Knowing Better

I am leagues behind,
In knowing about pits
I am in.
Have always been.

I am within,
It’s mostly dark here,
Because I’m in too deep.
You wouldn’t know.

So I wouldn’t.
Know what you do.
See what you see.
About me,
About a person,
This person.

Because I’m busy
In being me
I am not you.
I’m busy in my work.
Down here it’s mostly dark.

How do you do it?
Where do you stand
That you praise.

By looking away.

How do I walk
How do I speak
How do I look
Strong or meek

How do I know
What you know.
And don’t tell,
And don’t reach out.

I’m deep.
Deep within.
Scrambling in the dark.
That in here, there’s treasure.
That life is happy.

Who between us I trust?
Who knows better, without doubt?

You who don’t know what’s within,
Or I,
Who can’t ever get out.

Subham Basak



That Which Was Spilled

Sometimes, I just forget to love people. They ride upon a moment and appear, and like the moments, I let them go. It’s like the task feels so difficult at times. They rush in too fast, wait for no permission, smile past, breeze past, like that dialogue from a movie in a theatre you couldn’t pause at and savour.

In hindsight, you fall in love with their memories. You smile back. A little late. A point in time a little distant. In a space where desolation has slowly but inevitably grown around you. Into you. Staring steadfast. And you let the tiny countless lights of regret blink on, like the ritual of festivity in a city of love. It is all so inevitable. Like every trinket of failure in life, we fail in life to emanate just enough love.

We fail to love more times than we manage to fall in love. Then we forget when.



Man has always lived by emotions. To not emote was just another emotion. They change, men change. And we travel from one to another, in a day or in a less definite period like we travel from one room to another in a house. The mindscape readjusts some colours, and a new room houses us, lending our minds another form.

But just sometimes, we memorize a series of emotions to a set of stimuli in such a way that they become not rooms, but a house. Giving our beings as macroscopic shelter than microscopic shades. Give them long enough, it becomes who were are, and wandering through the city, we always remember the way back to our houses, houses that have now turned to homes.

And just rarely, sitting at a table, looking at a VDU, on just another of ordinary days, we are reminded of our old shelters. Who were we when we inhabited them? Who were we in its shelter? Who were we in a past we now have kept safe as a memory, guarding consciously against every tide of Time? And released by an unforeseen stimuli, the mind races back, leaping years and spaces and send us knocking at a door, a door that once belonged to our home. A old home. Deserted. Untouched. Unoccupied. And we beat on furiously at the door to set another foot, just another, in a place that was once ours. We beat on, and on and on. In pain, in vain. There’ll never be another response.

Where are you, My Love? How far?



The words ran out at the first touch of rain, at the first smell of the promise of recognition, the first meeting of the wandering eyes. And they never came back to fulfill their obligation of verbal communication.

And now in the middle of the never-ending monsoon, the wishful rains, the forgotten words plead their necessity.