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  • I don't know how to pose really 🤷🏻‍♂️.
  • I don't know how to pose really 🤷🏻‍♂️.
  • 6 1 4 minutes ago

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  • তোমার ভালোবাসা শব্দটা আমার কাছে অনেকটা পাটিগণিতের সমাধানের মতো... "ধরি" অথবা "মনেকরি" এর মধ্যেই সীমাবদ্ধ,
বাস্তবিকতাই যার কোনো অস্তিত্ব নেই ।।
🖋️ কলমে: @my_self_avijit .
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‌#kyablaofficial
#kolkata ‌
#westbengal
#india ‌
#indian
‌#artist ‌
#bengali
#instagramers
#art
#kolkatagram
#storiesofkolkata 
#quotes 
@kyablaofficial
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Follow us on Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/kyablaofficial/
  • তোমার ভালোবাসা শব্দটা আমার কাছে অনেকটা পাটিগণিতের সমাধানের মতো... "ধরি" অথবা "মনেকরি" এর মধ্যেই সীমাবদ্ধ,
    বাস্তবিকতাই যার কোনো অস্তিত্ব নেই ।।
    🖋️ কলমে: @my_self_avijit .
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    #kyablaofficial
    #kolkata
    #westbengal
    #india
    #indian
    #artist
    #bengali
    #instagramers
    #art
    #kolkatagram
    #storiesofkolkata
    #quotes
    @kyablaofficial
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    Follow us on Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/kyablaofficial/
  • 42 0 20 minutes ago

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  • In the land of pompous men with their flashy moustache,
the women hide themselves behind the red and the embroidered.
Hidden from all, except her husband;
her bruises, anguish and pain, tucked deep beneath the layers with her shame.

In the land of drunk men who come too soon,
The women scream and cry out and when their husbands are spent,
They slip their fingers in between and shuts their mouths
And with every moan that they give in to, they fear the burning pits of hell.

In the land of the graybeard and the patriarch, the men pride themselves over the scratches they got during the market ruckus or the lynches, while the women silently bleed in the corner of the dusty room.
The cloth hidden or burnt or washed away fearing it might remind the men of their insignificant brawls.

In the land where Rahul goes to school and Vimla miscarriages at 15, the women don't cry anymore for their losses.
Resignation to fate or acceptance, no one knows yet.
The women of this land have cut up their tongues, stitched up their mouths.
They don't speak anymore.
They just nod their heads.
  • In the land of pompous men with their flashy moustache,
    the women hide themselves behind the red and the embroidered.
    Hidden from all, except her husband;
    her bruises, anguish and pain, tucked deep beneath the layers with her shame.

    In the land of drunk men who come too soon,
    The women scream and cry out and when their husbands are spent,
    They slip their fingers in between and shuts their mouths
    And with every moan that they give in to, they fear the burning pits of hell.

    In the land of the graybeard and the patriarch, the men pride themselves over the scratches they got during the market ruckus or the lynches, while the women silently bleed in the corner of the dusty room.
    The cloth hidden or burnt or washed away fearing it might remind the men of their insignificant brawls.

    In the land where Rahul goes to school and Vimla miscarriages at 15, the women don't cry anymore for their losses.
    Resignation to fate or acceptance, no one knows yet.
    The women of this land have cut up their tongues, stitched up their mouths.
    They don't speak anymore.
    They just nod their heads.
  • 102 2 1 hour ago