Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's TED talk offers insight into how a single story or perspective can solidify as the perceived identity of a person, socioeconomic group, country or culture. She says that if in a story, you show people as one thing and one thing only, over and over again, then that is what they become. "A single story creates stereotypes"- they make one story become the only story.

Mass media or pop culture has, throughout the generations, created powerful stories that narrate a curated version of people and cultures through their characters. I believe, in social media, people now have the power to curate or "brand" themselves into a single image or "story". They can build their own personal story and create a sort of controlled "avatar". 

I started my instagram as a social experiment. I wanted to experience how the world, and particularly the East views women explicit in their expressions of sexuality.

I realized after a point, that my pictures told my audience a story which turned into a collective thought or view of me as a person based on the type of content I chose to curate. In the case of many, the images stuck well enough for them to dehumanize - in this case into a sexual object.

Through my exposure to pop culture of both the East and West, I have been subject to many "one story" narratives. But I knew, rather early on, the truth of "never judging a book by its cover" or in this case, a "single story" and I tried to form my thoughts and opinions of people by seeing them from many angles, as best I could.

Personally speaking, I have always seen Art as one of the most effective modes to communicate a message or story that resonates with people in the longer term. My poems I feel, best reflect me and my identity (which I believe is a collection of stories) that are, if I am to say, less curated as they evolve out of my set of beliefs, emotions and world views.

they speak of their men, and their women, and their fine wine.

Love hath lost its savior to the dampness of his clothes,

Love hath traced back Eden's garden of the East to where the ocean flows.

Creatures that hath not seen the bending of time

Hath not seen merry light where the sun shines

Fools of depth and rage in the fallen desolation

Perpetual happiness in the pain of the limb's Godly creation

The Father speaks of love in his woeful teary eye

For compassion is wrecked on the shores of the coming tide

His breast is gallant of the harshness of his freedom

And life lost to his love's redeeming treason

Fall light fall in the chambers of amber

Ruby or Sapphire on the pendant of the surrendered

Who hath Love lost

And Loved not at all

The wise men weep on to Love's soft call.

The musk stained bed breathes damp in your sweat 

Torn apart like the the petals of my forget- me-not

dismantled and naked in sweet foaming froth

Sweet chamber boy, the tip of your nose is red,

Soft to my touch like a melting sorbet

Cheeks coming rouge from hound dog teeth 

Please adorn your scars like fine jewellery

Sweet chamber boy, where is my necklace?

It holds the key to my chains

Won’t you unshackle me?

I’m restless

I’ve meld into you, like I’ve no faith in me

And laid bare in the  glaring light of your scrutiny

What do you see in me, Sweet chamber boy?

Am I your  little mistress? A stretchy, bendable toy? Am I the putty that can take perfect form? 

And fall back into nothingness once you’ve gone.

Forever your skies, your air set my heart in tune 

as if it were a flute. 

In Spring, Oh mother mine, the fragrance from 

your mango-groves makes me wild with joy, 

Ah, what a thrill! 

In Autumn, Oh mother mine, 

in the full-blossomed paddy fields, 

I have seen spread all over sweet smiles! 

Ah, what a beauty, what shades, what an affection 

and what a tenderness! 

What a quiet have you spread at the feet of 

banyan trees and along the banks of rivers! 

Oh mother mine, words from your lips are like 

Nectar to my ears! 

Ah, what a thrill! 

If sadness, Oh mother mine, casts a gloom on your face 

my eyes are filled with tears! 


In the national anthem of Bangladesh, "Amar Shonar Bangla" there is a recurring reference of the motherland as "mother". Tagore ties a strong feeling of attachment in the anthem by describing the nature of Bengal- the seasons( Spring and Autumn), the mangrove forests and the paddy fields, the banyan tree and the banks of the river. By referencing to the motherland as "mother" and by drawing into the imagery of Bengal, Tagore instills a sense of familiarity and closeness to the motherland into the people of Bengal. It urges the people of the nation to feel a strong connection to the motherland or "mother" which in turn aids in the nation developing a sense of nationalism and patriotism. The use of the word "mother" or "ma" can therefore be thought of as crucial to the anthem because it personifies the motherland, allowing the people of the nation to relate emotionally to the anthem and feel
 a sense of duty towards their nation.

My mother, a social scientist, was offered a research paper at the University of Cornell, so we moved across waters to the quaint little town of Ithaca in the state of New York. It's where I went to pre-school, always tugging at my Father's shirt and never letting him leave my sight, even at the expense of the principal's disapproval.

In a year, we moved back to Bangladesh, where I resided till the age of fourteen. My parents were socialites, my Mother a women's rights activist and my Father a documentary film director. They were eccentric to say the least, and I would be a fool to say that I did not pick up on their such eccentricities. A rebellious teen, I was packed away to the boarding school in the hills of Tamil Nadu and later resided in Calcutta after my expulsion.

Upon returning to Bangladesh, I took a gap from my studies, finding solace in poetry, acting and modelling. I began a social experiment on instagram to gauge the reaction of Eastern society to expressions of sexuality. In this time I also studied Literature and found meaning in the writings of John Keats, particularly the ballad "La Belle Dame Sans Merci".

I believe in myself as a poet at heart, and I would be wrong to predict what the future entails. I do, however, imagine, time and time again, a study filled with old books, children with curly hair, a picket fence and a snowy Vacouver. It'd remind me a bit of Ithaca.