Sazal Biswas

Sazal Biswas 🌀 Writing under the pen name Sazal Biswas — Poet, Dreamer & Seeker of Silence, Weaver of Words.In every whisper, a truth. In every line, a longing.

Author of Whispers of Heart, where poetry meets the quiet ache of love, loss, and life’s small miracles.

15/08/2026

āϏāϜāϞ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹ ?

āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹â€”
āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ•āĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋ ?
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āϝ⧇āύ āĻĒ⧁āϰ⧋āύ⧋ āĻĻāĻŋāύ⧇āϰ
āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āϧ⧁āϞ⧋ āϜāĻŽā§‡ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āϜāĻžāύāĻžāϞāĻžâ€”
āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āφāϞ⧋ āĻĸā§‹āϕ⧇ āϖ⧁āĻŦ āĻ•āĻŽ,
āĻ•āĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧁ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋāϰāĻž āĻĸā§‹āϕ⧇ āĻ…āĻŦāĻžāϧ⧇āĨ¤
āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻĒ⧁āϰ⧋āύ⧋ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋāϰāĻž āĻŽāύ⧇āϰ āĻ—āĻšā§€āύ⧇
āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰ āĻā§‹ā§œā§‹ āĻŦā§āϝāĻĨāĻž āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āϜāĻŽā§‡ āφāϛ⧇āĨ¤
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ āĻŋāĻ• āϝ⧇āύ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻšāϞ⧁āĻĻ
āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āϝāĻžāĻ“ā§ŸāĻž āĻĒ⧁āϰ⧋āύ⧋ āϚāĻŋāĻ āĻŋāϰ āĻŽāĻ¤ā§‹â€”
āϝāĻž āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§œā§‹ āφāϰ āϤāĻžāϰ
āĻŽāĻžāĻā§‡ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϕ⧇ āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āϖ⧁āρāĻœā§‡ āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āĨ¤

āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹â€”
āĻŦāĻŋāĻļ⧇āώ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϏ⧇āχ āĻĻāĻŋāύāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡
āϝ⧇āϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āφāϰ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻĢāĻŋāϰ⧇ āφāϏāĻŦ⧇ āύāĻžāĨ¤
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇āϰ āϕ⧋āϪ⧇ āφāĻŽāĻŋ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻŋ
āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻ™āĻž āĻšāĻžāϏāĻŋ, āĻ…āĻĒā§‚āĻ°ā§āĻŖ āĻ•āĻĨāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāϰ,
āφāϰ āĻ•āĻŋāϛ⧁ āύāĻžâ€‘āĻĒāĻžāĻ“ā§ŸāĻž āĻ•ā§āώāĻŽāĻž — āϝāĻž
āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāĻ–āύāĻ“ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āύāĻŋāĨ¤
āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āύ⧀āϰāĻŦ⧇ āĻĨ⧇āĻŽā§‡ āϝāĻžāĻ“â€”
āĻšā§ŸāϤ⧋ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϭ⧁āϞ āϏāĻŋāĻĻā§āϧāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ⧇āϰ āϏāĻžāĻŽāύ⧇,
āĻšā§ŸāϤ⧋ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āĻšāĻžāϰāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϝāĻžāĻ“ā§ŸāĻž āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ⧇āϰ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋāϤ⧇āĨ¤
āφāϰ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϏ⧇āχ āύāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŦā§āϧ āύ⧀āϰāĻŦāϤāĻž āĻšā§ƒāĻĻ⧟āϕ⧇
āĻ¸ā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āĻļ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤāϕ⧇ āφāĻŦāĻžāϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāĻŋāϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϤ⧋āϞ⧇āĨ¤

