Day: December 4, 2018


In an early morning in late September I made a visit to Kunjnagar haat. The street from Falakata to Kunjnagar was almost deserted. A few peasants in lungi and napkin sat on haunches on the both sides of the street and smoked bidis and began day’s gossip.  The village was all silent. Rows of betel nut trees guarded the tin-roofed huts. I passed the neighbourhood and came soon to the open ploughed fields and drove straight to the haat. Some dogs lied at one corner of the haat like logs of wood. The haat was littered with plastic cups, bottles,


One winter afternoon I went to Galakata haat. It was on the western side of Jaldapara forest. On a clear noon one could eye the treetops of the forest, swaying and singing, from the haat. And in the evening one could see the line of men and women carrying homes loads of lakri and pieces of timber on their heads from the forest. They were all set towards their huts.  Of course there were some patches of greenery and some acres of tea foliage, and some peasant huts stood at the extreme outskirts of the forest. But the tall trees


In a late winter afternoon I sauntered around Moiradanga village. The day was one of the coldest of the year. People were happy as such a chill weather with five or six degrees they found after 150 years or so, as many dailies claimed. Most of the villagers stayed at home, and street was almost deserted. The sun reclined on the west, and it lost its blaze and splendour. And it seemed that one could touch the mellowed ball of fire, so low it hung overhead. The layers of mists began to set on the icy air. It made the


Sixty autumns together they walked, And how many more who knows? Side by side they stood on the forest fringe And admired shrivelled faces and scraggy necks.   How swiftly the halcyon days passed! Ah! The days of honey and milk and dew, Childlike mirth and translucent joy.   The deserted forest path, the flock of twilight parrots, The abandoned huts, the mist-laced trees, The cool sunrise, and the blazing sunset—all are same, Only dark patches below eyes blurred all. (First published in anthology, Rise to Higher Essence)


Bored being confined by four walls, I set out for Santalpara Where I hear rustics sit idle whole day And drink, brawl and do nothing.   A fine drizzle washed the forest path a while ago, And yonder the fairy trees all stand naked And sacred. I wish to be hugged But no rays enter there, no path laid.   Forest I cross, and come to Santalpara, But where are the Santal peasants? Heaps of tourists’ waste—plastic bottles, beer cans, dotted condoms, And painted, flashy faces, and civilized prattle.   Ten minutes stay I there, and convulsed, And again come


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Subhash Chandra
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"A gifted writer"

A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
Santosh Bakaya
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Praise for my writing

“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
Louis Kasatkin
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Praise for my poem "Elderly Men Two"

"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."