Look closely at this art and tell me what you think or feel…

Art is Alive…

In the early hush of Chittagong’s breath,

I tighten the straps of my satchel—

Notebooks, a parcel, a page half-torn,

And poetry folded like ruti in a cloth wrap.

The road knows my name.

My cycle greets it with rhythm.

Abbu once rode this lane too,

His voice rising like azaan

As he called out names to deliver newspapers—

The ink still clinging to his palms

When he’d return and tap on the gate:

“I brought stories home.”

Now I ride for purpose and pay,

But more for poetry.

Each delivery whispers

In the wind between my spokes.

I pass courtyards blooming with conversation—

Ammu’s voice in someone else’s mother,

Scolding the crows away from the rice,

The clang of steel plates being scrubbed

Echoing like a song we all know.

An old uncle with a lungi tucked high

Waves me down to carry a letter

To his daughter in Sholoshahar.

He pays with tea

And the weight of missing someone.

I never refuse him.

The city is a patchwork of familiar faces—

A boy with hennaed fingertips selling guava,

A woman who’s learned to survive storms

By knitting sweaters from leftover yarn,

A sister who writes poetry

On ration paper and gives it to me like payment.

I carry their stories on two wheels.

Some days,

I deliver more than parcels.

By mid-afternoon, the heat wraps its arm

Around my back like Dadu once did.

She’d feed me mango slices

And tales from when the trains were slow

But love was fast.

Now my wheels trace her memory

In the alley behind our home,

Where the tamarind tree still leans

Toward the broken brick wall

We never fixed—because it holds

Too many family names carved by hand.

Evening settles like attar on a prayer mat.

Lights blink on like scattered stars.

I return home, legs heavy,

But my heart light with fragments of people—

Their lives tucked beside my verses

And the day’s receipts.

Ammu hands me water.

Abbu reads my mileage like it’s a poem.

My younger sister asks,

“Did you meet any poetry today?”

I smile.

She doesn’t know

That poetry rides with me—

On every crack in the road,

Every brake pressed in caution,

Every kind stranger who hands me change

And says, “Stay safe, beta.”

This city pedals forward

With prayers on its lips

And stories in its baskets.

It teaches you

That love isn’t always loud—

Sometimes it’s in small gestures:

A gate left open,

A meal left warm,

A poem left unsigned

In a stranger’s hands.

And I?

I write them all down

On the back of delivery notes,

Tying poems to my pedals,

Family to my breath,

And community to my wheels.

A bird in the cage,

Watching the sky in a daze,

Gone were the days,

When she enjoyed her solitude in a haze.

Dancing with the wind,

Singing with the rain,

She enjoyed every moment,

Without allowing a single second to go in vain.

Chirping freely she flew from here to there,

Without caring about free poison travelling in the air.

Now seating quietly behind the iron rods,

Bird thought about the days of hustling records,

With the free food and water kept inside,

She struggled to digest the food with delight.

Is this what every human feels,

When they were blessed with something more than basic needs???

Cause, these flying, crying, sleeping, and struggling in the lap of nature,

Is an adventure with a weird peace.

Now locked in the cage,

The wind tries to play with her wings,

They flutter tremendously in the hope of escaping the cage,

But nothing worked as the strong rods stopped her movements.

Longingly looking at the sky,

Her heart wanted to fly,

But the barrier in front of her,

Was making her immobile.

“Is this what luxury is???” she questioned herself,

“Yes, the cost of your freedom!!!” screamed her broken self.

Growth is a necessity with Bsme2e and its a learning process for me

The stadium roars, a sea of cheer,

But some watch from couches, far from the sphere.

In offices lit with a fluorescent glare,

Or homes where fans sink deep in a chair.

A football flies, a cricket ball spins,

Each game unfolds with losses and wins.

But louder than boots, or bat on seam,

Are voices off-screen, armed with their dream.

“Should’ve passed right!” one shouts with might,

Mouth full of chips, eyes blazing bright.

“He should’ve ducked, not tried that hook!”

Another sighs, nose deep in a book.

They curse the keeper, blame the pitch,

Critique the field with every twitch.

Each miss, each slip, becomes a tale—

Of what they’d do, if they set sail.

“He’s too slow—look at that pace!

If I were there, I’d own that space!”

Never mind the months of drills,

The sweat, the cramps, the mental hills.

“He can’t bat! That edge was luck!”

They sip their tea, feel smug and stuck.

In cubicles or living rooms they dwell,

With tales of glory they’ll never tell.

Yet somehow, these watchers stir the game,

Their passion wild, their tone the same.

Though they never ran down flanks or bowled,

Their hearts beat fast, their spirits bold.

They coach from couches, lead from chairs,

Command whole teams with pointed stares.

A million minds, a billion dreams—

All playing loud in pixel streams.

The striker hears none of this noise,

Nor does the bowler feel the poise

Of fingers tapping on remote controls,

Or texts like “He missed! Typical roles.”

Still, let them talk—these backseat kings,

Whose words fly high like pigeon wings.

Their cheers, their jabs, their Monday rants,

Are stitched in sport like lucky chants.

For sport is more than pitch or field,

It’s the joy that every fan must wield.

Whether in boots or business suits,

All dream of netting perfect shoots.

So here’s to the match—the sweat and storm,

And to living rooms where legends form.

They may not score, or dive, or dribble,

But their hearts, like drums, forever quibble.

In every home, on every screen,

Lies a player chasing his unseen dream.

The match goes on, both fierce and fine,

With every fan shouting, “That win was mine!”

This is one of my Passion Projects to be Hosted in July 2025 in the city of Port Harcourt in Rivers State Nigeria…this is an event to encourage, connect and elevate Creatives…