Take it Easy

We repeat the same
quarrel every time,
every single time
a skirmish, a crime!

Have you noticed
a couple quarreling?
The content is the
same, an insult or
a shame game.

We're not that creative
with the intent, or the name.

A dispute with relatives,
colleagues, neighbours,
countries, friends, or
be it an internal conflict
the type doesn't change
nor the challenge.

It's the same thing
over and over again
in time and space.

We must be crazy
not to take it easy!

The Bird and The Burden

                    The Bird and the Burden

Time is a bird
its wings flow with
the winds
memories are
grounded they go against
them, don't leave,
they stay young,
aged for ages
eyes closed they let
time pass;
one doesn't live
the other doesn't die

 

L'oiseau et le Fardeau

Le temps est un oiseau
ses ailes glissent avec
les vents
les souvenirs, eux,
sont cloués au sol : ils vont
à rebours, ne s’en vont pas,
restent jeunes,
vieillis depuis des âges
les yeux clos, ils laissent
le temps passer ;
l’un ne demeure pas,
l’autre ne meurt jamais

Everyone’s everything

Everybody’s got a sin,
Knows just where to bin,
Still keeps it tucked within,
Oh, everybody’s sin…

Everybody hides a grief,
Holds on to the belief
That if they lock it deep,
It won’t disturb the peace…

But silence has a sound,
It echoes all around,
And what we try to lose
Still finds its way back out…

’Cause everybody’s heart
Has a broken little part,
And everybody walks
With a shadow in the dark.
We cover what we feel,
Pretend it isn’t real—
But everyone, everyone’s
Got a sin they try to heal
It’s everyone’s everything.

Everybody wears a smile,
Carries it awhile,
Though inside every mile
Is a hidden fragile file.

Everybody takes a fall,
Sometimes hits a wall,
But acts like standing tall
Is the only rule for all.

But the truth begins to rise
In the corners of our eyes,
No matter how we hide—
It trembles, then it cries…

’Cause everybody’s heart
Has a broken little part,
And everybody walks
With a shadow in the dark.
We cover what we feel,
Pretend it isn’t real—
But everyone, everyone’s
Got a sin they try to heal
It’s everyone’s everything.

So let your heart unfold,
Let your secrets be told,
You’re human — made of gold
Even with the cracks you hold…

We’re heavier inside
When we try to run and hide,
But lighter when we say
“I’m hurting, but I’ll stay…”

’Cause everybody’s heart
Has a broken little part,
And everybody walks
With a shadow in the dark.
We cover what we feel,
Pretend it isn’t real—
But everyone, everyone’s
Got a sin they try to heal
It’s everyone’s everything.

Everyone, everyone’s
Got a grief they try to seal…
Everybody’s sin
It’s everyone’s everything.

Compulsion

 

I have no reason to
come to you, none.

Still, like waves rush
to the shore, for plane fun
I find myself moving towards you—
a magic pull older than logic,
a tide with its own stubborn will.

I run unto you as if
a deadline were pursuing me,
as if time itself leaned forward
and whispered your name.

You consume me
with an insane craze,
a gravity I cannot negotiate,
a fever I cannot undo.

With you I don't want to rhyme—
yet you remain my virtue,
you remain my crime.

You are the quiet death
inside me,
and still, you are my life.

Assimilation

 

With a mirror
I have two faces
I take the mirror away
the face, uneffaced
if I turn to me

in a group of ten
I count nine
unless I look back
at the missing me
the tenth one, I
cannot see

the waves are born
from water, they die
on the shore
yet
the water remains
as the tenth face

if I cannot see the truth
in the table despite the
wood being present
through and through
it’s the knowledge of
wood I cannot behold

I cannot see the sun
covered by the clouds
what I discount is the
light of the sun that
shows me what I see

even when the mind stops
the one that spots
the sound sleep is the same
face that remains uncounted,
the same light that enables
the same wood that pervades.

 

Note: Influenced by the Vedanta philosophy. It's amazing how the easiest truth can be so elusive.

Dehypnotize

 

Hypnotized world,
a mirror within a mirror.
I clean the surface—
but the face beneath
stays opaque.