āϏāϜāϞ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻ­āĻžāϰ⧀ āĻšā§Ÿ,
āϝ⧇āύ āĻŦāĻšā§ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ⧇āϰ āϜāĻŽā§‡ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύ ?
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ­āϰāĻž āĻāĻŽāύ āĻāĻ• āϗ⧁āĻ°ā§â€‘āĻ—āĻŽā§āĻ­ā§€āϰ āύ⧀āϰāĻŦāϤāĻžā§Ÿ
āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻĒ⧃āĻĨāĻŋāĻŦā§€āϰ āϏāĻŦ āφāĻ“ā§ŸāĻžāϜ āĻĨ⧇āĻŽā§‡ āϝāĻžā§Ÿ āĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŦā§āϧāϤāĻžā§Ÿ
āφāϰ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŽāύāϟāĻžāχ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦāϞ⧇āĨ¤
āĻ“ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϚāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻžāϰ āφāĻ˛ā§‹â€‘āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϧāĻ•āĻžāϰ āϕ⧀āĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇
āϧ⧀āϰ⧇ āϧ⧀āϰ⧇ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻŦāĻĻāϞ⧇ āĻĻā§‡ā§ŸāĨ¤
āϝ⧇āύ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āϏāĻŽā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āωāĻ¤ā§āϤāϰ āϖ⧁āρāϜāϛ⧋
āϝāĻž āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻĻā§‡ā§ŸāύāĻŋ āĻāĻŦāĻ‚ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻĒāĻžāϰāĻŦ⧇āĻ“ āύāĻžāĨ¤

āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹â€”
āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ•āĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ­āĻžāϙ⧇, āύāĻžāĻ•āĻŋ āĻ—ā§œā§‡?
āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻāϤāϟāĻžāχ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰ āĻšā§Ÿ
āϝ⧇āύ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ⧇āχ āĻšāĻžāϰāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϝāĻžāĻ“āĨ¤
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāϟāĻŋ āϚāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻž āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻšā§ƒāĻĻā§Ÿā§‡āϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ
āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āύāϤ⧁āύ āĻĻāϰāϜāĻž āϖ⧁āϞ⧇ āĻĻā§‡ā§Ÿ, āφāϰ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ
āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇āϰ āϕ⧋āϪ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻ…āĻĻ⧃āĻļā§āϝ āφāϞ⧋ āĻœā§āĻŦāϞ⧇ āĻ“āϠ⧇
āϝāĻž āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϕ⧋āύ⧋ āϏāĻ¤ā§āϝ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻžāϛ⧇ āĻĒ⧌āρāϛ⧇ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻ•āϰ⧇
āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡āϛ⧇ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āϏāĻ™ā§āϗ⧇ āφāϰāĻ“ āϏāĻšāϜ āĻ“ āĻ¸ā§āĻŦāĻšā§āĻ›,
āϝāĻž āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻžāωāϕ⧇ āĻŦāϞāϤ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāϰ⧋ āύāĻžāĨ¤

āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹â€”
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āύāĻĻā§€, āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻā§œ,
āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āύāĻŋāσāĻļāĻŦā§āĻĻ āϰāĻžāϤ⧇āϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰāĨ¤
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻ­āĻžāϰ⧀ āĻšā§Ÿ,
āϝ⧇āύ āĻŦāĻšā§ āĻŦāĻ›āϰ⧇āϰ āϜāĻŽā§‡ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύ āĻšāĻ āĻžā§Ž
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŦ⧁āϕ⧇āϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āĻĻā§€āĻ°ā§āϘāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ āĻšā§Ÿā§‡ āĻ“āϠ⧇āĨ¤
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āϚāĻŋāĻ¨ā§āϤāĻžāϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻž āύāϰāĻŽ, āĻŽāĻžāύāĻŦāĻŋāĻ• āϏāĻ¤ā§āϝ āϞ⧁āĻ•āĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āφāĻ›ā§‡â€”
āϝ⧇ āϏāĻ¤ā§āϝ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŽāϤ⧋ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϏ⧁āĻ¨ā§āĻĻāϰ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϤ⧋āϞ⧇āĨ¤
āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ•ā§āϞāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇, āϤāĻŦ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϟ⧁ āĻĨ⧇āĻŽā§‡ āύāĻŋāσāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ āύāĻžāĻ“āĨ¤
āĻœā§‡āύ, āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻžāϰ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰāϤāĻžāχ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻ…āϏāĻžāϧāĻžāϰāĻŖ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϤ⧋āϞ⧇āĨ¤

āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹â€”
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻž āϏāĻŦāĻžāχāϕ⧇ āĻļ⧇āĻ–āĻžā§Ÿâ€”
āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻŋ āύ⧟,
āĻāϟāĻž āĻĒā§āϰāĻ¤ā§āϝ⧇āϕ⧇āϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ⧇āϰ āĻ…āĻĻ⧃āĻļā§āϝ āĻŽāĻžāύāϚāĻŋāĻ¤ā§āϰ,
āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āϭ⧁āϞāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āĻĒāĻĨ āĻĻ⧇āĻ–āĻžā§Ÿ, āφāϰ
āĻšāĻžāϰāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āϝāĻžāĻ“ā§ŸāĻž āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώāϗ⧁āϞ⧋ āϝ⧋āĻ—āĻžā§Ÿ āϏāĻžāĻšāϏ āĻ“ āĻ­āϰāϏāĻžāĨ¤
āφāϰ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦāύāĻžāϰ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰāϤāĻž
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āφāϞāĻžāĻĻāĻž āĻĻ⧃āĻˇā§āϟāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āϤ⧁āϞ⧇ āϧāĻ°ā§‡â€”
āĻ•āĻžāϰāĻŖ āϝ⧇ āĻŽāĻžāύ⧁āώ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϰ āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤāϕ⧇ āĻāĻ­āĻžāĻŦ⧇
āĻ¸ā§āĻĒāĻ°ā§āĻļ āĻ•āϰ⧇, āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋āχ āϏāĻžāϧāĻžāϰāĻŖ āĻšā§Ÿ āύāĻžāĨ¤

āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāϤ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻ­āĻžāĻŦā§‹â€”
āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤ āĻ•āĻŋ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āĻŸā§‡āύ⧇ āϧāϰ⧇ āϰāĻžāϖ⧇ ?
āύāĻžāĻ•āĻŋ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āχ āĻĢāĻŋāϰ⧇ āϝāĻžāĻ“
āϏ⧇āχ āĻĒ⧁āϰ⧋āύ⧋ āĻĻāϰāϜāĻžāϰ āϏāĻžāĻŽāύ⧇,
āϝ⧇āĻ–āĻžāύ⧇ āĻāĻ•āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻšāĻžāϏāĻŋ āĻ›āĻŋāϞ āϏāĻŦāĻšā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡ āωāĻœā§āĻœā§āĻŦāϞ ?
āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āĻ•āĻ–āύ⧋ āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤ⧇āϰ āĻ­āĻžāϰ āĻ•ā§āϞāĻžāĻ¨ā§āϤ āĻ•āϰ⧇, āϤāĻŦ⧇
āĻŦā§‹āĻā§‹ āϝ⧇ āĻ…āϤ⧀āϤ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ—āϤ, āφāϰ āĻ­āĻŦāĻŋāĻˇā§āĻ¯ā§Ž, āϝāĻž
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻœā§€āĻŦāύ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻĨāϚāĻŋāĻšā§āύ āĻ“ āĻĒāĻžāĻĨā§‡ā§Ÿ, āϤāĻž āĻāĻ–āύ
āĻ…āĻĒ⧇āĻ•ā§āώāĻžā§Ÿ āφāϛ⧇, āφāϰ āϤāĻžāχ āĻāĻ–āύ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻāĻ•āĻž āĻšāĻžāρāĻŸā§‹
āφāϰ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāϟāĻŋ āĻĒāĻĻāĻ•ā§āώ⧇āĻĒ⧇ āύāĻŋāĻœā§‡āϕ⧇ āύāϤ⧁āύ āĻ•āϰ⧇ āĻĒāĻžāĻ“āĨ¤
......āϏāϜāϞ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ......(āĻ…āĻ°ā§āϧ⧇āĻ¨ā§āĻĻ⧁ āĻļ⧇āĻ–āϰ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ).......

🌙 āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāϛ⧋  ?                   — āϏāϜāϞ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ----āύāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŦā§āϧ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰ āϰāĻžāϤ⧇,āϝāĻ–āύ āϚāĻžāϰāĻĒāĻžāĻļ āϘ⧁āĻŽā§‡ āφāĻšā§āĻ›āĻ¨ā§āύ,āφāĻŽāĻŋ āϤāĻ–āύāĻ“ āĻāĻ• āĻĒā§āϰ...
06/08/2026

🌙 āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāϛ⧋ ?
— āϏāϜāϞ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ----

āύāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āϤāĻŦā§āϧ āĻ—āĻ­ā§€āϰ āϰāĻžāϤ⧇,
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āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāϛ⧋ ?

āĻāχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύ⧇āϰ āϭ⧇āϤāϰ⧇āχ
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āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž
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āĻ āĻāĻ• āύ⧀āϰāĻŦ āĻĒā§āϰāϤāĻŋāĻļā§āϰ⧁āϤāĻŋ—
āϝ⧇ āĻ…āĻ¨ā§āϧāĻ•āĻžāϰ⧇āϰāĻ“ āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻĻāĻŋāĻ• āφāϛ⧇
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āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāĻ›ā§‹â€”
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āĻāĻ•āϟāĻŋ āĻ…āĻĻ⧃āĻļā§āϝ āφāĻ•āĻžāĻļāĨ¤

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āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāϛ⧋ āĻ•āĻŋ āϏāϜāϞ ?
āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āĻĨāĻžāĻ•āĻž āĻŽāĻžāύ⧇āχ
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āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāĻ›ā§‹â€”
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āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāϛ⧋ āϜāĻžāύāϞ⧇,
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āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϕ⧇ āύ⧟, āĻāχ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύāϟāĻž
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āϤāĻžāχ āφāĻŦāĻžāϰāĻ“ āĻĒā§āϰāĻļā§āύ āĻ•āϰāĻŋ —
āϏāϜāϞ, āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻœā§‡āϗ⧇ āφāϛ⧋?

— āϏāϜāϞ āĻŦāĻŋāĻļā§āĻŦāĻžāϏ

30/08/2025

SALICAL

The Saturday air clung to their skin like a damp shawl
as Susanta and Santi navigated the chaos of the local
market. Their cloth bags bulged with the week’s
necessities—grains, greens, and a fragrant box of
sweets perched like a crown atop the pile.. -- As they
stood near the sweet shop, Santi had thoughtfully
picked up a small container of SALICAL, an ointment
from the Pharmacy for their maid, Minu, who had
been complaining of a persistent rash on her arms.
Santi handed the ointment to Susant “Hold this for a
moment,” she said, balancing two heavy bags. “Don’t
crush it under the groceries.”
Susanta took the small container absentmindedly. “Got
it. Safe and sound,” he said, slipping it into his pants pocket.
Back home, Susanta went upstairs to change. After
freshening up, he hung his pants and T-shirt on the
hooks behind the bedroom door and came down clad in
a fresh nightdress, settling into his living room sofa
in the ground floor and in front of the television
, engrossed in an action movie. The surround sound
roared with explosions and dramatic music
In the meantime, Santi began unpacking the groceries,
placing each item in its proper place. Santi, still busy
in the kitchen, suddenly paused. She looked around,
then called out from the first floor.
“Susanta!” she called. “Where’s the ointment I gave
you?” Susanta: (without taking his eyes off the screen) “Check
my pant pocket! I kept it there.”
Santi went upstairs and searched both the side pockets
of the hanging pants, and she snapped "Nothingâ€Ļ..It’s
not here!”.
“Must be. I put it there,” Susanta replied, distracted.
Shanti’s voice rose. “You always do this! One small
thing I ask, and it vanishes. How can you be so
careless?”
Susanta muted the TV and looked up “I’m sure I kept it.
Maybe you missed it?”
“Missed it?” Santi frowned. “I checked properly. You’ve
probably lost it. This is exactly why I don’t hand you
small things.”
Susanta sighed. “Maybe it’s in the grocery bag?”
“I already emptied everything. It’s not there.”
A pause. Then Santi muttered, half to herself, half to
him:
“No, no. It’s gone. I will be embarrassed as I have said
Minu, I will give her the skin ointment tomorrow.”
Susanta tried to calm her. “Don’t bother too much—if it
is lost, I will buy one.”
Santi turned sharply. “You always say that. As if
money solves everything.”
Then, with a sharper edge: “You never feel bad for
your mistakes and utter as if you own the Mint.”
Susanta didn’t argue. He knew better than to challenge
Santi when she was in this mood fury came in waves—
sharp, sudden, and lingering.
Over the next two days, the missing ointment became a
recurring theme in her commentary.
While sipping tea: “I should’ve known better than to
trust you with anything small.”
While folding clothes: “You know, you’ve become so
forgetful lately. It’s worrying.”
While taking lunch: “I should’ve just kept it myself.
You’re not reliable with small things anymore.”
While chopping onions: “If only someone had kept the
ointment properlyâ€Ļ”
While watching TV serial: “I should’ve known better
than to trust you with anything small.”
Susanta bore it all in silence. He felt guilty, belittled,
and helpless. He didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t
remember exactly what he’d done with the ointment.
Then came Monday morning. Susanta was getting
ready to go out. He reached for the same pants hanging
behind the door. As he slid his hand into his hip pocket,
his fingers touched something smooth and round. He
paused. Pulled it out. There it was—the elusive
ointment. SALICAL, perfectly intact. A slow smile
crept across his face. He walked downstairs, holding
the container like a trophy.
“Santi,” he said gently. “Look what I found.”
She turned, surprised. “What’s that?”
“SALICAL,” he said, holding it up like a magician
revealing a long-lost coin. “Turns out it was hiding in
the hip pocket.”
“You never mentioned that pocket,” she said, raising an
eyebrow “You never asked,” he grinned.
Her lips twitched, betraying a smile she tried to
suppress. “Next time,” she said, “I’m keeping it myself.”
“Agreed,” Susanta laughed. “My pockets are like
Bermuda Triangles.”
They both laughed, the tension finally melting away.
Since the Bermuda Triangle had coughed up its
treasure. Peace, for now, was restored.
â€Ļâ€Ļ.Sazal Biswas;..............

