Sankhajit Bhattacharjee

At times the nature's natural behavior
turns into utter craziness-
this craziness is within her character:
this is manifested as disasters.
...

I am honest-
I try my best to be truthful in my thoughts, words and actions;
truth is my highest religion.
I am ambitious-
...

Standing on a field,
I try to have a look far away-
everything is fading.
There lies my future...
...

I touch the sun with my right hand.
I kiss the moon.
I rest my feet on this earth,
while the stars twinkle with my senses.
...

My color is black.
My appearance is ugly.
My voice is harsh...
People hate me!
...

Please
Open
Eyes
To
...

When I am thirsty, they feel the thirst.
When I am hungry, they feel the hunger.
When I am hurt, they feel the pain.
When I am unhappy, they remain sad.
...

...

...

I won't go-
I send the message by air.
I won't wish to sow-
storm will wipe away to make all clear.
...

I long to go to my wonderland,
where the minds of children never perish-
not even in full grown adults or feeble old.
There childish characters do flourish.
...

Plucking flowers, enchanting hymns and rushing to temples
are not the signs of a religionist
unless that guy is wise in one's thoughts, words and actions.
There's no need for a wise
...

Parents, wife or husband and children
are the friends of three stages-
young, middle and old.
When everything is genuine,
...

A woman of clay and mud
is worshiped as Goddess
but a woman of flesh and blood
is harassed daily, eve teased and raped mercilessly.
...

Truth is like fire, untruth like dry leaves,
which can suppress the flame but never the fume,
which will signify- there is a fire somewhere.
...

My life is a boat,
my existence is sitting on it,
it is floating on cosmic water...
...

If you stretch your hands, you will not get a friend-
inside the night-dark heart light never penetrates.
Friend, you have stretched your soft hands-
dark night has become delightful morn.
...

As they grew up their relationship received a blow,
a sudden lightening divided the breast of vast sky.
The girl was from high caste, the boy was from low.
The prehistoric superstition would never die.
...

In the dew wet morning
you make me afloat on the songs.
The day light of soft noon
is filled up to the brim with your melody.
...

Your warmth is very sophisticated-
more touchy than warmth of winter night's Old Monk,
more sensible than bird's nest,
more authentic than Kashmiri quilt.
...