Monday, March 12, 2007


Not crazy enough to run from street to street naked and stuttering just to be heard, not poetic enough to fill reams amidst drifting smoke, contemplate divorce, walk into a river with pockets full of shiny, round pebbles

Not louche enough to agree heartily or prudish enough to frown disapproval unequivocally and beyond doubt, not stymied enough to win the approval of fat-fingered, balding men who approve whole-heartedly of women who smile a lot and say nothing

Not stupid enough to give without taking, not clever enough to hold out the carrots one by one and hide the sticks away, just beyond the reach of the unsuspecting, the forgettable, the dispensable

Not pretty enough for fame, not ugly enough to incite ridicule the way the village idiot does from small, innocent children who never know any better

Not wronged enough for lawyers to hoist their trusty swords and ride into battle for the fated million or social workers to throng the streets wearing white, not entirely happy either.

Copyright Anindita Sengupta

Saturday, March 03, 2007


Mornings are refracted, a Nicol prism
shadow land, death overstaying its nightly
berth. The paling sky nudges it out,
in crumpled bedclothes, unsightly,
as it hurriedly gathers them about –
the start of another diurnal catechism.

Sleep layers the kitchen pane, grey
and pallid, a maid rudely shook awake.
It’ll be a while before its baleful stare
loses its blear, becomes less opaque
with the lightening air,
readies for the white implacable day.

I put the kettle on, mulling ghosts loath
to leave, bleak litany of a life’s course.
A flight departs for somewhere, cutting
briefly through the fog; till tea restores
routine, the familiar stir shutting
out debris, wrecks, ruins of youth.