Princess Never After

I remember fairytales. I remember stories. I remember my mother reading me the story of a “Very, very handsome” prince falling in love with a “Long lost princess” who got separated from her parents when she was 5. I especially remember the story of Cinderella, a princess who just happens to conveniently fall in love with and flatter a prince with symmetric facial shapes. 

I distinctly remember how in every story I’d ever read as a child, love just happened to click between two people who were in every way you could think of, “perfect for eachother”. They’d both always have some royal connections, complementary personalities; and Ooh one fun fact, they usually had to compromise NOTHING for eachother.
.

I remember poems, I remember the women in my life. I remember falling(hard) for this girl back in 6th grade. Not exactly -“I’d cut my wrist and write a love letter with chicken blood” - kind of falling for her, but definitely the first time I had reason to be nervous around some girl. And I remember convincing myself that the two of us would somehow end up together because “That’s how all love stories are supposed to end.”
I remember dating my first girlfriend right after my 10th grade board exams. Although I wouldn’t exactly call what I had for her “Love”, but I definitely cared for her as much as my sexually frustrated 17 year old ass would let me. Somewhere in my heart, I remember hoping to myself; that somehow everything would work out absolutely brilliantly with her. And the way I treated her and the way I held myself around her wouldn’t affect my chances with her. Because you know, “You always end up with your soulmate.”
.

Somewhere around the time when I was about 5 years old, I had convinced myself that you always end up with the one you love. Some mythical creature called “The One”. That some sort of higher entity had the absolute perfect partner picked out for me and was hiding her away in some corner of the world. I believed that I wouldn’t have to compromise things, and there was no way in hell that she’d end up with someone else because, you know? “Made for eachother”.
The problem I had was, my early-20 year old brain still hoped for this, “miracle-lady” to jump out of a bush somewhere.
.

So I started doing a bunch of calculations. Basic, advanced statistics, high-end calculus and what not. And I came up with a conclusion.
Imagine you had someone picked out for you as your soulmate. Some randomly-assingned person at some corner of the world just waiting for you.
What an absolute fucking nightmare that would be. 7-thousand million people in the world, and you’d have to look for “the one” with basically nothing but your eyes. That’s like installing some horrible form of Tinder where you have to swipe left 7 billion times to get a match.
.

Some people can love you more in a year than anybody else could in fifty. While some other person can love you for fifty years straight and you would never feel un-loved, unwanted. Does that mean anyone of these people who love you is more important than the other?
No.
Who are we humans to qualify/quantify other people as our soulmates or “the loves of our lives”?
.

People love, and are loved back. That’s what we remember them by when they’re dead.
“Here lies Mr. Abdul Kuddus Pleb
Born: 1960
Passed: 2015
He had a wife and three children who loved him.”
.

I believe we are given the power to love more than once in our lives. And I believe love is absolutely unconditional. I believe we choose if we ‘want’ somebody enough to call them a soulmate. No, this isn’t to say that our partners don’t matter. This is to compliment the effort the other person has put in; to make us feel wanted and loved. This is to say “Thank you, for you’ve done more for me than I could’ve imagined and made me feel emotions I haven’t felt before”. Who are we to downplay their significance, to rewrite their memories, to alter the ways in which they’ve changed our lives because some higher entity chose them as our “Soulmate”?
.

Sometimes, and I’d say most times we don’t end up with the one we’ve always loved the most. But I’d like to believe that our partners deserve more from us than we’re willing to give. I believe in loving someone to the fullest, because you can never know if anyone can ever love you more than your partner does at this very moment.
Cupid is a fucking jerk. And the chemicals in our brains don’t look for social statuses, financial stability, facial symmetricity or if the feelings are mutual or not. Life and love is all about appreciating it.
.
.

~Dhrubo

The copyright of the image belongs to John Fernandes and his estate. Image taken from Pinterest at the link:https://www.pinterest.com/pin/195977021269117135/

Time

Everything I have ever known about my father,
I have heard from my mom.

The stories about how my father had left home when he,
Was just 12,
Living in a stranger’s house,
In another village,
Just for the sake of education.

When my father graduated high school,
My grandfather didn’t have the money to afford college for him,
My father fought with grandpa
And moved to the city,
He wanted to be,
A doctor.

When a village boy fends for himself in the business hub of the country,
It’s usually not a simple story,
Much like a stray dog fighting for measly meals in the hustle and bustle of the city,
My father fought so that he could stand up on his own feet.

My mom once described the one bedroom apartment,
That my father used to live in,
A small room with a toilet,
In a slum,
My dad’s vacationing in Germany now.

My father has always been there,
He tucked me in on the cold nights
When the blanket fell off.
He kissed my forehead as I slept,
Because at 3am,
There was a man somewhere,
Whose body refused to let him live.

