24th,August, 2017
The wooden platform was covered with dust except for two dirt free tracks that showed the way to the center of the room.
“Prisoner 202”, cried the warden.
The large wooden doors creaked open and three long shadows fell on the floor- Two guards and a prisoner.
They held the prisoner’s arms as his legs dragged across the wooden platform ,that many had been dragged across before – the dust on the platform still disturbed by the predecessors. They were all ,one-time visitors to this room – a room encompassed by flowing darkness , impeded in the center by a  strong, bright shaft of light shining through the ceiling.prisoner 202 allowed himself to be dragged towards it.He looked around to see what else the room might have held;but being unaccustomed to the darkness his efforts failed.He persisted with his efforts though until the guards suddenly stopped dragging him.He was under the beam of light. He finally forced himself to stare up at it , as a rope dropped down through it. A cloth over his head; and the shaft of light was gone. 

12th June,2015
Ismael sheik walked through the paved streets of his city of birth.He knew the pavement stones below him better than anyone. He knew which ones were  large enough to place his foot in ,without touching the borders. He walked irresolutely,an absurd gait- and yet his walk had a measured haste to it. Until he suddenly stopped and his continuous rant of mumbled curses grew louder all of a sudden- he had missed a step. He was forced to retrace his steps by immaculately spacing them exactly as he placed them when he had walked forwards. Having the square properly ,he moved on. 
Usually this would have drawn sniggers and pointing from the crowd ,except for the fact that, today,there was no crowd.
It seemed to be a day like any other in Turknibad ,the skies blue, the streets  lined by a medley of tiny shops. These shops were a radical confusion of colours -pinks,greens ,reds and in every joyful shade imaginable.Each little store was covered by a tarpaulin sheet, which loaned its colors to this marketplace in the town center. There was just the one obvious change- it was deserted.all seemed quiet and peaceful. There was noone to point at Ismail, no one to snigger as he walked through the city centre.The quiet fell on Ismail incomprehending senses. It didn’t put him off, as he kept his eyes on the ground and counted his steps.

He was tall ,Ismail;taller than most. He hands were often busy searching his hair , his matted beard however ,never drew his fancy.the children had a game where they would challenge each other to stick things and his beard ,and watch him carry it around for days before it fell off.
At the moment however the matted, decorated beard was giving him protection from the cold wind that blew his way.
As Ismail walked on ,the  cold wind blew past him and the coloured tarpaulin sheets groaned and shuddered .a particularly robust gust brought with it the sound of cheers and screams loud enough for this madman to look up.

Ismail groaned because the noise came from the direction in which he was headed-He had hoped to avoid the crowd.however, unable to allow himself to change directions he resigned himself to the fact that ,he would have to walk past the crowd. As he drew closer ,he saw the large crowd and heard it cheer.

He grumbled and walked past the ring of vendors ,selling nuts and treats ,at the periphery. The people of Turknibad had clearly found something that entertained them more than him and he couldn’t be happier for it.

Ismail would have walked past,had it not been for the fleeting second in which he was able to see through the throng,and meet the eyes of  a frightened woman. Her beautiful face looking straight at him ;her neck long and slender. The rest of her was underground.

Even as the madman took the sight in, a stone flew from the crowd and hit her under the eye. A jet of  blood flew free from the  vessels  and fell on the ground infront of her nose.the skin and the tissue hung like a flap,barely attach to her face. The blood began to flow in earnest ,and soaked her rag of detached skin to spatter onto the earth. The next stone was already in flight.

Ismail ran forwards,pushing the food vendors who had circled like vultures,past the engrossed crowd and into the clearing .He stood next to her.then,he saw it,to his left a queue had formed of people waiting in line to pelt stones at her for her crimes.The madman couldn’t understand what was going.

Seeing Ismail, the crowd was stunned for a while ,but then everyone burst out laughing. The people decided to throw him a bone ,and gave him a sizeable stone .Ismail stood dumbfounded ,the madman couldn’t understand why anyone would do this. He just stood . The crowd looked at him with expectant smiles.Ismail not being of sound mind , did not comprehend the simplicity of the situation like the others could.
tired of waiting ,a man came to move him away from the woman and take the gifted stone away.Ismail moved. The stoning was to resume and seeing this Ismail brought his stone crashing down into the face of the man.the assailant collapsed . a hush fell over the croud. It didn’t last for long though.a splitting pain on the back of his head and Ismail had fallen to his knees.he saw dark spots .another blow made the dark spots coalesce.Ismail had fainted.

The earth had tasted blood three times that day.

The woman succumbed to her injuries minutes after the madman had passed out.The madman was arrested , and for his crimes against God’s will, sentenced to death by hanging .the fact that He had grievously hurt another humam being was mentioned at the end of the report. He was scheduled to die on the 24th of August, 2017.

24 th August,2017.
….prisoner 202 allowed himself to be dragged towards it.once there,he finally forced himself to stare up at the shaft of light , as a rope dropped down through it. A cloth over his head; and the shaft of light was gone….

“Prisoner 727!” ,called the warden.
Ismail was guided into the room.he saw the shaft of light,he saw prisoner 202 with the cloth over his head .He watched intently as prisoner 202 struggled .Ismail finally understood what they were going to do to him.

The trapdoors opened.

The madman didn’t understand why.

A few moments later,Ismail hung to his death.The sane man didn’t understand why.





Fear and love are two emotions that spur the human mind to do things it could not have otherwise fathomed. Which of the two is of  greater value to a person, often ends up deciding what their lives might be like.There are thus  two broad types of people in this world :

The ones who say:
1. Rarely has fear consumed me like love
2. Rarely does love manage to conquer like fear.

Guess which one I am.

-Rik Mukherjee
(The dreamer)

rikbmukherjee (INSTAGRAM)
And at illogicalpoemworld(Instagram)

The Pen and the Sword



Pen and the sword.

Ever so often I have sat infront of a blank page; ready to write, to entice , to agitate and to shake readers.

But the agitation that I aim for has always been intended to wake the reader from a  prolonged slumber. To awaken them to the possibilities of true free thought.

This leaves me wondering what writers, who have written in support of war and for blind devotion, often pondered about. What must it have been like to write words that other people would repeat ,as they took lives? Did such writers really aspire to have their words on banners that led humans to war?

Have such writers betrayed our peaceful kind?

Are all writers really not lovers after all?

I find myself looking for excuses for them .Perhaps, they aren’t to be blamed.Perhaps, their words were twisted beyond recognition till they were fit to be sung alongside war songs.How must it have felt to see your own work misconstrued and used for destruction?I know what I feel for them now-I feel pity.


-Rik Mukherjee
(The dreamer)

Instagram :rikbmukherjee




This is something exclusively written for India and arranged marriages. It’s hard hitting and short and exactly how I meant it.

If society forces a woman to give consent , it’s still rape.

Consent has to be of free will.

-Rik Mukherjee
(The dreamer)
Instagram :rikbmukherjee
Facebook: Rik Mukherjee

When was it love?



And then that palpitation,that passion- it dies down . Then there’s only this something unique left.Something that isn’t fire,but still melts.Something that doesn’t pound in your chest but has become a part of it.  It’s tiny ,miniscule,but you feel it.

And then that little something  grows as the passion dies. Almost as if seeding from it.

That’s when you know, it is love.