May 15, 2013


by Sourav Banerjee

I have gone underground
Not to exist peacefully with the soil
And then consumed by it one day
No; heaven is too far yet
I am here to unearth the microbes
Too impotent to nourish the soil
So that it could yield a giant oak someday.
I have gone underground
Deep into your eyes
Not to refuge within; comfortably mute
To find the source for your tears
That would turn the gentle dew drops into a devastating stream
Drowning all the injustice and tyranny
You and I can ever think.


July 20, 2012



Year of the 3 AC

A poem by Sam Agarwal

In the 3 AC microcosm even the vendors have lost their vim for sticky
spider men and tiger baum.
They are not the real vendors-they are not allowed to enter this
enclave of aspiring business men and superior aam.
World of brown paper bag encased sheets and upper middle class sheen
A nightmare or a dream?
Or just another page of the modernity scene
A test tube for the aspiring business man and the snobby teenager
I don’t mean to be rude but can you please move over so I can plug in
my lap top charger?
Easy to make the intellectual brain hypothesize
About the squalor hidden from our eyes
About the fact that
One drop down steel door away
all India hums, in its schizophrenic way
Middle class families, passing rice heaped upon heaps
Under 500 million babies’ diarrhea mother India sleeps
Mother is buried, mother is weary
Mother of the year, year of the theory.
A single dupatta waving in the wind,
the only sign of weightlessness
in this middle class excuse for femi- nism.
And one drop down steel door away theres
Dusty feet of ticketless riders, armed with a heaps of plagiarism.
Ankles, boney, beating together like bricks
A chorus behind the beggar, who sells her wits
A saffron color flushes the curly headed infant’s cheeks
What lucid fields paint her sleep?
Permanently pasted to this corrugated floor
Louder than her Mother’s words, 3 AC snores

Samantha Agarwal