Hope is a paradox—
the purity of hopelessness.

Essence deserts perception
until awareness
undoes the spell
and we
dehypnotize.

অমৃতবাণী

 

জরাজীর্ণ পৃথিবীতে
আমি শুধুই ভালোবাসি
শুকনো কঠোর ভূমিতে
     আজ
মারামারি চলছে খালি
শূন্য জমির বুকে জমা
হিংসা ঘেন্না রাশিরাশি
তবুও আমি ভালোবাসি
জীবনযুদ্ধে কান্নাহাসি। 

আমার ভালোবাসার পাশে
কথামৃতের আদল আসে
ঠাকুরের ওই সর্বগ্রাসী
আলিঙ্গনের অনুরাগে
ডুবে থাকি অহর্নিশি।

নিঠুর ধরায় যদি তোমরা
শান্তি সুখের ঠিকানা চাও
একে  অন্যের সাথে পড় 
কথামৃত পড়িয়ে যাও । 

রামকৃষ্ণের প্রতি কথায়
এম'এর স্নেহের লেখার তরে 
দুঃখ হিংসা যাবে কোথায়
ধ্বংস হয়ে চিরতরে। 

আস্তিক বা নাস্তিক হলেও
কথামৃত পড়তে পারো
সন্ন্যাসী বা সংসারীরাও
একই সুরে গাইতে পারো 
সংসারের এই জ্বালা থেকে
মুক্তি পাবে এক্কেবারে 
হালকা হবে আকাশ বাতাস
আলোয় জীবন দিনেরাতে
খিলখিলিয়ে উঠবে ভরে।   

Ambition

There is ambition
in the hearts of humans,
a burning yearning to possess
this and that, a house, a car,
a job, a family
but the world is yet to see
any moral ambition, such
thoughts don’t even cross
the mind, not even in passing
to be a good human being.

The Lines

I pray to God so she gives me
those magic lines that can
stop all wars for good
lines that could eradicate
plastic poverty with the endless
flow of pure water, fresh food.

Then I think of the ego
of writing my lines? Why!
I cannot connect with her
if I beg for those praises,
I can connect with her
only when I am selfless.

Let me pray for a poet instead
from the coming generation
whose lines can break the barriers,
bridge all borders of the earth,
let their astute art make the brain
benevolent, heal the warring heart.

 

The Flute

The Flute

At twilight,
your tune returns
slipping through the dusk
like breath on glass.

I taste the juice
from your fruit,
sweet,
but never whole.

Still,
another day falls
without your shape beside me.

My eyes 
a river,
the Yamuna* flowing
as I remember
that you are,
but not mine.

I seek,
and still,
you vanish.

The melody reaches me 
but I crave the hands that play it.
I sip what remains,
but hunger for
what never arrives.

I hear the tune.
I want the flute.
I enjoy the juice —
but long for
the fruit.

Yamuna - The Yamuna River is deeply connected to Lord Krishna through numerous religious stories, primarily in the Vaishnavism tradition. According to scripture, the Yamuna river parted to allow baby Krishna to be carried across, and Krishna spent his youth playing and dancing on its banks in the region of Vrindavan. The river is revered as a divine goddess named Kalindi, who is considered the consort of Krishna and symbolizes their sacred bond. 

 

La Flûte

Au crépuscule,
ton air revient,
glissant dans le soir
comme un souffle sur le verre.

Je goûte le jus
de ton fruit,
sucré,
mais jamais entier.

Pourtant,
un autre jour s’éteint
sans ta forme à mes côtés.

Les yeux 
un fleuve,
la Yamuna* qui coule
tandis que je me souviens
que tu es,
mais non à moi.

Je cherche,
et toujours,
tu t’évanouis.

La mélodie m’atteint 
mais je désire les mains qui la jouent.
Je savoure ce qu’il reste,
mais j’ai faim de
ce qui ne vient jamais.

J’entends l’air.
Je veux la flûte.
Je goûte le jus —
mais je languis
du fruit.

