Whispers and Words of M R Maiti

A man wants only one thing, Is what I have understood From the men I have known closely. After the weight of the day is lifted, A calm evening With his lover and kids, When he sips a cup of coffee, While looking at the sun, Setting over a mountain, From the balcony Of the house he built With his hard-earned money. Then, as always, The doorbell signals A welcome interruption, The gang arrives, The engine purrs, And they drive In no direction in particular, With their favourite songs Playing in the background. *** Liked what you read? What do you think men want? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

A day before my vacation came to an end, while I readied my luggage, already occupied mostly with the snacks prepared by my mother, my father had only one thing to add - a stack of postcards, along with an instruction to drop one in the letterbox every week, during my time in school. I used to be a dutiful son in my childhood days. I did as I was asked. Every Sunday evening, I took a stroll on my own, carrying a written postcard. Where the road from the hostel turned towards our classrooms, there was a huge tree, and attached to its massive trunk was a red letterbox. It was cylindrical and had two openings at the front side. The top opening had a flap that swiveled back on a gentle push, allowing me to drop the postcard. The bottom opening had a small door with a tiny lock on it. There was a certain kind of mystery associated with the entire thing - from the moment the postcard dropped with a hollow sound in the box to the moment it was delivered to my home. I never got to see the post...

I remember the time, I broke your doll as a joke. Crying, you ran to our mother And slammed the door on my face. I was eavesdropping when you said, 'I wish I had an older sister instead.' Later that day, Father called me to say, 'Some titles you are born with, You have to earn it all the same.' I remember the time, It was your college admission day. You stacked your documents in order, Then rearranged them neatly again, Smiling at strangers Who didn't know your name yet. Far away from home and parents, Standing by your side, I hope... I earned my title that day. *** A poem dedicated to siblings... Divided by gender, united by blood! Did you have any similar experience with your sibling? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** There's always Another mountain, Indifferent and silent, Summoning the same man. The pull of the climb Is all he has ever known. He doesn't spare a moment To mourn the valleys left behind. But it's lonely at the top. Breathless, he stops. The silence rushes in. He mourns those who fell behind. The drifting clouds morph into faces, The ones who didn't come along, They must have understood his eagerness, As he understood their reluctance. Then the clouds move on. And so does he. The clear sky has shown him Another mountain waiting. *** A poem dedicated to... mountains? What do you think? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** In ancient times, Driven by tribal mentality And resource scarcity, War was more commonplace For the fragmented societies. But every life a person took, It stayed with him, Their last exchange weighed on him. The grand accomplishment Of modern times Is humanity's greatest failure, Weapons that erase Thousands in one blow, A quick way to win a war. Now the wars simmer, not blaze, Diplomacy stokes the endless forge. When you have an abundant population, The body count doesn't hurt If distributed over a period of time, A mere handful at a time. I see all the wise men Gathered once again, Chest-thumpers and squabblers, Who never reach a conclusion, Because a war is only glorious, When it's prolonged and hard to win. Gods are children of misery. So are these wise men, Risen in the same way, From the anguish of countless devotees, Clinging to the dreams of better days. These fake Gods must go. We already have a pantheon of originals. Not to forget the third-eye wonder, One bl...

*** I unknowingly uttered My thoughts out loud, 'Amid this rush of endless scrolls, Only a handful read poetry, And even they... They fail to read the poet.' My friend was Quick with a reply, 'It's failure by design. If you wanted to be truly heard, You would have a conversation. You wouldn't write poetry.' *** I said to her, with a sigh, 'Maybe someday, I'll love myself Like you love yourself.' She replied, with a smile, 'Maybe someday, The ones who strive to light the world Won't be immersed in darkness themselves.' *** "Life sucks." "Yes, it does." And just like that, In a string of conversations, Life would have come to pass, Even become a little better along the way. Or so I thought... When I cried at her wedding, It wasn't because of losing her. I was thinking of another wedding, I had planned to attend, But never could and never will. The silver lining has come loose now. Wearing a threadbare coat, I'm r...

***  If he spits it out, The world perishes If he swallows it, Death claims him at once. So, he cradles the poison In his throat, Bestowing a bluish sheen, A symbol of eternal sacrifice. If I lay it all bare, The indifference would kill me. If I keep it pent-up inside, I'll choke and die. So, I mask the poison, With blue markings on paper. The fancy wordplay is nothing but A never-ending compromise. *** Dedicated to Lord Shiva, the one who can destroy the world, but chooses not to. Wish you a Happy Mahashivratri! In 2018, I clicked this picture of Panchmukhi Shivling , located at the top of Chandrashila Peak , right above Tungnath Temple , the highest Shiva temple in the world.

