The Shape of Waiting
My lord knows my tale,
how the heart races;
faster than it dares to sound.
I greet each day with a quiet resolve,
and stood at the threshold to watch;
when another leaf releases its hold.
The gallows of my life,
still carries your outline.
Before a cracked mirror,
time stretches endlessly.
I stood there,
awaiting
as if waiting itself;
is a silent devotion to me.
The sea speaks in hushed syllables,
pressed in between the barren pages.
Time stretches a tale;
only to part it again.
I’ve ventured far,
where fate refused my name.
Where escape feels closer;
though never arrived yet.
My wounds remember you,
even when memories faded away.
I’ve lost, not to be emptied;
but to understand the cost of gain.
Hope aligns itself quietly,
echoes when none answers.
I stand there still,
not broken;
only alone.
Home, Perhaps
When I returned home,
I cared for the world
a little more.
Though the venture left me weary,
but the soul dared;
to name the world, my home.
When I walked through the empty rooms,
hollowness greeted me before.
In between those fading echoes;
silence gently hugs me.
I drew the curtains aside,
and found the plant of my love
dead, yet carefully planted,
as if they’d survived;
without breath.
I wonder,
what restrains this body,
from giving love;
precisely, when it’s least deserved?
The old telephone lies lifeless,
dialer dusted into memories.
Whom should I dial,
when longing answers first?
Who’ll whisper gently,
“Hey?”
Barren rooms hold,
the silage of my past.
What I once cherished ,
now stand untouched;
almost feared.
Outside, the city gathers,
enters quietly,
blurring the distance;
between living and leaving.
A dust veiled frame,
I wipe it with tears.
Not to remember them in the paradox,
but to remain to be.
And to the world beyond these walls
I’m here,
behind the city chaos.
Softly caged,
inside a place;
they say,
home.
Mythos
It’s sacred to tread beyond the animals,
and to reach a distant shore
where chaos may finally cease.
Yet the watchful, vulture eyed,
stand guarded and claim it;
culture.
One must not seek mercy,
nor do they seek a truth once spoken.
Instead, they cloak themselves
in their garments of religion;
alas, the hour has arrived at the door.
You may argue it endlessly,
Though one must remain to choose:
Flowers or flesh?
Butchers of the tide
they spill their practiced lies.
And will ask your tongue to taste;
the stain they leave behind.
Tell me then:
will your morals rise above dignity ;
or, will fall beneath it?
What if the Roti isn’t Round?
I grow weary of hiding it,
age has taught me its ways.
Yet you ask me again
as always,
for another one;
another round roti.
What if it isn’t?
Sometimes I dare to ask.
I remember my twenties,
when they carried bags full of hope.
My rotis were neither soft nor round
and the scars of those days;
followed me home.
Perhaps, I will not blame fate anymore,
nor promise the same effort again.
Within these four walls
grief has hardened and settled.
Yet, something in me remains;
unbroken.
What if my roti never comes round?
They misunderstood the soul,
but none came close enough to ask.
I sat alone in the room,
where someone was meant to be.
And to you
asking for nothing,
is already a gift.
For at the end of the day
all you want;
is your rotis perfectly round.
The chulha breathes steam,
its flames sting my eyes.
No one ever asked why!
My vision slowly blurs now,
perhaps from the smoke,
perhaps, from something else.
Someone is slowly fading here,
Yet, all the world desires;
is a perfect circle of bread.
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About the Author
Siddh Dutta,20, is from Kolkata; he is currently pursuing B. Com (Honours) along with CMA as his profession. While his works chiefly explore solitude, inheritance, and human experience, drawing from India’s cultural landscape, they also capture ordinary emotions revealing deeper truths about belonging and resilience. An alumnus of St. Xavier’s, Panihati, and former intern at Kolkata Literary Meet (2026), Siddh reads and researches Indian poetry, understanding its traditions and voices and have worked earlier with some reputed literary magazines. He continues to write, reflecting on contemporary life, personal memory, and intimate spaces, shaping his literary curiosity and voice.
