What is Juneteenth?

Today is Juneteenth holiday. For decades, Juneteenth was celebrated mainly within Black communities. In 2021, it became a federal holiday in the United States—an overdue acknowledgment of one of the most pivotal moments in American history.

The History Behind Juneteenth 

 • January 1, 1863 – President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, declaring all enslaved people in Confederate states legally free.

 • But in reality, freedom didn’t reach everyone immediately. Many slaveholders in remote areas, especially in Texas, ignored or resisted the order.

 • June 19, 1865 – Over two years later, Union General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston, Texas, with federal troops. He announced General Order No. 3, which proclaimed that all enslaved people were now free.

“The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free.”

What is Freedom?

At its core, it means the power to choose—to act, speak, think, and live according to your own will, without undue restraint.

But freedom isn’t just one thing. It takes many forms:

1. Personal Freedom
The ability to make decisions about your own body, beliefs, and actions. It’s walking your own path, wearing what you want, choosing whom you love, and dreaming your own dreams.

2. Political Freedom
The right to have a voice in how you’re governed—voting, protesting, expressing opinions without fear, and having access to justice.

3. Economic Freedom
The opportunity to work, earn, own property, and improve your life through your efforts, without exploitation or oppression.

4. Psychological Freedom
Freedom from fear, guilt, shame, and internalized oppression. It’s the quiet, inner space where you are allowed to be exactly who you are.

If you love someone, let them be free. And watch them blossom into their most authentic self.

The Folly of Sameness

Growing up in a homogeneous group can breed a kind of cultural illiteracy — not just ignorance of other traditions, but a deep-seated discomfort with difference itself. The cost? Empathy narrows. Curiosity dims. And a fear of the “other” festers.

There is a subtle tyranny that can emerge within homogeneous groups, especially during formative years, where anyone different is looked down upon or ridiculed. Here’s a reflection:

The Folly of Sameness
————————————
In halls where every voice sounds just the same,
Where mirrors line the walls with matching frames,
A child is taught to fear the foreign name,
To mock the soul that dances in new flames.

The laughter sharpens like a teacher’s rule,
The different child becomes the class’s tool—
A joke, a jest, a silence carved in stone,
Their colors drained until they match the tone.

What harm is done when no one sees the sky
From any lens but theirs? They don’t ask why
Another walks with songs they’ve never heard,
Or shapes their dreams with an unspoken word.

Sameness is easy, sameness is safe.
It feeds the need to not feel out of place.
But sameness blinds, and sameness breeds a wall,
Until the mind grows narrow, false, and small.

And those who dare to speak or dress or pray
In ways that drift from the accepted way—
They bear the weight of sneers that wound the soul,
While they still rise, and make the fractured whole.

Inside the Chrysalis

Inside the hush of a green shell,
A quiet catastrophe begins.

The caterpillar, soft-bodied wanderer,

unthreads itself

from the inside out.

No gentle sleep—

But a dissolution,

a flood of enzymes

breaking every known shape

into memory-soup.

This is not survival.

This is a sacrifice.

This is trust in annihilation.

Within that rich, primordial broth,

lie imaginal discs—

seeds of wings,

blueprints of eyes that have never seen sky,

antennae attuned to the wind’s whisper.

They do not guess.

They remember

W
hat they were meant to become.

And somehow—

even as the old self liquefies—

a thread remains.

A flicker of memory,

a trace of yesterday’s hunger,

a taste of a certain leaf

lingering like a ghost

through all that unmaking.

When the chrysalis shivers open

and the new body unfurls—

painted, fragile, free—

it is not just a new form.

It is a resurrection.

A creature

who has lived

two lives

within one skin.

Who has died

without leaving.

And flown

from the ruins of itself.

The Secret the Bees Keep

 

When the queen falls—
That single pulse of order,
The mother of rhythm—
The hive holds its breath.

No eggs.

No future.

Silence creeps between the honeycomb corridors.

Stillness,

Where flight once sang.

But the bees do not mourn.

They do not wait for rescue

Like prayers sent upward

Into the indifferent wind.

Instead, they begin.

Not with miracles.

Not with might.

But with the slightest gesture:

A feeding.

One larva,

Then another—

No different than the rest,

No gold-threaded birthright,

No lightning in the womb—

Is chosen.

Not for what she is,

But for what she might become.

They feed her royal jelly—

A nectar thick with purpose,

A mother’s whisper made into substance.

It coats her future

In protein and light,

Rearranging time,

Rethreading the body

Into something larger

Than labor

Or lineage.

She is not born a queen.

She is made.

By attention.

By care.

By collective will.

She rises not by chance

But by design—

Not of blood,

But of belief.

And when she spreads her wings,

Carrying the future in her belly,

The hive hums again.

The order returns,

Not as it was,

But remade

Through crisis and instinct

And quiet revolution.

The bees remember what we forget—

That greatness

Is not in the bone,

But in the tending.

