Whispers and Words of M R Maiti

It's 5 o'clock on a Thursday. Dogs are frolicking in the sand. Birds are returning To their native land. And I — I am noticing this only because Unlike my usual day, I logged off early today. In the hours I have gained, The songs play one after another. But in the silence between, I am forced to reckon with myself. Am I just a man who fills his days To avoid this exact moment? Have I been unknowingly Moving toward this life all along? The dogs don't know the difference. The birds have already left. *** Liked what I wrote? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

I once dreamt I had stopped breathing. Never before Had I felt More at peace With myself... Bereft of any want, Immersed in the quiet That lived On the other side Of the noise, As if the world... It had exhaled, And set me free With a sigh. And when I woke up, I lay still For a moment, Hesitant to rejoin the world, But morning, As it does, Came anyway. And the world... It resumed its rhythmic breathing Without seeking my permission. So I breathed again, Slowly and voluntarily, And made a quiet peace With being here, As long as I was here. *** Liked what I wrote? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

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.