Category: Poetry

The boy in a blue shirt

The boy in the blue shirt automatically appears with a cylinder once a month. ‘Thirty-rupee extra,’ the boy flatly asked while delivering the cylinder. ‘Why?

Don’t dream

“Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life

When the Sun Goes Down

When the sun goes down, Birds return to the neem tree, And carouse for half an hour Before going to sleep Rickshaw pullers under the

Lungi-clad Sweaty Invalids

Where were they? Where had my poor friends gone? Why had they left this leafy shed? How did they vanish, my friend? I don’t know,

তামাটে বেলা

ছেঁড়া ফাটা মেঘ, ঝাঁকে ঝাঁকে বাড়ি ফেরে পানকৌড়ি ধীরে তারই আল ধরে অবসন্ন, ক্ষয়ে আসা, তামাটে বেলা। ভাঙড়িওলা এলো দুই, পরনে লুঙ্গী, গলায় বেলডাঙ্গার গামছা,

ঘুরি এক মুঠো রুপালি আলোর স্বরূপ সন্ধানে

ঘুরি এক মুঠো রুপালি আলোর স্বরূপ সন্ধানে কানাগলি থেকে রাজপথ, ভাঙ্গা রাস্তার এবড়ো খেবড়ো গা বেয়ে, জমিদার পাড়া, বাবুপাড়া, নেড়ে পাড়া পার হয়ে শেষে বেশ্যাপাড়ার


Today Indian Muslims are falling like autumn leaves, Hot election days or calm winter nights Spread the same aroma of blood and deaths, Alien even


‘System is too corrupt,’ my friend bursts i stay cool and offer my May musings ‘system is not corrupt, we are. who make the system,


i stand before a lovely lawn of a beautiful home for an hour and embrace its early morning warmth. patients old young rich poor make


  i am a Marxixt and I have built a sweet home with tatas who with military forces destroyed adivasi villages in Kalinganagar.   i


Top Comments

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."