My father was there every time I received an award,
But still,
It felt like,
He wasn’t.

My father never told me his stories,
He never sat me down and opened up to me,
I didn’t get heart to hearts,
I got iPhones and PlayStations,
I didn’t see struggles and empty tables,
I never went hungry,
I only heard stories of struggle and was reminded by my mother,
Of how good I had it.

It was usually midnight,
And dad wouldn’t be home.
It was usually his birthday and we were on Skype,
It was usually cigarettes under my breath,
And he would turn a blind eye,
It was usually,
Always,
The same.

Till date,
My grandfather doesn’t know how to appreciate family,
I don’t blame my father for being non confrontational,
I guess,
He just never learned that emotions can be expressed,
And that family,
Is like a canvas
And my father is the paintbrush,
And without him-
I can’t add colour to this empty white.

Discount Poetry

I have a low emotional tolerance, 

And I’ve heard that, 

More than once. 

I mean, 

Fuck me if I actually give a shit about the 

Absent father gimmick on a tv show that I JUST started watching, 

But, 

I guess, 

I mean, 

 I kinda wish the kid who had a father who played soft ball with him, 

When he was 8?

Barkeep, 

A martini, 

Ice cold, 

Stirred not shaken, 

Oh god not fucking shaken. 

I drink martinis because, 

The gin brings out the romantic in me, 

The oh-that-fucking-tree-looks-majestic-as- Fuck gene, 

The branches splayed our, 

Reaching for the sun, 

Is a metaphor for our struggle to always reach for what we can’t touch, 

The whole world is a fucking metaphor for all the things you did wrong, 

All the things you could’ve done,

And all the things you’ll probably never do. 

The Vertmouth, 

Oh the Vertmouth, 

The flavored wine represents the different flavors in our life, 

All so different, 

Yet all so same. 

The lemon and the olives, 

They represent balance between sour and well, 

More sour. 

Because if you write poetry, 

You totally can’t drink Martinis 

Because you think James Bond looks sleek as fuck while sipping his drink, 

Stirred not shaken, 

Mind you.

I mean it totally doesn’t fucking matter if life’s looking all up for you,

Tragedy strikes you at 7 am, 

When you really wanna light a fag but oh FUCKKK, 

You’re fasting, 

You can’t smoke, 

And that’s probably the worst thing that happened all week, 

Mind you, 

Tragedy isn’t a competition. 

I mean, 

Honestly, 

Humor me, 

At this point I don’t know why we do this, 

It’s like you can’t write unless you’ve convinced yourself that your life is somehow worse off than it actually is. 

Fuck that, 

Life’s sad,

Because time is money, 

And you have no money to waste,

On building memories, 

Only an empire, 

Of consumption, 

Built on paper piles of printed faces.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Manic Pixie Dream Girl,
Every writer needs a muse,
And every tired soul needs revival.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl,
Her morning starts with caramel coffee.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl,
You think she’s gonna complete you,
She’s some attractive concept,
The idea of which you fall in love with.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl completes you,
No,
Manic Pixie Dream Girl walks into your life,
Turns it upside down,
And “changes” you into a better person.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl has no time to sulk,
Don’t cry,
Look outside,
There’s so much living to be done.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl,
Also happens to be lazy,
And in bed,
But will probably stay awake past her bedtime,
Trying to be “productive”
But occasionally failing miserably at it.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl doesn’t need you,
But it’s nice when you’re around.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl reminds you of every girl you’ve ever loved,
So you know that you’ll never love her,
Just the idea of her.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl looks beautiful,
But that’s not what you notice about her.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl doesn’t become your favourite hello,
Or your last goodnight,
She’s just there,
Until she’s not.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl,
Is an experience,
That not all are lucky enough,
To have.

Koi Fish

I walk through the streets, 

I walk, 

I do not take a vehicle, 

Partially because walking is supposed to help me lose weight, 

Also because it means every moment is elongated, 

Every memory I can relive longer. 

I walk through lalmatia, 

Tombstones of bright neon everywhere, 

Lalmatia feels like a graveyard, 

A shrine to all my dead memories. 

I relive them once again, 

Even though I do not particularly want to, 

But because of the weather,

 I cannot help it. 

My mood has always been victim

To the swaying of the wind. 

See, 

When your Yin,

Met my Yang,

It brought balance to my life in some weird way, 

That I quite cannot define,

You see now, 

My life is all sunshine and rainbows, 

It’s smiles and opportunities, 

But I can’t put myself to realize that.

You can’t appreciate the sunshine,

If you don’t know what gloom looks like. 

I have walked through bare Canyons,

Of grass less lands, 

Only to reach the top, 

Where my sun sets, 

With an orange skyline. 

