Poems by Tinni Goswami

Tinni Goswami holds a Master's degree in History and a Ph.D. from Jadavpur University in India. She is currently an Assistant Professor in the Postgraduate Department of History at St. Xavier's College (Autonomous), Kolkata. Dr. Goswami was awarded the Junior Research Fellowship (JRF) by the Indian Council of Historical Research, which she held from 2006 to 2008. She was also a Fellow at The Asiatic Society in Kolkata from 2010 to 2013. From 2013 to 2014, she served as a UGC Research Associate at the Women’s Studies Research Centre at the University of Calcutta. She was the recipient of a Guest Fellowship at the Indian Institute of Advanced Study, Shimla, for three months from April to June 2025. Presently she is doing two research projects at INSA, New Delhi, and RMIC, Golpark, Kolkata. She is the IKS Cell Coordinator of her college campus (Raghabpur).

Nemesis 

I drink anger to fuel my life.

I feel safest among birds with broken wings—

they fly slow, bleeding, still reaching for height,

just like me on this path of self-exploration.

The sound of rain resembles fragmented teardrops.

A dying firebird keeps me warm

in the hush of its mellow flame.

Smoky clouds are my companions;

their darkness carves out space for me.

Closed windows smell like roses,

and a shut door opens into the heaven of the unknown.

I close my eyes to see, to feel, to hear

the lost child within—screaming for a shard of hope,

wandering a haunted lane that never ends.

The Colour Blue in My Virtual World

The silent nights look like an angel, 

Holding a candle in her hand. 

The WhatsApp in my phone Reminds me of how I fit into the silence, 

As the blue tick is never seen on my messages… 

Just like the angelic smile of the moment, 

Dark, voiceless, and magical.

The angel also feels worn at the onset of the dawn. 

My mobile started dying at the beginning of the day. 

When the angel finally left me, 

I was overwhelmed with grief, 

As she poured the candle wax onto my nightdress. 

I started getting burned just like the first rays of the sun. 

The blue tick never comes to my mobile, 

Which gets half-baked in the burning flame of the candle of the angel.

Suddenly the alarm rings just like the Starry Night of Van Gogh, 

To make my everyday death more real in the journey… 

Of being faded one day.

The Algorithm

She liked blue.

We forced her to choose pink.

She loved cars.

We punished her with a stick

so that she would accept the dollhouse gift

from her parents.

She had a girlfriend at her school.

We killed her girlfriend,

and she had to walk naked

to feel she is the she only …

She thought blood was biological.

We taught her menstruations are

sinful / impure.

She died in pride.

We called it a movement.