The Eligible Bachelor

There once was a man past his prime,

Who thought therapy’s just a scam, a crime.

With podcasts galore,

He preached, “I want more,”

But ghosted each girlfriend before dinnertime.

He claimed that he felt very deep,

Yet his chats were as woke as sleep. 💤

A “guru” in his jeans,

To girls in their teens,

His wisdom? Just red flags on repeat.

He’d sip from his weird-looking brew,

Say, “Commitment? I’ve paid all my dues.”

Though his age neared forty,

He dated only the sporty—

Fresh grads with no bills and no clues.

“I’m old-school,” he’d proudly declare,

While brushing his graying chest hair.

Yet somehow forgot,

While dodging the growth he sought—

That’s why grown women just wouldn’t care.

After Making Love to a Woman

Stay.

Not just in body,
But in breath, in touch,
In the quiet whisper of your heartbeat
Pressed against her back.

Don’t vanish into the cool air,
Don’t turn to shadows,
Don’t let the sheets become borders.

Stay.

Trace the curve of her shoulder,
A wandering whisper of fingertips.
Tangle your legs like lazy rivers,


Speak—softly, slowly—
Not with grand confessions,
But with the gentle drizzle of sweetness.
Tell her how her laughter
Feels like spring rain,
How her touch is a memory
You are still savoring.

Look at her—really look.
Let her see that even now,
Even in the quiet,
She is still the pulse beneath your skin.

If she pulls you closer,
Let your bodies fit like a puzzle solved.
If she smiles, smile with her—
A shared joke, a stolen breath.
If she drifts to sleep,
Breathe with her,
Be her safe harbor.

Moments like these are echoes
That linger,
Not just because of the passion,
But because of the peace.

This is where intimacy grows roots,
Not just in the fire,
But in the ash,
In the warmth that stays.

অবৈধ প্রেম (নতুন কবিতা )

তার সঙ্গে সংসার করেছি দেড় বছর -

দু -তিন ঘণ্টার সংসার।

শুক্লপক্ষের চতুর্থীর চাঁদের মতো, 

অর্ধেক আলো,

অর্ধেক অন্ধকার,

তবে অন্ধকারই বেশি ।

রোজ সকালে 

মেসেজ আসত তার,

একটা সূর্য ☀️

একটা চাঁদ 🌙

যেন অসম্ভব প্রেম ।

দরজা খুলে রাখতাম,

তার নির্বিঘ্নে আনা গোনার জন্য

পাশের বাড়ির প্রতিবেশীও

তাকে চিনতে লেগেছিল ।

দেখা হলেই বলতো

"I missed your smile”

তখন তাকে দেখে আরো হাসতাম ।

প্রাণ ঢেলে দিতাম তাকে।

আমার চুলে হাত বুলিয়ে বলত,

“চা বানিয়ে দিই?”

আমি মাথা নাড়লে রান্নাঘরে মিলিয়ে যেত।

চা-পাতা, লবঙ্গের গন্ধে ঘর ভরে উঠত।

আমি নির্বস্ত্র হয়ে তাকে দেখতাম

মনের মধ্যে ছবি তুলে রাখতাম ।

কখনো তুর্কিশ কফি

দারচিনি দেওয়া,

কখনো নিজের হাতে 

বাজার করে 

রান্না করে দিতো 

আমার প্রিয় 

আচারি চিকেন উইংস ।

তারপর তার মজবুত বাহুডোর,

পুতুলের মতো তুলে নিত আমায়

রান্না ঘর থেকে আবার

শোবার ঘরে 

নিয়ে আসতো কোলে করে ।

আমাদের নিঃশব্দ কথোপকথন,

আলোর মাঝে ছায়া, 

ছায়ার মাঝে আলো।

একা জীবনে ওইটুকুই অনেক ।

এই জন্যে অন্য কারোর গন্ধ 

ওর শরীরে পেয়েও

নিজেকে বলতাম

ভুল ভাবছি ।

কিন্তু একদিন…

দেখলাম তার বুকে আঁচড়ের দাগ 

আর 

আমার বুকের ভেতর শীতল শূন্যতা।

বুঝলাম অন্য কেউও আছে 

জেনেছিলাম, সে কারো স্বামী,

আমার সংসার শুধু দু -তিন ঘন্টার ।

প্রেমটা অসম্ভব নয়, 

অবৈধ ।

আমি সরে এসেছিলাম।

ফোন বন্ধ, দরজা বন্ধ,

রান্নাঘরে এখন অধিকার শুধু আমার ।

তবু, যখন বৃষ্টি নামে,

কখনো কখনো মনে হয়,

সে এসে বলবে, “কফি, না চা?”

আমি আবার বলব, “কফিই করো।”

কিন্তু জানি, সে আসবে না।

তবু তার ছায়া আমার চায়ের কাপে,

তার হাতের স্বাদ এখনও আমার ঠোঁটে।