Untitled Chapters of Life

Ruchira Biswas blog

Half Open


I left the door open and kept the lights on  in the hallway. Every night when I used to make patterns out of my shadows on rusted walls, I heard footsteps on the hallway. I used to sit motionless staring at the door but there was only impressions of the cold wind curling up around the corner of my room.

I had started drawing blurred blue lines on the delusions of your presence around me. My own self was gasping for breathe inside my head. And then there were days when I stopped searching for the lost face of you in the crowd. I stopped nurturing you in my drunken designs of future. A homeless addiction was growing inside me like a mute infant which I couldn’t ignore even if I chose to.

Evenings when I came back to closed doors and half lit hallways I did stop in front of your door. I left those notes which you never picked up. But I scribbled one line of random poetry behind those blue papers. Some stayed with me, some I dropped at your door . Some you might have carelessly picked up, or some just slipped under your white rug.

Maybe one night when the cloud will drift away from the half hearted moon, you will pick them up and trace the words with your cold fingers.
Maybe you will follow the wind down to my door. I promise, I  will keep my door half open.
Maybe we can put together those pieces of random poetry.
And by the time the night ends, what if you find a reason to come back again?


From this side of the Barbed Wires


I stood on the other side of the barbed wires and blurry lines waiting for something I know not of.

I always thought what was there on the other side. What lied beyond the unseen. But every autumn when I come here , as if the questions just subside in me.

When I see the blue sky slowly turning red, I remember how in those childhood days I used to latch onto my Mom’s fingers and stare at the same sky trying to make shapes out of those clouds. And she used to turn those white petals into stories as she tucked them into her hair.

When I see the leaves falling off, I remember the times when my Grand Pa used to make me fly through those leaves. He would cling onto me and ask with adorable eyes, “ Would you talk about us when you grow old? “ Every fallen branch here has talked about our stolen laughter and endless giggles since then.

When I walk past these wires and the last few flowers of the season kiss my steps, I remember each of those times when I laid down here with my hair open and the dew soaking my pages of poetry full of silent storms and broken bridges. Paths where I have walked endless roads and mind full of lost thoughts.

Each of those autumns I came here, I felt loved. There was something around me that  had me more than that feeling of momentary infinity.

But, I have crossed these barbed wires some times.

In the summer when my Grand Pa passed away. I couldn’t wait for that unknown to bring him back.

In that winter night, when my poetry failed me. I couldn’t wait for that unfelt memory to write back to me.

In that drizzle of the monsoon, when my Mother looked at me with empty arms and failed hopes.

I did smear the flowers and went way past the wire each of these times to just find Nothing.

I started to believe since then , maybe you don’t  always need a reasonable ending for a story to stop breathing. It just does!


Photography : Prit Goyani(


~ HOME ~


And my city looks like a constellation of street lights as if tiny fireflies  spread all over the air. How can I not fall in love with this place a thousand times over?

Empty roads snaking its’ way through the city – whispering a mystic tale with it’s every turn.

And those cozy houses which looks like toy houses from above , nourishing a family from ages.

Life seems so quiet and fluid when you gaze at it through the flight’s window. Every time I return to this place , even the hustle of the cars seem more comforting than life at any other place. I spell this city’s name as “ Home “ , a place which would never refuse to welcome me.

Growing up here Home meant a brick house where mother shouts at me to be more focused , a place where father comes after a tiring day at work and I cry myself to bed along with growing teenage years.  After saying away for an year , what Home means to me now has a total new definition.

It is the smiling sun rays resting on your eyes every morning when you wake up to Ma’s warm cup of coffee. The shouts of the vendors that coalesces your scattered thoughts to seeing Ma running through  the door and bargaining with him. That oil soaked breakfast that she has made only for you as she keeps the last piece for herself.

Home is when you crouch up to your mother’s lap as she waves her hand through your rather unkempt hair. With her every finger running through your hair, all the thoughts seem to settle and you just admire her palms with a nostalgic smile. It is when you hear your Grand Pa shouting your name through the door as you go running to hug him irrespective of how old you are. It is about complaining the smallest stuffs to Ma because you know She can fix everything.

Home becomes all those small things that makes you happy  and carefree involuntarily , you never realize until you are miles away and missing them.

Home becomes this city whose smell of  the soil and turn of the leaves also tend to talk to you when you come back to her.

