When They’re True

I can’t stop thinking about words,
And how they become
So much more.

And if you’ve been with them
Long enough,
It matters,
Even how they look.

There’s a right time for them.
They come like thoughts.
Like dreams.
And feel true.

Some, you will remember.
More than faces.
There are words that occur
Like events.

At the right time.
Or wrong.




Silenced and Apart

A Silence that was in between,
Was walls, was solid bricks keeping us apart,
In every which way,
Except vision.
And there I used to see you, I used to pack my heart with presents and set out.
My eyes would voyage through the silence and find you standing unawares. Uncaressed.
They used to find your heart hidden under the creases of down-turned eyes, and got used to waiting by your eyelashes.
The silence that kept very quiet. The silence that slept like a monster.
The silence that grained deep in the pauses when we spoke, and that never burst the tears in either of our eyes.
The silence that lacked the drama the eyes craved, my eyes. The silence that swallowed deep the smiles that spring promised.
It then, led us to the moment when we fell strong, and we felt the void tunnelled to the centre of two souls. Two imaginations. Two lives.

We fell strong. We fell like buildings cracking, collapsing in a quake.
Only there was no sound.

– Subham Basak

(March 30. 2016)



Let me just write. Across infinities. Far into your soul and back. Let me just write my way into those places where words had trembled to explore, into the skin of order, and shake it apart. Let me write across your eyes and how they gleam of mystery, how the charm of their languor spins a malignant yarn. Let me write for long, for a time lengthy enough to equal the spell of the enticement. Let my words slowly gather power and pace and churn your bones in the dead of the night. Let my words be memory. Let them run down tingling your cheeks, let them untangle your fragrant curls, and hold them between alphabets, losing their way bewitched, bewildered. Let me just touch your skin in a way you’d feel mad. Let me write to confuse you, then to sweep you over with its beauty. Let me write to accomplish no love but to drool you over in the richness of the delirium, to tempt you into its incredulity. Let one million sentences accomplish what your eyes have. In one look, upon one call.

So let me just write. Across infinities. Far into your soul and back.



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.