You wish me to speak of my despair

Then I shall tell you of the dreams I dare not dream.

To live simply under an old banyan tree by the stream –

Clean, pristine, free of sin.

You by my side, what could've been.

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Love won’t you look at me

You ask me to speak of my sorrows

Then I shall show you the tears of my mother as she prays for me.

They fall with the heft of a lifetime of worries

Splashing into a pool of silken misery,

Breaking my heart as I hear her plea.

For me, to be holy, wholly.

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Afternoons at the Bijoy Sarani signal

You ask me of my rage.

I take you to the window and show you the city –

I rage not at the city, but for it.

I rage for it not being allowed to love me,

I rage for not allowing myself to love it,

I rage, I rage, I rage, knowing it rages with me.

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Double Dream of Dhaka

And then I rage at you, gently,

With these questions, you kill me softly.

You never ask of my joy, my love, my hope,

You don't ask of my victories or even laugh at my jokes.

Nevertheless, I will tell you of my joy –

It is belly laughing with my friends after a day of endless woes,

It is the smell of gorom khichuri during a downpour,

It is the juicy kick of an orange on a cold winter night

And the silent comfort of sharing them with you by my side.

And about my love?

Boundless, insatiable, untapped.

It seeps out of me every chance it gets

It flies, it runs, it even crawls, for what?

For a pair of open arms,

For the warmth of a forehead kiss,

For a home. 

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Possibilities: Attainable

For hope,

For hope is when I dream those dreams I dared not dream.

It is fantasy and delusion and reality and everything in between,

Hope is when I look out at the world and see a place for you and me

Dancing in childlike glee, carefree, under that old banyan tree.