All that is left are names
And a flow of words continuously evolving.
Such is a now departed race.
All that is left are memories
Of a childhood in carefree greens
And of struggles, hidden and unseen.
All that is left of surprise
Is that of your grandchild’s face
When you slip into dialect unknown.
So lies the fate of a now forgotten race.

Day Five of Darshit’s Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge, which Sheth nominated me for.



Day 4 of Darshit’s Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge, which Sheth nominated me for. Here is Probashi.


All you know of the scene before you
Through stories of hardship and injustice
Is that your homeland is ever elusive
In the chronicles of suffrance, survival.
So sings the wind of the homeland, breathing life through the water’s soft lull.


Day 3 of Darshit’s  Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge, which Sheth nominated me for. 


As the bus runs past the blue plastic roofed hut,
The image of tales once told by the old
Of dhoti-clad, bare-chested artisans
Moulding forms of holy myths divine
And faces of doe-eyed goddesses
Lingers in my mind’s eye.
Their dark sienna skin is beaded with
The monsoon rain,
Their long fingers cup scared earth,
Giving birth to the mother
In a land and time not their own.

This picture is from the Durga Puja celebrations in Pune around this time last year. There are Bengalis everywhere in the world, divided only by geography.


I’m almost entirely sure that Darshit’s challenge which Sheth nominated me for was supposed to be done on consecutive days, but sometimes real life interrupts the world of prose and poetry. So, here is Day 2 of the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge.

Bloody Partition of India BBC Picture Men, women and children who died in the rioting were cremated on a mass scale_ Villagers even used oil and kerosene when wood was scarce

(Photo courtesy of the BBC)


It was 1946 and the war was over. Twelve year old Bhushan had returned to Kolkata after a short stay in the Bangladeshi countryside during the bombing of the city. He settled down into the low bed in his room and looked out the window at the empty sky. It wasn’t too long before the chatter in the streets outside lulled him to sleep.

His father worked as an accountant with the British Police Force in Kolkata. He never spoke of his work at home. In fact, he never spoke much at all. However, Bhushan knew that one thing he could never bring up at home was the subject of his uncles.

The sound of slow, heavy breathing from behind him woke Bhushan up in the middle of the night. In the faint moonlight he could just about make out the outlines of three men sleeping on the floor. In a sleepy haze, he felt a familiar but elusive warm arm wrapped around him.

When he woke the next morning, the men, as always, were gone. He never mentioned the enigma of the disappearing men, but he had a feeling his father knew all about it.

Bhushan heard from his friends during a football match later that day that four men who shared his surname had been arrested for conspiring against the government. When Bhuhsan went to bed that night, he wondered if family really mattered in the end, especially when your father worked for the British and when your uncles were hailed by everyone else as noble freedom fighters.

Sure enough, he was not woken from his sleep that night, nor the night after, but the lingering warmth of the arm never left.

My grandfather once recounted his memories of his uncles, Swadeshi freedom fighters in Kolkata, India towards the very end of the independence movement. They used to creep into his home at night, much to the knowledge of his father, a British military intelligence officer for the British Police in the city.

I’m going to nominate  rhapsodicdelirium for this challenge, because I just can’t get enough of her work!

Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge – Day 1

Sheth very kindly nominated me for Darshith’s Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge. Thanks! If I said I’m not excited then I’d be lying. The challenge is – “Post a photo each day for five consecutive days and attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction or non-fiction, a poem or a short paragraph and each day nominate another blogger for the challenge.”

I’ve decided to convert this challenge to something of a themed series. The Bengali beast in me has suddenly grown wild. I’m not sure if its because of the typical Bengali lunch we’ve just had, but I feel at the top of my Bengali game. To start off, here’s a picture my dad took when he accompanied his parents to Bangladesh to visit our ancestral roots last year. Our families had moved to Kolkata decades before the partition, but we’re very proud of our Barisal roots. Barisal is a district in the southern parts of Bangladesh, and if you’ve heard anything of Barisal Bengalis you’ll know exactly why I’m doing this.

This isn’t Bangladesh, East Pakistan, West Bengal or India. It’s Bengal.


His spirit looked into the water,
Lush green and blue sky
The dark earth whispered, softer and softer
Of the blood of her sons who died.
“Too long you’ve been gone,
The boat has finally set sail
To the land of your heart
Alas, for not one lives to tell the tale.”

I’m going to nominate because I really want to see more of her work!