Words are superfluous
With inspiration like the Brahmaputra, the internal conflict is whether to put words to my feelings and kill it for myself but bring it alive for others or just be selfish.
The brahmaputra and the gulmohar
An almost bare tree on the banks of the brahmaputra
The boughs of the gulmohar threaten its flowers
untitled
A boat acknowledging the setting sun
fishermen after a day's work
Fokir !
Rickshaw colour riot
Nostalgia
Nostalgia fills me up,
Like porridge fills a cup.
Viscous, slow-moving slime,
Twisting through my frame,
seeping into every cavity,
gagging every pore,
Rising in my throat.
At the throat,
it pauses,
As if to ponder,
To seduce
Or to throttle.
Nostalgia seduces her kill
