s chase.   My lips carve poetry down your skin,   Writing in whispers where longing begins.   Teeth at your waist, a lingering tease,   Drawing out gasps, soft as a breeze.   Your back arching, nails carving sin,   A dance where only the fire can win.   Flesh against flesh, lost in the tide,...
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The vanishing author

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The Vanishing of Srijan Unknown: "Brilliant analysis on Calvino. You must have spent years buried in books to think like that." Me: "Some people get lost in books. Others are born inside them." I stare at the message. Read it again. The cursor blinks, waiting. Did I write that? Did she? Did it come from somewhere else entirely? The profile says her name is Abira Sen. But I don’t remember ever finding her. Or her finding me. I try to retrace my steps. A discussion on Invisible Cities—yes, I was reading the thread. A comment buried deep in the replies, something sharp, something that made me pause. But the moment I try to picture it, the memory slips. Like ink running in water. My phone vibrates again. Another message. Abira: "Are you always awake this late, Srijan?" Srijan. The name makes my skin prickle. I type back. Me: "Do we know each other?" Three dots blink. Stop. Start again. Then— Abira: "I think we do." I wake up to the sound of...
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