Yamuna - La rivière Yamuna est profondément liée au Seigneur Krishna à travers de nombreuses histoires religieuses, principalement dans la tradition du Vaishnavisme. Selon les Écritures, la rivière Yamuna s'est séparée pour permettre au bébé Krishna d'être porté de l'autre côté, et Krishna a passé sa jeunesse à jouer et à danser sur ses rives dans la région de Vrindavan. La rivière est vénérée comme une déesse divine nommée Kalindi, qui est considérée comme l'épouse de Krishna et symbolise leur lien sacré.

Untried?

Unkindness is a gift
no one wants to receive,
yet many are eager to give.
Being unkind teaches nothing;
through unkindness, we harm,
we challenge a person.
Through kindness, you charm—
you change a person.

No society, no organization
has ever truly tried kindness.
Even places of worship,
kindness remains only in theory,
for they were never kind
to one another.

Yet, in the spiritual world,
examples abound—
Krishna and Sudama*,
Bhakta Prahlad*,
Satyakam Jabala*,
Yudhishthira*, who refused
to enter heaven without
his faithful companion,
a stray dog.

You have the parable
of the Good Samaritan*,
the merciful Joseph
forgiving his brothers*,
Tabitha’s charity*,
and Jesus with the woman
caught in adultery*.

…I know, I know—
the readers grow weary
of such theoretical talk.
What stirs in their minds
is that wide, untried distance
between theory and practice.
Yet if ever they dared
to harness it,
the world would become
a space of solace.

 

Sudama, a poor Brahmin, traveled to see his childhood friend, Lord Krishna, who was now the wealthy king of Dwarka. With nothing to offer but a handful of puffed rice given to him by his wife, Sudama was hesitant to seek help. However, Krishna greeted him with immense love, honoring their old friendship over their new differences in status. Krishna took the meager offering and relished it.

Young Prahlad was a devout worshipper of Lord Vishnu, but his father, the demon king Hiranyakashipu, hated Vishnu and demanded worship for himself. Despite repeated torture and threats, Prahlad never lost his faith or his kind nature, insisting that Vishnu resided everywhere, including in his father. When Hiranyakashipu threatened to kill his son, Prahlad responded with unwavering calm.

A young boy named Satyakam Jabala was eager to become a student of a respected sage. However, at the time, only those of the priestly Brahmin class could become spiritual students, and they had to state their father's lineage (gotra). When asked for his gotra, Satyakam truthfully told the sage that his mother, Jabala, did not know his lineage as she had been a servant who "wandered a lot" in her youth.

Yudhishthira's devotion to the dog was the final test of his righteous character. The dog was revealed to be Dharma, the personification of righteousness, who had come to test him. This act of unconditional kindness proved Yudhishthira's purity of heart and earned him entry into heaven. It serves as a reminder that compassion should be shown to all living beings, not just those who can offer a reward. 

The Parable of the Good Samaritan This story, told by Jesus, features a Samaritan—a person typically despised by the Jewish people—who stops to help a Jewish man who was robbed, beaten, and left for dead. The Samaritan's radical kindness and selfless compassion stand in stark contrast to the religious leaders who passed by, illustrating that mercy and love should be shown to all, regardless of background.

Joseph forgiving his brothers After Joseph's brothers sold him into slavery, he rose to become a powerful ruler in Egypt. When his brothers later came to Egypt seeking food during a famine, Joseph had the power to punish them. Instead, he forgave them, revealing himself and saving his entire family from starvation. His kindness, born from his faith, changed their lives and secured the future of his people.

Dorcas's charity Described in the book of Acts, Dorcas (also called Tabitha) was a woman "full of good works and acts of charity" who was known for making clothes for the poor and widows. Her death caused immense grief in her community. In response to their pleading, the Apostle Peter was moved to resurrect her, demonstrating that her genuine kindness had a powerful impact on those around her and brought the community together.

Jesus and the woman caught in adultery When a woman was brought before Jesus by religious leaders who intended to stone her, Jesus intervened with unusual kindness. By writing on the ground and challenging her accusers with the words, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her," he dismantled their self-righteousness. His action, and subsequent forgiveness toward the woman, saved her life and taught a profound lesson about grace.