*** I am haunted by humans. It's not a line I came up with. I am not that good a writer. This sentence is from my favourite book. I won't reveal the name, because I don't need to. If the sentence was good enough to pique your interest, you might have already arrived at the answer by the space-age device called Google. (If reading this in 2025 or later, replace Google with ChatGPT, Perplexity, Meta AI or Gemini). There was a time when you had to know the right books or the right people to be aware of things. And asking a question, a genuine, spontaneous query uttered out loud, wasn't met with a look of disdain, but of wonder. Your inquisitiveness wasn't snubbed by the phrase: Why don't you Google it? I recall asking a question during an age when the internet wasn't as commonplace as it is now. Is Alexander Fleming related to Stephen Fleming, the New Zealand Cricket team captain? My biology teacher had no answer, nor did my friends. It wasn't relevant to t...

*** Leave In the morning, Return In the evening, Get lost Somewhere in between. So it goes... Seeking diamonds All day long, Hours slip Like layers of graphite, Amorphous dreams Gather in the night. So it goes... Mind roaming The mountain valleys, Heart left behind In the hometown, Stuck in the city, Body and soul. So it goes... *** Did you like what you read? Leave a comment!

*** Were it not for the miserable souls Wandering around the world, What else would the songs be about? Were it not for the tragedies struck, Were it not for all the hurt, What else would I write about? Words bleed me dry. Words patch me up. Words are all I have. *** Did you like what you read? Leave a comment.

*** One day, The librarian looked around, And all he saw Were dead trees. *** Explaining my poems is going to become a bad habit, I guess, but I have started doing this because one day I got an Anonymous comment on my post that elaborated in detail what I was conveying through the poem. Honestly, at first, I was flattered. The comment was well-worded and captured everything I had in mind. But then I realised that the comment seemed to be AI-generated. Despite my best efforts, I was a little disappointed. So here I go again, explaining what I wrote above. No need to consult AI. Starting with a simpler explanation... The lines are a scathing comment on the gradual decline of reading culture. Why read when information is just a prompt away? Nobody visits the library anymore. The librarian has nobody but the books to keep him company, which are nothing but remains of old trees. Now comes the heavy version... It's common knowledge that paper in books comes from trees. So, if you fail to...

The tale of the hare and the tortoise is as old as time. Everyone knows the tale and the moral associated with it. Slow and steady wins the race. But there is a side of the story that nobody delves into. Let me be the one to enlighten you. It's as if I was there. I was the hare. I reached the finishing line with reckless abandon, only to find my pity for the poor tortoise turn into utter disappointment for myself. The tortoise had won the race. I was in a state of shock until I received a smack on the back of my head. I turned around to find my friend bearing a judgmental look. "There's no way a tortoise can beat even the slowest of us in a race. You slept on the way, didn't you?" I nodded, then bowed my head in shame. My friend continued, "You lazy, good-for-nothing, arrogant rascal. You have disgraced our entire community. They'll make an example out of you, talk about this for centuries to come, make a moral out of an isolated event." I said nothi...

*** There it was, At the far end Of my wardrobe, Clean and ironed, But collecting dust, The new shirt I wore only once On my first date with her. There it was, In the private safe Of my device gallery, Nervous and excited, I was standing beside her In the picture, the waiter took of us On my first date with her. The shirt I never wore, I sent it to the laundry. The picture I never visited, I permanently deleted. Still, I couldn't forget the moment Our shoulders brushed lightly On my first date with her. *** Liked what you read? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** Living in the moment, You failed to notice how Days, months and then The years passed by. And suddenly, You became someone Who cannot let go Of the past. Living on autopilot, It skips your notice now When the future waves at you In broad daylight. *** Did you like what I was trying to convey?  Leave your thoughts in the comments below. Happy Children's Day!!

*** The Sea Was feeling blue; And for that, It blamed The Sky. *** Normally, I don't explain my poems, but mostly to serve as a note to myself, here it goes... It is a common misconception among people that the sea is blue because it reflects the blue sky. If that were true, the sea's colour would change to grey on a cloudy day. That doesn't happen. The sky appears blue because, out of the constituent colours of the sunlight, blue light waves are comparatively shorter and scatter more easily in all directions by the tiny air molecules. The sea appears blue because the water absorbs the longer wavelengths of sunlight, like red and orange, but reflects the blue. Moving on from the science part... Quite often, the state of sadness or melancholy (feeling blue) of a person magnifies when he is in the physical or emotional proximity of another person with a positive outlook or optimism (blue sky), even though both of them are on their own individual journey of feelings and emotio...