It is beautiful, 

But quite not like what I expected it to be. 

Happy Place

Happy place
Need to be at my happy place
No ember; no grill
No death breaking our will
You smell of roses; so tender and sweet
Inside you, death shall I cheat.
Your eyes; they say something else,
I often wonder if I,
No, I always wonder if I were Galileo's shells.

Am I that far away, honey?
Or am I oh so close that I could kiss your fingers?
I shake hands with sanity, but in vain
Your lips shaking, that's some knock -off to pain.

You'd think I'd suffer from your blows
That my carcass would be infested by your crows
But I already told you my potion sweetie,
Happy place,
Need to be at a happy place.
Well I'm at mine,
Or is it the same as yours?
Honey?
Is that you hanging from the ceiling?

~ Sameeul Amin Dhrubo

An Ode to my Writer’s block

Blank page.

Staring. 

Words. 

Backspace.

Torn hair.

I take up a pen,

Perhaps a little feel to the method,

Will get the ink rolling.

Blank page,

Random scribbling. 

There’s this little person in my head,

He drinks from his cup of anxiety 

When he wants to stay up at night.

His midnight snack is almost always 

Two servings of depression. 

Insomnia is just another word for creative hour. 

Happiness, 

That’s something I’ve been feeling lately,

It’s a weird feeling,

Really. 

I don’t understand it,

I dance when I walk down the street,

And for once

I am smiling while having a conversation with someone.

Happiness, 

Is just another word, 

For the door,

To the house of that little person in my head.

No, scratch that, 

It’s not a door, 

It’s a wall. 

Happiness is the wall that keeps the creativity away. 

When I’m saying I am happy, 

I’m also saying that I haven’t written in a while,

And if I haven’t written in a while, 

I haven’t received my weekly dose of validation. 

Without my weekly dose of validation, 

I don’t know if I matter enough.

I feel like,

Everyone around me 

Is always in motion, 

I feel like,

They are more noticeable than me, 

I feel like, 

If I stopped moving,

If I just stood still,

I’d fade into the crowd and be forgotten. 

My happiness, 

Is a cloud in my head, 

It rains on creativity’s paper,

But it does not refill the inkwell of passion.

If you made a venn diagram,

For the number of people with mental illnesses,

And the number of creative geniuses around you, 

They most certainly overlap,

To the point where it blends into one. 

I think what I’m saying is,

Being happy takes away from me,

More than it gives. 

I think what I’m trying to say is,

My mental disabilities are what make me unique,

And the countless times I’ve been told to grow a pair,

Or change my tampon,

Has made me into something I am not. 

See what I’m saying is,

I think my happiness makes me,

Average.

Turbulence

In the belly of this huge beast, 

I look out, 

The heavens spread across as far as the eye can see, 

The clouds streaming along in ridges, 

The sun setting in the background, 

The metal engine roaring louder than the music blaring into my ears. 

I'm traveling alone, 

A book in hand, 

Little to worry about, 

Little to lose. 

All of a sudden, 

My flight bumps up and down, 

The bumping does not stop, 

The metal cage rattling, 

For a brief moment, 

I tell myself, 

Fuck, 

Well, 

If I'm going to meet my maker today, 

At least I'm dressed well for the occasion, 

First impressions matter. 

The old dude next to me, 

Grasps on to the seat in front of him, 

I notice him mumbling a prayer, 

The seatbelt sign is switched on all of a sudden, 

And I say again, 

Fuck, 

This time a little louder, 

The bearded dude stares a bit, 

Probably judging me for my profane language. 

But then I go quiet, 

He goes back to his prayers, 

This time his hand crossed.

I noticed him before the flight took off, 

He was showing pictures of his little daughter, 

To the man next to him, 

He then sends a selfie to his wife, 

And when she doesn't respond, 

He calls her, 

Tells her that he loves her and to pray for his safe return. 

It all seemed, 

Very sweet, 

His brows now crunched, 

His face tense, 

While I sit here writing a poem about how

I am ready to meet my maker, 

I wonder how it feels, 

To fear losing your life,

Not because you're afraid of death, 

But because you're afraid of what you will leave behind here. 

1971

The liberation war of 1971,

Is like an old band-aid,

The wound under which is yet to heal.

Whenever I ask my mother about it, 

I can see the expression on her face visibly change,

Her pale face,

Usually painted with a smile-

Shifting into a red

Mostly of rage,

And somewhat of her inability to have done something about it.

In some corner of this country in a remote village

A man teaches a class of fifth graders,

His orange beard swaying their interest more than his lecture does.

The children shudder at the sound off metal and the thudding of bodies,

Falling to the floor,

Sounds they had never heard before. 

