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তামাটে বেলা

19th November 2021 No Comments

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, চোখ মরা মাছের মতো স্থির, চামড়া পোড়া কাঠের ছাই। এলো ইয়াং সেলসম্যান চার, চায়ে চুমুক, মুখে আগুন, টার্গেট পূরণের চাপের ছাপ ও ছোপ চোখেমুখে। মুক্ত, তেলতেলে হাইরোড, চলে মিসাইলের বেগে গাড়ি, মালিক নির্লিপ্ত ব্যাঙ ডাকা কোনের চেয়ারে, নিঃসঙ্গ বৃদ্ধ বেয়ারা লড়ছে এখনো ক্ষয়ে আসা হাড়ের সাথে।

ঘুরি এক মুঠো রুপালি আলোর স্বরূপ সন্ধানে

6th July 2021 No Comments

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 অকৃত্রিম আলোর আলপথে রেখিছি পা, আলো মেলেনি একমুঠো, চাপচাপ অন্ধকারে মুড়েছে উঠোনের বাতাবিলেবুর গাছটিকে, কথা কথাই থেকে যায়, দিনের শেষে রাত, আর রাতের পর দিন, একঘেয়ে, বিরস, রাতের রুপালি আলোতে ছিনিমিনি খেলে এখন ইটভাটার গাঢ় কালো ধোঁয়া, শীতের সকালে কচি হাতে চায়ে চুমুক দিলে আমার অদ্ভূৎ আলো স্নান হয়, শিয়ালদহ স্টেশনের গোধূলি আলোতে এক পাগলি বিশ টাকার খদ্দের খুঁজে, স্মোগি আকাশে রামধনু উদয়, এভাবেই অন্ধকার ভেদে আলো নামে, আর কথা কথাতেই নিরপত্তার উত্তাপ শুষে নেয়।

WHO HAVE BETRAYED INDIAN MUSLIM

12th April 2021 No Comments

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 to age old ‘good’ neighbours, Barred to beautiful blocks they live and die in ghettos, Naked, they are lynched even in resorts, A poor race known only for wrong reasons, Used, abused, exploited, killed by better brothers. A few, however, wear mask of bhadralok, They have painstakingly mastered the art To be quiet in crushing quakes, floods or fires. The rest, only wagons, carrying filth of masters’ fiefdom. Who have betrayed the sinless country lovers?

SYSTEM

25th February 2021 No Comments

‘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, you, I. it’s minions’ rule, clay-foot, pig-heart, thick-skin, vultures waiting for dead cow. who suffer? the tillers, the traders, we all. who profit? the quadruped. friend, blame not the air or sky or stars shoot the lily-livered gentlemen, opportunistic torchbearers, hands ready to strangle the wretched, hands ready to touch the empowered feet, ever set to pledge honour of our sisters not for climbing mountains, to fish in murky pools. let’s be shooters and shoot

AN HOUR AT A HOSPITAL

12th February 2021 No Comments

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 waves like the Jalangi of my village. sky is heavy with great expectations– a child is born, an elderly touches the sky of heaven–some berate breasts, some steely pass carrying dying limbs, others adjust looks in rear glasses. Paid polished men and elegant ladies wear coded uniform and like domesticated dogs they bark and stir tails as codes dictate. guards abuse the poor and spread red carpet for the moneyed. the counters full of coins,

I AM A MARXIST

29th January 2021 No Comments

i am a Marxixt and I have built a sweet home with tatas who with military forces destroyed adivasi villages in Kalinganagar. i am a Marxist and my home is built with bricks made of blood red of tender limbs. i am a Marxist and my children hate vernacular, low lands and plains, and dream of inhaling pure air of Canada, Texas, Bristol, New York, Chicago. i am a Marxist and I never raise my voice for the rights of adivasis, muslims or other outcastes and I collect plods to renew the old walls of status

AM I TO BURST CRACKERS TO CELEBRATE NEW YEAR?

5th January 2021 No Comments

am i to burst crackers or light candles or dance in open field or visit a darling spot to celebrate new year’s eve? or am i to make a list of lands where blood flooded streets? yesteryear it was North Delhi and Bengaluru the year before was a miss and i am puzzled how? 2018 it engulfed Bihar, 2017 it blackened parts of Haryana, Punjab, U P, Rajasthan, Delhi and our Baduria homes, Dhulagarh, Coimbatore, Kaliachak fell from grace in 2016, Bashirhat became a national name in 2015 how we forget Saharanpur of 2014, Muzaffarnagar of 2013, Assam and

OUR BOYS NO LONGER LOLL UNDER OUR PAKUR TREE

15th November 2020 No Comments

Who are in charge of the destiny of our boys? nobody, they make their own destiny. When I get a job, my worries for tomorrows’ dal and rice gone and I manage time to ponder over our boys. At first I’m pained to see them lolling under our pakur tree dawn, noon, afternoon, evening the same boys, the same talks. then one day I buy a house in town and leave my village and my visits to village become irregular— a day in a month, a day in a half year, a day in a year. And

A HOUSEMAID

27th December 2019 1 Comment

Hair dishevelled, Vermillion cleansed, Skin creased, eyes sunken, Face dry, and voice choked. I ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Your uncle died.’ ‘How?’ ‘Just a fall from bed at day break.’ The cabin is dark, Decaying, Promoters warn Countless times, Saplings have grown In cracked walls, A pig, two hens, a cat Play and fight, Fight and play. Where does she go? I don’t know, The world is too big She must find her way. So I think and take my part Like an old, hairless dog Driven out by its loved master.

WHEN CHILDREN CRY

21st July 2019 2 Comments

When children cry I cry. When a girl is raped I laugh as a madman , when a clash is fought among imagined enemies I howl in pain. When a house is torched, I become its ashes. When a child cries At dead of night , I shudder. When I see the beggars Lay coiled with dogs I count my days. When I see enlightened souls Bargaining hard at potato shops And smartly use cards to pay exact And earn reward points more I praise the market. When I see the elders

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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.

Praise for my writing

“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”

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."