[Source: Wikipedia]

 

The Paradox of Habit

What slowly eases
habits of being around—
they suffocate us
and intoxicate us
all at once,

like smoke that lingers
long after the fire is gone,
like voices we carry
though their speakers are silent.

We mistake them for comfort,
but they press close,
wrapping us in patterns
we forgot we chose.

And when they loosen—
a sudden hush,
a window opening
onto air we never knew
was ours to breathe.

 

what was, is

the mountain holds
its silence, just as it held
not as a threat
but as a question

you move upward,
each step leaving behind
the weight you once
believed was yours

air thins,
yet vision clears
stone becomes less
a barrier,
more a passage

what seemed immovable
is only the outline of fear
what remained remains
as the horizon
unfolding without beginning
furthered with steps

The Weight of Gold, the Grace of God

I chased the gold, the shining gleam,
Through broken days and half-lost dreams.
My hands were glued to fleeting things,
Blind to what true goodness brings.

I joined the guild of grasp and gain,
Where greed was guarded, granted grain
Each grade I climbed, each deal I made,
Left deeper wounds that never fade.

I’d grind the system from place to place,
Masking gripe with shallow grace.
The world said “go,” and so I ran,
A gnawed and ghastly ghost of man.

They called me gud in jest and scorn—
A fool, a fraud, by fortune torn.
Even gord and goard meant more than me,
For I had lost what makes souls free.

But in the quiet, I heard a sound,
A whisper rising from the ground.
Not loud, not proud—but good and kind,
It stirred the ashes of my mind.

"Return," it said, "no need to hide.
Let go of pride—let Me inside."
I fell, undone, no mask to wear,
And found my broken soul laid bare.

And then—oh God!—Your light poured in,
Not to condemn, but cleanse my sin.
You were the guide I never knew,
The truth beneath the lies I grew.

Redemption came, not dressed in gold,
But in a mercy quiet and bold.
Not earned by grade or guild or fame,
But by the power of Your name.

Now I walk, though scarred, made new,
With heart unglued from what’s untrue.
God, You are good. You broke my fall.
You are my gold—my all in all. 

The Sailing Time

The Sailing Time

I launched paper boats
in the rain,
their fragile sails trembling,
their voyages endless
in my mind.
Even when the water
pulled them under,
I dreamed them rising again—
undaunted, sailing to places
I could never name.

From the balcony, I clung
to the last outline of
my father,
his figure swallowed
by the street,
his absence a hollow
that footsteps in the
evening would mend.
The soft strike of shoes
on stone—
our secret signal to
scatter toys,
to open books,
to pretend wisdom
already lived in us.

But time is a thief
that trades play for
silence,
imagination for routine.
We give away so much—
our days, our people,
our tender illusions.
And the heaviest gift
surrendered
is innocence itself,
slipping from our hands
like paper boats
that do not rise again.

 

Le temps en voile

Je lançais des bateaux
dans la pluie battante,
leurs voiles fragiles
frémissaient de peur.

Même si l’eau sombre
les engloutît soudain,
je voulais qu’ils voguent,
hardis, renaissants.

Du balcon j’attendais
le dernier contour
de mon père absent,
avalé par la rue.

Ses pas du soir venaient,
douce percussion,
signe clandestin
pour fermer nos jeux,

ouvrir des cahiers,
feindre la sagesse
qui déjà, peut-être,
habitât nos fronts.

Mais le temps dérobe :
il troque le silence
contre nos éclats,
nos songes contre l’ombre.

Nous donnons nos jours,
nos êtres, nos rêves.
Le plus grand des dons
qu’il exige encore :

l’innocence pure,
qui fuit de nos mains
tel un frêle bateau
ne se redressant plus.