The kind man, 

Father of seven,

Looks into the unsure eyes of the boy staring at him,

Looking,

For some reassurance, 

The boy finds the hollow of his own eyes reflected right back at him.

In a quiet corner of the city,

The nurse whispers,

It’s a girl. 

Her cries muffled by the cloth stuck to her mouth. 

In that dimly lit cabin, 

In the dark abandoned hallways of the hospital,

The newborn with her mother hidden under the hospital bed,

Her brothers standing guard,

But for what?

They cannot fend themselves from the monsters strutting about,

Clad in green-

AK-47 in hand

Shooting into crowds of civilians,

Raping and killing women,

Snatching little children from their mother’s arms,

Like tearing cacti off of the soft arms that tuck you in at night.

Somewhere in the middle of the city,

A small boy

Not old enough to know any fear other than his angry mother telling him to finish his supper

Hides in his closet behind his father’s coats

His eyes peering through the crack in the closet,

Not wanting to watch but also

Unable to tear his eyes away from what is happening in front him,

Tears held back by a thin sheet of the fear,

Radiating from his chest all through his body,

Witnesses the boogeymen undress his mother

As they drop her to the floor,

His father’s soulless body next to hers,

As they muffle her whimpers

Until they can only be heard in his head. 

This cycle spread across the entire country, 

A plague of the will for dominance that rules the hearts of men-

We stand today on our own feet with pride,

Yet the scars on our feet 

From the thorns that we had walked on,

Have not yet healed. 

Born from the blood smeared on the lush fields of green,

Under blue skies of white patches.

Never has a blue sky been more deceiving.

Morning Tea

I am sipping my morning tea

In the streets of Dhaka

Where the thoughts 

Of the young and old come blending

Like two rivers crashing into each other

Before one wins and flows with the strength of two

The people around me are sipping their tea and reading the paper.

The headline reads 

The boy who cried rape

The man next to me,

Probably in his early twenties

Probably aware of everything wrong with this world

But probably too ignorant to care,

Remarks 

Why is he complaining?

He probably liked it

In saying so 

The others around him agreed. 

I sit there in silence 

Sipping my tea. 

I have no opinion to share.

See,

These people were quick to say

That the boy probably liked it 

When his maid clutched his arms,

They believe

The boy had no problem getting on top of the maid,

They focus on the fact that

The boy got to see a naked girl.

And that they’d love to be the one who isn’t doing all the forceful work

For a change. 

But they disregard the fact that,

I was only four years old.

The disregard the fact that 

I did not know what was going on,

They do not pay heed to the fact that I was too young to know what consent was.

They do not care that I did not know

That this was not normal. 

I am 18 years old now,

I now know what consent is,

But I did not consent to these nightmares,

I did not consent to the guilt I feel every time I have an erection.

I am 18 years old

And I still remember my rapist’s face,

I remember her forceful grip 

And her angry face.

I remember that she did it more than once.

I do not get to complain

4 year old me probably liked it.

I do not get to complain,

I do not get therapy sessions 

Or counseling 

Neither do  I get to forget,

I only get to know

That I probably liked it.  

Emotions

In a few generations,
Grandma's amazing cooking
Will have become a myth-
Because it would be perceived as too sexist an idea.
Or because women in our generation perceive it as sexist to perfect the art of cooking.
And I'm not saying it's a bad thing,
Or a good thing,
For that matter,
Only that it's a sad thing.

You know what's the biggest delusion we feed ourselves?
It's that the three thousand Facebook friends we have,
Actually give a fuck about that chicken parmesan you ate for lunch.

I think I've forgotten how to write poetry,
Or how to write,
Or how to fucking think about anything,
Without smoking a packet of cigarettes every day.

I am spit balling random ideas
On a blank screen,
Hoping that I strike gold
And write something beautiful.
But I can't,
Or mostly am not willing to.

Writing for me involves emotions,
My poetry is my emotions in the form of flesh,
Breathed life into by the blood of my inner self,
That I now lock away behind closed doors,
The keys to which I don't want to look for anymore.

My emotions,
Require me to feel,
And I don't want to feel,
When I am feeling,
I am mostly crying;
When I am feeling,
I am mostly imagining the people around me dying.

The people around me die in my dreams,
And then they come back to me inside dreams within those dreams,
And their accusing finger points at me as the reason for their eternal damnation.

I am not who I used to be,
Music no longer has the ability to make me feel,
I no longer cry at the thought of what I've lost,
I only lose myself in the regret of having things which I can some day lose.

All my emotions,
Are on a piece of paper,
They are personal,
But I will probably show it to people,
Because I know they don't care enough to judge that I put myself out there,
To be judged by them.

Random thoughts,
Random music,
Random existence.