How weird humans are! We feel more attached when we stay apart.

Love and Drugs! 

How do you do it?

Hold me one second and then let me go the next
There is something in that one second when you hit me
Like the trip of an ecstasy pill
Paralyzing each breathe inside me
Making me want more
And more of you

But I find you in small doses

In that rush of the drug up the spine
Below that soaring heartbeat
Then you slowly dissolve into that delusion

I suddenly turn maniac then

Search. Search. Search for you.
Focus, I tell myself.
But , NO.NO.
 You aren’t there.

Now when the jaws of addiction loosens bit by bit

You suddenly seem like an accident
A mistake that I loved taking risk for
I won’t ask you to come back again

Because each time I inhale the smoke now

Rising from your addiction
There is no rush
No high
Just a hallucinating emptiness
I don’t want to find you there again
Neither do I want to crave for one last taste on my tongue
This addiction would no more have the name of You
I will meet you then

In some other strange acid trip.


There are monsters trapped within everything.

In my broken town of metaphors

Or your terrorized city of glass.

In the smoke escaping from your thoughts

Or in the melting words of my lips.
In the dark pit of your promises
Or in the cursed words of my poetry.
In the blue lines of your palm
Or the black kohl of my eyes.
There are monsters between You and Me.
The one that pushes me towards hollow hopes
But I still survive!
The one that colors your mind black
But you still smile!
The one that talks to me in “ Almost”- s
And  makes me run away from my “ What if”-s!
The one that chokes my voice
Strangles my sleep
And burns your Dreams!
Yet we hold on to those bygones.

Those are the monsters.

In You. Me. And everything!
Trapped in blurred lines
Colored in familiar hues.
Just another name…

For Memories!

( This poem got featured in social writing page, The Scribbled Stories. It has been days of sharing a poem with my readers there, so I chose this over all. ) 

Colors and People #Series#Black

Sometimes darkness isn’t the dead ends of stories or blind alleys of the nightlane. It speaks much more only if the way we see change .

Colors and People#Series #Red

Let the New Year start with the passionate color, Red. Everything has a story so do the colors only if you care to see through.

So, Red and people!


Stay connected for the others to come!

Colors and People #Series

In all the folds of our lives, we discover new shades of Life. Dyed in new colors. Let the stories befriending these colors be unwrapped!

(Let my readers know about their inputs on this.)


For the Santa…

Only if I had known that my Santa will be gone once I grow up. I would have frozen time. Sealed the hands of the clock and never made it race to that one day when he finally took the carriage. Not promising me to return with gifts. Not leaving a note about the place he is heading to.

I buried my questions when I looked into my mother’s silent eyes and made myself believe that he was too much in a hurry to dress up and leave.  But after that day, every moment when I see his smile stuck against time in photo frames and dust laden glasses I wish winters never come when I again have to adorn fake smiles and look at empty corridors waiting for my Santa to arrive and the bells to ring again through the darkness.

He did not have Red robes, white misty beard or a sleigh. But in my small world where still the fragrance of his clothes have not yet been absorbed  by the smell of those white funeral roses. In that world, he was my Santa. He did not need seasons to come . Nor ways to gift me. Neither songs to lure me.

A hold of his fingers to guide me when I was four. A warm hug when I failed at life. A compassionate pat on the shoulder when the world stood as my stage. In all those enwrapped moments of eighteen years he gifted me every second nourished dearly in care, filled in that treasure box of memories. He weaved magical reflections of himself into my mirror …

And when I look back , only the fire consuming the body, the petals falling off and the cries all going numb beside me, that is what stagnates my mind. All the other paradoxical sweetness of transience seem to fade away like the watercolor paints against the end of a story I do not want to spell. My Santa was too real to be beautiful then.

Christmas lights. Shinning Stars. The cold zephyr of December is passing by with the Summer to come again only when I have to realize for another time that my Grandpa is gone.  Without a Goodbye. Without a note . Into an existence where I want to travel to him as a Santa and bring the indefinite back but I can’t. I just can’t.

Years will go by and what I will be left with is only one question, “ Wasn’t it too early for Santa to go?”

img_0888-modifiedSantas always don’t come in Red Robes, but sometimes leave ensheathed in White.

( Dedicated to my Grand Father.)

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