চেনা গল্প চেনা কথা

এক পথিক
হাঁটতে হাঁটতে ক্লান্ত হয়ে
গাছের নিচে বিশ্রাম নিচ্ছিল,
হঠাৎ এক লাল রঙের জন্তু
হামাগুড়ি দিয়ে তার কাছে
এসে বসে। চলে যায় সে বসে 
ক্ষণিক।
টকটকে লাল। সারাগাছে
শুধু ওই হামাগুড়ি দিয়ে ঘুরে
বেড়াচ্ছে। এই দেখে চলে যায়
সে উত্তরের দিক।

অন্য এক পথিক এসে বিশ্রাম
নিতে গিয়ে দেখে সোনালী
রঙের এক অদ্ভুত জন্তু দাপিয়ে
বেড়াচ্ছে একটি গাছে। দেখে চলে
যায় সেও এদিক ওদিক । 

অন্য দুইজন এসে তাকে দেখে 
কুচকুচে কালো আর ঘন
সবুজ, তারাও দেখেছে সঠিক।

দিনান্তে তারা ফিরে আসে গ্রামে,
কি রঙের জন্তু দেখেছে তারা
এই নিয়ে লাগে বিতর্ক, চলে
বাকবিতন্ডা। অবশেষে মুচকি হেসে
বলে এক বৃদ্ধ তাদের গিরগিটির কথা,
সে তো তাকে দেখেছে অহর্নিশ।
তাই সে সকলকে বলে যে তাদের
কলহ কতটা নিরর্থক, অমূলক,
অর্থহীন।

কখনো হাতি কেমন তাই নিয়ে ঝগড়া
কতগুলি অন্ধদের মধ্যে, কখন বচসা
নিরাকার, সাকার নিয়ে। অথচ একই জন্তু
একই বস্তু তারা, জ্বলজ্বল করছে আমাদের
চোখের সামনে, চোখ আমাদের হয় অন্ধ ,
নয়তো বন্ধ থাকে, চলে এই খেলা পথিকেরই
মত দিনরাত, রাতদিন । 

বাসনা

বাসন বসন বাসনা যত
আঁকড়ে থাকে নেশার মত,
চেষ্টা করে যদি বা ছাড়ে
থাকবো ভাবি কেমন করে ? 

অন্তরেতে ভর্তি পুঁজি
তবু আনন্দ বাইরে খুঁজি,
চাহিদাগুলো মারতে গেলে
নিজেই পড়ি নিজের জালে।  

আরো অনেক জিনিস মানুষ
জিততে হবে করি বাজি,
সব্বাইকে হারিয়ে বুঝি
মান থাকে না, থাকে না হুঁশ।   

নাটকের এই সার্কাস থেকে
বেরিয়ে যদি বসতে পারি
তাহলেই তো কেল্লাফতে
থাকবে না আর মারামারি।  

বাসনা আর ইচ্ছেগুলি
নষ্ট হবে দ্রষ্টা হলে
দেখা জানা শোনার ছলে   
যাবে পুরো জলাঞ্জলি।  

Knowing I, self

it is here now
yet it is nowhere

it is physical
it is material
yet it is not

it can hear you
yet it doesn’t listen

it is trapped
in life’s turmoil
yet it is free
absolutely

it is the most concrete
yet it is abstract

it is tied with you
every moment
yet it is unattached

it is finite and minute
yet it is endless and vast

Lâcher : l’art naturel de donner

Nous passons nos vies à croire que nous tenons quelque chose entre nos mains : un travail, une relation, une idée de nous-mêmes. Nous disons : « c’est moi qui décide ». Mais si nous nous arrêtons un instant, si nous observons vraiment, nous découvrons que tout se fait par nature. Nous respirons sans y penser, notre cœur bat sans notre ordre, nos cellules se divisent, vieillissent, meurent. Même nos pensées — que nous croyons si personnelles — surgissent d’elles-mêmes, nourries par la mémoire, le langage, l’expérience.

Alors, que signifie « donner » ou « lâcher » ? Ce n’est pas fuir la vie, ni renoncer à toute action. C’est reconnaître que nous ne sommes pas les maîtres absolus de ce que nous appelons « nous-mêmes ». C’est agir, mais sans attachement, sans illusion de contrôle total.

Regardons quelques exemples. Tu veux contrôler ton corps : tu fais du sport, tu manges sainement. Pourtant, un accident ou une maladie peut tout changer. Tu veux contrôler les autres : un ami, un enfant, un partenaire. Tu découvres tôt ou tard que chacun vit selon sa nature, que tu ne possèdes personne. Même ton esprit te résiste : tu dis « je veux rester calme », et l’émotion surgit malgré toi.