*** The minaret aspires To fly away. The airplane longs To stay put. Acquaintances at best, The two can Never become friends. *** The above poem was inspired by a recent visit to IIFT campus with two of my batchmates. We were on one of the top floors of the old college hostel, admiring the distant view of Qutub Minar emerging out of the dense Sanjay Van, when an airplane on its way, popped into view. For a moment, it was just above the minaret, but by the time I took out my smartphone to capture the image, it had moved a bit towards the right. Just like the airplane passing over the minaret, a moment of wonderment passed over me. A few years ago, during my college days, I was like the minaret, confined to a place but aspiring to fly away into a world of opportunities. And now, I am like the airplane going about its daily routine, always on the go in that world of opportunities, but carrying within myself a longing to just stay in one place, surrounded by the best of friends. Like the a...

*** When it rains, It pours. I heard myself say, "Pain, pain, Go away. Come again When I'm stronger, One day." Still, it rained. Still, it poured. I heard someone say, "Don't rub Where it hurts. The pain will stay. Ignore it, And the pain will go away." *** Written at home on a rainy day in Aug 2025, when the pouring rain cancelled all my plans of going out, and the familiar rhyme from the childhood days came to mind, only this time I was a grown-up. Do you share my feelings?  Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** Strutting on the dais, Dressed up for the occasion, In a flurry of footsteps, You collect your degree. A weight off your shoulders, Your joy knows no end. Dashing out of the crowded elevator, Your bag single-strapped, In a room of sparkling white, You deliver your presentation. Green as grass, still you feel Head and shoulders above all. Trudging past the empty bullpens, Your bag double-strapped, Late into the night, You punch out for the day. With your shoulder to the wheel, Seven years have gone by so fast. *** This poem commemorates my completion of seven years in corporate life. Although the time passed in my presence, I still find it hard to believe. Do you share my feelings?  Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** Anchored somewhere Between memory and reverie, A boat drifts alone In the shimmering sea, While the golden clouds Hang above, Cradling a ship, A thing of the past That could not sail Into the future. *** These days, people are using AI to generate images and avatars based on a written prompt. Even at work, my Boss asked me to explore this. I don't know if you noticed that I did not insert a picture here like in my other posts. I want you to read the words and then close your eyes. Did my words create an image in the back of your mind or make you think about someone/something? If yes, that was my motive.  Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** The snow-covered peak Was well within my sight When a girl smoking a cigarette Caught my wandering eye. Can you spare one for me, I asked. Sure, but I don't have a lighter, she replied. A girl with cigarettes, but no lighter, Foolish, but she had the spirit of a fighter, I had left my entire group behind, Well, everyone except her. Like an incorrigible addict Looking for a fix, there I was, Bothering random passers-by Until I successfully borrowed a lighter. What do I get in return for the cigarette, she asked. And without waiting for my reply, You have to click my picture, she said. Can I read you my poem instead, I replied. If you like it, you can give me a cigarette. If you don't, I'll be on my way. And so we went all the way to the summit, Bugging strangers for a lighter. She had enough cigarettes. And I had written enough poems. *** After reading the above poem, an obvious question would pop up in your mind about the girl as well as the cigarettes, considering I do...

*** The meter is stuck. I'm traveling miles Still not moving ahead. The brakes don't work. A speed breaker sends me flying Into a vault of old memories. I had come of age. So I had to give up My fear of the road. Travelling all the roads together, The thrill of the ride Eventually replaced the fear. Then, without noticing, The license plate wore out and The gentle ride turned bumpy. The rearview mirrors droop low now, No longer reflecting her face, Just the trailing traffic. *** This poem is dedicated to the scooty I grew up with. Like everything else in life, it was once new and bursting with energy. Its condition has worsened now, not very different from human relationships. Have you had a similar experience? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** You may have heard Or watched Love stories of men Who gave away their hearts To the love of their lives. What remains underrated, however, Is how their eyes light up When they recite the stories, Filled with fun and flare Of the not-so-distant past. There is something endearing In the way they run with the world But their hearts still roam Their college lecture halls And the school playgrounds. *** This poem is dedicated to male friendships that sustain the test of time, through various stages of life, despite all odds and the intervening distance. Have you observed something like this yourself? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** Finding solace In an air-conditioned space, The city slept While I wandered the streets, Restless, Perfecting the ending Of a sentence. The cool breeze made me forget That it was a summer night. Then, out of nowhere, A cold whisper Sent a shiver down my spine. "You have to choose, my friend. Be a writer or be content." "Why can't I be both?" I asked the emptiness. And the whisper scoffed at me, "You and your consistent pursuit To get the best of both worlds. Buckle up then! You are about to be tested." I stumbled over a rock And found the ending I was looking for. "If a river wants to meet the sea, Twisting and turning, It will somehow find its way Even through the mountains." If a whisper could smile, It did, and said, "We will see." *** I don't have a million readers - not by choice, obviously - just a handful. But they mean to me as much as the millions would do. And one of those readers reminded me that I had taken a lon...

