Self-indulging resilience always submerged the hipster’s mind

Buy joy headed anti-hedonist never got allured

Because he already decorated his mind

With the last banquet of his life

That angel-headed knows

Life always shrinking

Like a joint

Glared in




Lucidity might grow after all these cleansing

Cleansing of heart, sheer lust and a bobcat of the mind

All could be labeled as nuisance at this stage of cyclotron

Even the dangling tongue that had been sucking the earth

For the salty taste of suckling love features only shuddering nights

Halo of the futile hell also handcuffed you through the antenna of your mind

And you subsequently took allegiance on that futility of haze-crazed by maze

But when you realized that you’ve been fallin’ from this magnolia heaven of haven

Certainly you’ve been glided throughout the panorama as a kite and the concealed freedom


Why Osho is confusing for the beginner?

I’m a great admirer of Osho’s writings and philosophy precisely his books on meditations. And in fact, what I’ve achieved today through the meditative mental state that had started from one of the Osho’s iconic book called “Zen and the art of living”.

But if I assert I had earned knowledge from that book on the one hand but I have to ensure that I’ve also been wasted my time at that time on the other hand.

I studied his books not to strive to become one of his followers but to be a meditative person. Off course I learned many tricks from his books and one of the best tricks that I’ve learned from him is that “There is no theory in meditation just look into your inside as you look round the outside world and concentrate…….”  But he confused me in many ways for instance when he says, ‘forget your mind’……. As a beginner, it was really shocking indeed and it has been arguably uttered in many ways.

To forget mind is not an easy step for the general people because it needs a proper guide and endless endurance. In order to add an antonym for the beginner I would like to say, – just forget your body instead of mind!

Death of a great mind of our generation

After a few weeks, I called my mentor and I got shocked while I heard the news of his dead. Actually it’s been two weeks since Mahmudul Hassan died a prolific chess player, organizer, probably the best mind of our generation.

It was 1985 when we meet first in our high school yard. I was in class nine and he could be in eleven or twelve class. But it took only a few hours to get close to each other. He thought me what is chess? He talked about Mikhail Taal, Bobby Fisher and many more. Gradually it had become a habituate for me to visit his resident for the sake of chess. I used to lend chess book written in completely Russian except the games records every time I visit his house. After a few weeks, I really turned into a Frankenstein and defeated him subsequently and thus made our friendship more effective.

After playing few games, we used to go for a walk while he used to talk about his dreams. The dreams of equality, dream of one world. He was a diehard communist at that and always thinks about Lennon’s Imagine, but I didn’t hear it yet. Suddenly he stopped short and saying, you know I should cross the border, I can’t stay here anymore.

The days were passing faster as we growing up. One day Mr. Hassan probably the most genius Chess-player after Niaz Morshed suddenly had lost from the sight completely. We have been informed that he is in Europe somewhere in Netherland. That was all, sometimes we got informed that Mr. Hassan has already been death or lost forever.

In 2007, I got a phone asking about me. I simply got astonished that it is my Guru Hassan Bhai who is talking with me after eighteen years. And again we had some good times with chess and music but yet he left Dhaka for Chittagong. After settling in Chittagong, we used to talk by phone weekly or monthly.

There was complete pause in our mobile conversation and it would even be a season. One day he called after his mother death. Another day after his eldest brother’s death. But today he himself who succumbed at the age of 48, the very age which once bestowed to great Kahlil Gibran.

Autobiography of unpublished poems and poets

The poetry has been abandoned in the tawny damp moorland of manuscript

under the tuberculous darkness of poetic bookshelf

even the equinox cockroaches have been abandoned them with just some sniffs

after they got crushed by the unaware steps of poetic stamps

And rejected them as unsocial polythene.

The me-ness of poets also haunt likewise blowing polythene

but yet to the sky a poet, an abandoned manuscript

or yet imperishable-polythene all are same.

The poem which never born

by crossing the border of poetic idiosyncrasy

it remains unborn forever

but yet, its idea flourished

through  the pioneer poems of novel laureates.

The poet who never get up

Against the peripheral state of modesty

Nobody feels sorry for him

Except that cunning poet of ‘Daily Light’

Who have been acted as night dog

And thus the manuscript of the modest poets

Turn into gibberish and lead them to blow as local bus tickets

In the midst of Kawran-Bazaar.

After all this trickery that defamed poet thoughts

Why I hadn’t got the Nobel Prize?

The yellow filthy cat also makes growl after listening to that!

Being sorrow-less is actual bliss

Still the earth is moving for a gloomy reason

Just to deny the sorrow

And here people build cottage in the hope of happiness

Apathetically forgetful about the tropical-sorrowfulness.

Hence, the sorrow comes as torrential rain

Or as tender sunlight

Or even as a calm-moon through the moonlight.

Those who knows only they realize

Actually there is no happiness

But the world itself is a sorrowful game!

It’s just a notion like a god

So then, where the feelings of happiness lies?

When the people learn to secure themselves from sorrow

And this sorrow-less state is the actual bliss!