L’attachement ressemble à cette parabole de l’ours. Un homme recueille un ourson abandonné. Par amour, il le serre contre lui. L’ourson grandit. Ce qui était tendresse devient poids. Un matin, l’homme se réveille prisonnier d’une étreinte trop forte : l’animal devenu massif l’écrase sans le vouloir. Ainsi en est-il de nos désirs et de nos possessions : ce que nous croyons tenir finit par nous tenir.

Mais lâcher n’est pas perdre. C’est au contraire retrouver un espace de liberté. Le riche, le puissant, le beau cherchent à tout prix à conserver leur fortune, leur image, leur jeunesse ; et dans cette lutte, ils perdent la paix. Celui qui accepte de donner, qui sait que tout passe, retrouve une joie simple : aimer sans posséder, agir sans s’agripper au résultat, vivre sans se battre contre le cours naturel des choses.

Philosophies et traditions le répètent depuis des siècles : le bouddhisme parle de non-attachement, le taoïsme d’harmonie avec le flux, le stoïcisme d’accepter ce qui dépend ou non de nous. La psychologie moderne aussi nous invite à lâcher nos obsessions de contrôle pour agir selon nos valeurs profondes.

Alors, comment pratiquer ? Commencer par de petites choses : ne pas chercher à tout corriger dans une conversation. Accomplir son devoir au travail, puis accepter que le résultat ne nous appartienne plus. Regarder une ride apparaître et sourire à ce signe de vie plutôt que le combattre comme un ennemi.

Lâcher, en vérité, c’est revenir à ce que nous sommes : un fragment de nature, un souffle qui passe. Quand nous cessons de serrer, nous découvrons que la vie nous porte, qu’elle agit à travers nous. Et ce jour-là, nous ne perdons rien : nous retrouvons simplement le mouvement pur de l’existence.

Letting Go: The Natural Art of Surrender

We spend our lives believing that we are holding something in our hands — a job, a relationship, an idea of ourselves. We say: “I am the one who decides.” But if we pause for a moment, if we truly observe, we discover that everything happens by nature. We breathe without thinking, our hearts beat without command, our cells divide, age, and die. Even our thoughts — which we take to be so personal — arise on their own, fed by memory, language, and experience.

What, then, does it mean to “let go” or “surrender”? It is not to flee from life, nor to abandon all action. It is to recognize that we are not the absolute masters of what we call “ourselves.” It is to act, but without clinging, without the illusion of total control.

Consider a few examples. You want to control your body: you exercise, you eat well. Yet an accident or illness may change everything. You want to control others: a friend, a child, a partner. But sooner or later you discover that each lives according to their own nature — no one can be possessed. Even your own mind resists you: you say “I will stay calm,” and emotion rises despite you.

Attachment is like the parable of the bear. A man once found an abandoned cub. Out of love, he held it close. The cub grew. What had been tenderness became a burden. One morning the man awoke trapped in an embrace too strong — the animal, now massive, was crushing him without intending to. So it is with our desires and possessions: what we believe we are holding eventually ends up holding us.

But letting go is not losing. On the contrary, it is regaining space, freedom. The rich, the powerful, the beautiful cling desperately to wealth, to image, to youth — and in that struggle, they lose peace. The one who knows how to surrender, who understands that everything passes, rediscovers a simpler joy: to love without possessing, to act without clinging to outcomes, to live without fighting against the natural flow of things.

Philosophies and traditions have repeated this for centuries: Buddhism speaks of non-attachment, Taoism of harmony with the flow, Stoicism of accepting what lies within or beyond our control. Even modern psychology invites us to loosen our grip on the obsession with control and to act instead in line with our deepest values.

And how to practice this? Begin with small things: resist the urge to correct everything in a conversation. Do your duty at work, then accept that the result no longer belongs to you. Watch a wrinkle appear and smile at this sign of life, rather than fight it as an enemy.

To let go, in truth, is to return to what we are: a fragment of nature, a passing breath. When we cease to clutch, we discover that life carries us, that it acts through us. And in that moment, we lose nothing — we simply rediscover the pure movement of existence.