Toys – then and now

So the picture you see here is not only an art or meditation of balancing stones but also a game we were fond of. Consider it as one of the toys we played. Toys in our days were real, made us active and let us exercise more, both mind and body. This little game still help us to shape and balance our lives with persistence.
We played with stones stacked up to make it fall with a ball by one team and the task of the other team was to re-balance the stones back to its previous place with the danger of receiving the ball that ousted them out from the game. And the ball too made up of crumbled paper wrapped with a polythene, tightened with a few rubber bands to give it a firm and circular shape. We even put small pebbles to make the ball more heavy. But that animosity would fall upon us with a hard hit we received on our back. Ouch! The sharp and short pain….Those hand made balls were so precious. But we as small children would lose the ball by accident under the huge stone. Clearly do we remember the pile of balls that rolled down the road like a river when that stone was cut into pieces. But by that time, we had grown up and so were our tiny toys. No more precious… Time change but change is constant. Our toys were stones, pebbles, pieces of colourful bangles that we kept in small bottles as if they were diamonds; marbles and how can I forget the green leaves tied up to form chungis that made our legs hop on each counting.
The circle of rubber pipes, the sticks and steels, the piece of wood with wheels joined on each corner steering down the winding hills winning both pleasure and wounds. Those winter afternoon with gangs of children carrying long bamboo sticks with a mission to strike the leftover oranges from the orchards, one child hitting the orange, others standing in every possible direction, below the mother terrace concentrating on the fallen fruit as if it was a cricket match, sometimes caught, sometimes missed.
We were among those children.
We lived our childhood
We merged with earth…….
Years later….
I see the children
Locked inside
The doors, windows and screen
Clean, tidy
Playing virtual reality.

© Timeandreflections.


One of my treasures from the school days. The joy of breaking 🐖 bank, carrying whatever amount we had with us, leading our way to Chowrastha till we entered Oxford…These books in school days, a variety of shows in history and discovery channel + a show in Disney channel so much inspired me to grasp the knowledge that science offered. With such a fantasy did I take up science after my madhyamik after all I had a 96 in physics.
Our school library did offer us a good deal of books and every Friday we were allowed to carry them back home. I can never forget the entire classes we had on Helen Keller with Miss Jennifer. One year earlier she had introduced us to Anne Frank. I had then bought the book, The Diary of a Young Girl; also enjoyed the documentary aired on History channel. It was during Nepali exam that we were asked to write an essay on the recent book you studied. And I had so much in my head about this book that I painted them well in my paper and Miss Namita did tell me how well I had written. My dearest moments.

And yes time has brought me to a day where I love science no less but literature the more….

The lantern

My fingers tasted the kerosene

The smell dripped inside the head, my mouth,

Silent as the evening sound knocked my ears

Whispers, voices, noises,

From houses and forests

Grandma’s wrinkles smiles

Her every breath,

Slowly vaporizes the glass

A piece of cloth, my little hands to wipe,

The evening pushed

the sun beneath the horizon

And Mumma pulled

the metal hook to fit the glass in its frame,

A match she striked on the surface

And ignited each wick,

In every room she placed

5,6,..8,9… we assisted…

Time’s smooth waves has surfaced us

To-a-day of sophistication preserved in abundance

Even the walls of our home or the air outside is chained up in wires,

Still the crinkling sound is heard

Sometimes somewhere from antiquity,

9,8…6,5 erased and left with 2 or 1

May be only one

Only one lantern old and anchored in my grandma’s room.




Fair whale I

It is impossible to tell how my journey or your journey was starting from the 1st January 2018. It was an incredible journey of love, happiness, loss and sorrow. And when someone asks you. How was your 2018? We end up saying, “It was good”. We hardly describe the tumultuous ride we had for 365 1/4th days. The long hours we spent sleeping, working, eating, running, laughing and even crying. But we are the same person yet changed in so many ways. Shed are those shells we wore in that old year. And today standing on the threshold, we all are about to do the same. Who would have thought that my year would be like this or like that. And so many hopes and aspirations are seeded on the floor and we wait for their germination. Patience……

I have learnt so many things. Yes so many things. New experiences, new faces, new phases to become history and in my case his-story to her-story, my story. 

The experience of teaching was by far the best. For the whole year I mothered myself. I became my mother for the whole year. And I certainly think I passed….

From waking up early in the morning, preparing breakfast and lunch; washing clothes to doing dishes, taking medicines at home to visiting doctors in the clinic; Carrying myself dressed as a teacher, helping myself sometimes with Kohl pencil or with some coloured lipstick to look mature. Getting on the school bus that took a long ride of like 45 mins to reach the school which now was my workplace and second home to the students, learning new things every single day.

