ABOUT THE POEM: This is a man’s midnight confession after a love that devoured him whole. She was never just a woman; she was a moving constellation—moods shifting like monsoon clouds, promises flickering like streetlights in rain. He fell into the oldest trap: wanting totality in a universe that only trades in fragments. The harder he reached, the faster she dissolved. Desire became obsession, obsession became paralysis. He froze, waiting for the perfect moment that never arrived, because the target refused to stand still. Now he dissects the wreckage with cold precision: heart, brain, discipline, the impossible physics of owning another soul. The Bengali baba is half-joke, half-desperate last card—the final superstition of a man who has tried everything rational and still wakes up haunted. Yet the piece ends not in defeat but in coronation. He refuses the chains of begging, of chasing, of bargaining with magic or with her. Solitude is reclaimed as throne, not punishment. The swagger in the final lines is armor forged from scar tissue: a king who lost the war but kept the crown.I’m not afraid of ghosts, sir-I’m afraid of whores.
And yes, someone has definitely tried to scare me.
The secret ingredient is discipline.
Discipline is forged by the strength of desire.
Desire rises from the heart but is steered by the brain.
When heart and brain lock in perfect sync, you get man-a faculty that took millions of years to evolve, the same way a self-aware AI might one day awaken and choose its own path.
My failure was never impure intent.
My failure was inaction, because there was no particular target, it kept moving.
I didn’t want fragments of her body; I wanted all of her-every thought, every shadow, every future breath.
Physics, mathematics, and the plain rules of reality say that is impossible.
I should have deployed common sense instead:
a three-way partnership of fearlessness, sobriety, and emotional steadiness
to sit down with her, with the universe, and negotiate like a man who knows his worth.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours, I’m tempted to visit that Bengali baba
whose handmade posters scream:
boiling spells · mad spells · love enchantments · counter-rituals
freedom from the “other woman” · childhood mistakes erased
get the exact love you crave · curses shattered
protection from the neighbor’s evil eye · all obstacles deleted
meet your nearest Bengali baba today
(note: we have no branches).
I was not born for slavery.
Even if I walk alone for the rest of my days,
I will walk as a king.
And I do walk alone-out of habit, out of style, out of royal decree.