(based on a real-life incident)

06/08/2025

My dearest DADO,
Knowing your achievement of Black Belt level in Karate, my heart swelled with elation—a joy that words can barely express.
I’ve tried to capture my feelings in the poem below.
May you soar even higher.
With all my love,
DADO

For DADO--My Granddaughter, With Pride

The world may see her as a little girl,
But I know her spirit which is full
Of religious training and discipline
Which will, in anywhere, ensure her win.

On the day of competition, she, with smile,
Walked in the ‘Karate Arena’ and with gentle
Bow stood in the row and, calm and quiet
Waited for the Judges
to ask her to start

In quiet stance she took her place,
A ribbon tied, a calm, bright face.
Small in frame but fierce in soul,
Wearing the keikogi, she knew her goal

Each kata flews like stormy winds,
Precision laced with mindful ease.
Her fists, though small, are steel and flame,
And each strike made the rival numb and tame.

She kicked, she span, she held her ground,
Like thunder cloaked in silence found.
With discipline her dreams took the flight,
A worthy warrior is born of love and delight.
===DADO===

04/08/2025

đŸŒŋ Teaser for "HOPE" by Sazal Biswas
"When the world feels heavy and shadows linger, let this poem be your quiet sanctuary. 'HOPE' is a journey through sorrow, resilience, and the unwavering spark within us all. A tribute to every soul that dares to rise, again and again."
—Read, feel, and rise with us.

"HOPE
In the quiet twilight of troubled days,
A silent ember kindles deep in our hearts,
A spark defying the weight of despair,
Guiding us onward with relentless hope.

When loss and sorrow steal the light,
Every falling tear nurtures hidden dreams,
Carving strength from anguish and strife,
Illuminating our path with radiant light.

Even as past failures cast long shadows,
A tender yearning for renewal persists,
Every ending cradle a chance to begin again,
Heralding the promise of a fresh dawn.

In the chaos where doubts obscure our sky,
A quiet courage awakens from within,
Drawing wisdom from each painful trial,
Anchoring us in steadfast, unyielding faith.

Through the storms that shake our inner ground,
Resilience echoes in each determined breath,
The spirit, untethered, finds new boundless space,
Lifting higher still—to once again soar

From the ruins of dreams once marred by defeat,
Gentle buds of promise begin to spread,
Each scar transforming into fertile ground,
Where patience nurtures blossoms as they bloom.

In the lingering chill of a lingering night,
Hearts unite in defiant, quiet refrain,
Each pulse a reminder of rising strength,
Together we gather and boldly rise.

As each trying day softens into quiet reflection,
We welcome tomorrow with arms open wide,
Every challenge refined into a cherished lesson,
Life unfolds anew in a warm, sincere embrace.
—Sazal Biswas—"

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