Nitin was utterly shocked when he woke up on Saturday morning with a hangover and without any recollection of what had transpired the previous night. He had been drunk before. He had lost all of his senses before. But everything always came back to him the next morning. However, that day, it didn't; complete blackout. There must have been something bizarre in that drink. Over the course of the week, though, he started remembering flashes of it and began looking for an opportunity to talk to Sandhya, sober and alone. The weather had taken a sharp turn today. A sweltering sunny day gave way to a cloudy evening with thrashing winds. As everyone raced to the office window to watch the scene unfolding outside, Nitin saw Sandhya signalling to him by pressing two fingers to her lips. He couldn’t help but smile. She knew he loved to smoke in this weather. After all, she was his smoking partner in the office. Together, they went downstairs, but as soon as they stepped out of the building, t...

There’s something about women that I’ll never understand. They change their attire and hair and transform into a totally new person. Of course, I didn't expect MJ to walk around the city wearing her trekking gear. Still, it surprised me when I met her and she was wearing a traditional white kurta. Her hair wasn’t tied in a bun but fell in coils over her shoulders. Only after I talked to her was I assured that she was the same person I met on Gaumukh Tapovan Trek. I was in the city to spend the long weekend with my friends but I had reserved the last day for meeting MJ. While my friend Mukesh had taunted me by saying that I had come to meet MJ and not them, Neil had suggested a nice place where I could meet her. It was late in the afternoon and the restaurant wasn't crowded. There was no loud music, just a guy performing with his guitar. "Thanks for coming," I told her after the waiter found us a nice seat by the window. "Is Chatur your roommate?" She must ha...

*** The woods are gloomy, dark and scary. You were supposed to keep me company. Even when the roads diverged, You promised me we wouldn't split. Talk to me, man! The mountains spit fire. The rivers run acrid. I walk the barren valley All by myself. Talk to me, man! You and I had concluded long back That life is a joke and Death is the punchline. Then why am I not laughing? Talk to me, man! While I grow old and frail, You'll remain forever young. I say that out of envy Or maybe to content myself. Talk to me, man! I hope you have the answers now To all the questions that befuddle mankind: God, soul, afterlife, rebirth, heaven and hell. You can go on a rant about them if you want, But just once come and talk to me, man! ***

"Living in Mumbai is like an arranged marriage. Give it enough time and dedication and you begin to fall in love with the city," Neil announced to the whole room as if he had just come upon a scientific discovery. He wasn't done. He turned to Mukesh and said, "And living in Bangalore is like a love marriage. People come and fall in love with the city at first sight." Mukesh, who hailed from Bangalore, looked amused by the remark until he heard Nitin say, "Even when you are stuck in traffic." "What about Delhi, huh," Mukesh replied. "Delhi..." Neil chuckled before saying, "Delhi experience is like a one-night stand. You are eager to leave after spending a single night; before the toxic air suffocates you." Nitin wasn't a Delhite. He just worked there. He wondered if he was supposed to defend the city he lived in or just let it go. He decided to change the topic but ended up saying, "Did you read the news today abou...

Dedicated to a friend. *** Dancing to the rhythm in the dead of night, In the living room filled with shimmering lights, He contemplated how difficult he was to live with That he himself wouldn't choose to do it. Was it fair then to ask for companions and Knowingly inflict his misery on them? Holding a recently won trophy in one hand, A tangible recognition for his diligent efforts, And a glass of gin and tonic in the other, A medicating herb to soothe his gnawing afflictions, He evaluated if they would suffice To fill the gaping void in his life. A realisation swirled and settled As he refilled his drink, He wasn't a genius to begin with; At best, a prodigy who wasted his potential. It felt empty when he excelled at goals That were mediocre by his own standards. Mirroring the drink in his hand, He had a glass half-empty view of things, Tormented by what he didn't have, Rather than cherishing what he did. No amount of rain could satiate the desire Of a desert that longed to...

*** Convincing myself That even if I failed, It wouldn't hurt, That my mind, Not the heart, Was in control, I gave wings To a flightless bird, And expected it to fly. For a while, it did, Soaring in the air Of giddy optimism, Only to crash-land, Leaving me to wonder, Had Icarus known He was going to burn, Would he still have flown That close to the Sun. Yes, he would. I can understand his plight. However short the journey, The thrill of the flight Is matched by none, And hope, Even when infinitesimal, Is a wishful probabilistic dope. *** Liked what you read? Leave a comment.

Far away from intruding eyes, The ritual begins. For one last smoke, We light the flame. Cherishing a moment's peace Before the bitter end, We inhale the toxic fumes To exhale a heartfelt goodbye. The smoke ascends To form a swirling mist, Painting a picture Of good times gone by. The flame goes out. The smoke clears away. A beginning comes to an end. We go our separate ways. *** Dedicated to a friend.