they say
great men found
enlightenment caves,
outside civilization.
unconvinced,
in my high rise I look out
over the land.
what wisdom
can one find eavesdropping
in dusky caverns?
what knowledge can be
gleaned outside the home,
which cannot be found within it?

they repeated
that your story didn’t matter -
a mantra
they couldn’t calculate
the value of the sun.

steel plates warped
bend with the burden of
dust,
I keep washing
skin wrinkles
weeps
still I scrub
until the plate breaks
the silver scar
lined with blood.
I throw it away,
unwrap a new one
knowing that tomorrow
more dust will come.

a heap of rice
with small stones and salt
this red sari I am wearing
is a story
I cannot write.
So I am walking
with my bag of rice.
I give it to maa,
to you I give the salt
the stones I put between
today and tomorrow.

Bangla:

কত দেব?
এক গাদা ভাত
ছোট পাথর এবং নুন সঙ্গে
একটা লাল শাড়ি আমি পরা
এতা একটা গল্প
আমি লিখতে পারি না।
তখন হাটছি
ভাতের থলে সঙ্গে
আমি মা কে দিয়েছি
তোমাকে আমি নুন দিয়েছি
পাথর আমি রাখছি
আজ এবং আগামীকাল মাঝখানে।

so many yesterdays
sacrificed calendars,
penciled dates
and whimsies called
dreams

I wish I had
more memories of us
beaded like pearls
on a red string of fate
and circumstance,
more days
of spontaneous dusk walks,
skipping school to
create worlds far more beautiful
than this one,
more hours
nibbling on leftovers
or splurging on a mid-day meal
laughing as you drop
some hot sauce on your collar,
more minutes
in restive silence
lounging on plaid sofa
a book on your chest,
our hands holding each other
like we have all the time in the world.