The most tough part was when I was given the responsibility of class 8. The first time I entered the class, every one was silent even the wall. I could see few girls and boys all at around the age of 13-14. It was a tough task to be dealing with adolescents, I knew. I then began with my introduction and asked them to follow the same. Everyone looked shy and awkward, except the fact that they smiled looking at my face. Residing in North Bengal, with different features and colours than the majority of people in this region, students even asked me if I was a Chinese. I smiled and said, “I am from Darjeeling” and they understood immediately. It didn’t take much time to adjust their language with mine. They smiled till the class ended, even uttered some Nepali words.

Time passes and it passed, who can held Time’s running hand. Who can chase her everyday, who can meet her everyday. And Time yes it flies changing every constant thing. 

With Time we became comfortable in the presence of each other in one single room. Change was constant except the walls that stared at us. I teaching, them listening, I scolding, them laughing, I uttering, them silent yet thinking. Sometimes they created nonsensical jokes, sometimes the same faces looked dull, something untold. I was strict especially with the boys. Still I opened the doors of my ears to listen to their unsung, unheard stories, giving suggestions when necessary. 

They learned from me and I learnt from them. I noticed that the world was a galaxy of storytellers. I noticed the world was a little I and a big them. I noticed that I was just a small tiny fish with flesh and net caging around me, with big and large ‘Whale’ of stories swirling and waving around me, many of them decaying under the weight of brown dry mud, pebbles, bushes and trees, departing from the connections they built so far when the breathed. I wish if this snowy winter could freeze the year forever or even the infinite time, but no, it can’t… And surely we do not want the same season to cast it’s magic forever, because our genes are accustomed to the constant change, mutability, mortality, so on and so forth.

“If winter comes, can spring be far behind”. So with stream of memories knitted beautifully, not only me but everyone will be bidding FAREWELL to the year 2018 whose FAIR- WHALE of stories and storytellers somewhat modified and mutated our growth.

It was like the same old days repeating it’s same usual speed, and I woke up tired to cross a path inch to reach the door leading to my bathroom. The sun slowly began to smile, as if she was playing a game of hide and seek, 12 hours a day and 12 hours a night. She blushed and turned the clouds nearby her, all red and scarlet, slowly trying to open her eyes, still filled with the softness she had left with….



Every eye is a mystery

Every eye has a creative fantasy

Every eye has created its journey

Sometimes rational

Sometimes superstitious

Sometimes fictional, sometimes a liar

Every eye has its  deleted story

To walk, to work, 

To talk, to learn,

Mobile and laptops

Tablets or iphones

Eyes, poor  little eyes


Spectacles or lens

More pressure


Until it reaches its expiry date

And earth?

She remains blinded

Blurred with 

billion eyes.

Be Aware

“Beware of Dogs”

No, I am not afraid of them

Nor with the barking dogs

In the street

I am afraid

More terrified

For the flowers

Blooming in every house

Flowers still inside that

Pristine bud

So today I throw out the board

Hanging outside my house 

Where it’s written

“Beware of Dogs”…

Instead I put another one

And I write with my blood

‛Beware, Beware’

Beware of the Mask they wear because

They do not say, “you are such a sweet  little girl when they Rape.”

They do not care about your age or your sweet innocent smile

Because they are a carnivore with a human dress

All they want is 

To feed upon your flesh

So I shout

 Beware, Beware 

Just be Aware

Less of animals

More of the humans

Walking by your way.

#JusticeforAsifa #justice

“I just want to end this write up with a short prayer. Dear God don’t put away your eyes from the little gems on the earth. Please, keep them under your safe shadow. May they always bloom safely in each home….”


​I wear a bra that delights their sight and troubles me more

A bra that tortures and imprison my chest

A bra necessary to provide a shape.

I wear a bra that focuses my feminity ,my cleavage

A bra that locks the first layer of a female skin

A bra that channelises a mother’s love to every child after birth…..

But I wear a bra that has suffered every dark roads, sometimes inside the safe home

Yes! We wear a bra that they wish to unlock.

A bra that dresses  but undress their lustful thoughts

A a bra that is critical
A bra that is censorious

I had once thought 

Of giving farewell to my bra 

That asked me not to step outside the women’s room….

Today the same body accepts my bra affectionately

A bra that is well experience, understanding patriarchy and the female strength,

A bra that confirms the vital difference

A bra that affirms the existence of a womb, its significance

A bra that defines our sexuality

A bra that illustrates our individuality



Do you know?

That inside me rests a chaos

Like a galaxy in the space

Like the diverse species of plants on earth

Co-existing without a battle for soil, religion or race..

It is there like the varied words weaving to produce a melody

The chaos rests deep down inside my skin

Like the million atoms present but invisible

to the sinful eyes….

But do not panic

They are at rest

And at perfect peace.

Thank you all for taking time to read my poetry.

"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect"