Poetry by Tanmoy Bhattacharjee

Tanmoy Bhattacharjee

Musings of a wanderer

# When somebody is born tall, do you think he is sure to be in love with the sky?  And a dwarf loves to be in touch with the earth? These are the obligations for them, or instinctively they tend to become so? I mean, predictable or predatory?  Chromosomal folly or heavenly favouritism? Would you like to think for a while, about the back calculation?
# can we define maturity? My son thinks it as knowing the secrets of adulthood. Watching an advertisement in television he asked me last night the use of contraceptive pill. I just smiled and said, ‘right decision at right time, your bold question hold your time, the rest will fall at its place with time.’
# public is omnipresent. The wheel of cinefactory is at random with the dilly-dallying of the public. Even the rising of sun becomes a profiteering program for some public, for the sake of some public. Public is everybody to me, except ‘I’; I am always public for the rest. Inclusiveness is hardly a matter of choice. Probably the being and becoming of every ‘I’ gives birth to a re-public.


The faraway attraction, even the kilometres boldly approve
The story of every inches.
The story begins with my father’s sperms,
And the dark blue eyes are the best gift I have ever got in my life.
Yes, life.
The other name behind every naming words
Casually serious tempt to rummage all that are yet untold.
The story is in my hormonal imbalance
The story is in my washroom dirt
The story is in my nasal puff
The story is in my garrulous want
Even the story is in the sanitary pad, the blood stains, clotting
My drizzling wishes too are told in a story; the puberty
The poverty, parsimony, the crazy loner, the lascivious writer,
The lax embrace...

Medley middle

Good and bad move on hand in hand. None bothers for who comes second, what is in the middle, or what comes between the space ... to create space ... for another space. Middleman? Not our cup of tea, for he is so safe. ... yes, people detest safety. We need tears, jealousy, claim, commitment. In short, people despise the images of goody-goody-pretenders.
Every lineage demands halt, or everything crooked has in itself a linear poise. ... Human lives ... exemplary enough, is always at its present, although observance makes it cloudy through the terms ... then, now, again... people live in now, live on now, live for now, now has even some footprints to remember, now has certain hope for the next now.
A middleman’s note is at par with the man in his middle phase of life. He is neither safe, nor tainted, nor confused ...  oh yes, he is confounded. Between the roads taken, and the same not yet taken. Crushed within the ‘if that, then what’. Even there too is a question, does anyone really feel that he has now arrived the middle?