‘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
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
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’
প্রশ্ন আমি করবই হ্যাঁ, তবে ‘আমেরিকা, রাশিয়া, ইত্যাদি’-র রাষ্ট্রনায়ক কারা, বা ‘মহামন্দির মহামসজিদ কবে শুরু হবে ভারতে’ বা ‘আজকের নিফটি কত’, না এরকম কিছু নয়।
At global village We are the happiest beings. We’ve trammelled long grass, cut forests Mined earth’s gold out of its aching belly, Made holes
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
O, lovely trees! In winter you shed And in spring you bloom In hot summer days Under your shade Peasants rest, birds carouse.
By the river bank At the forest edge The sun goes down. Water turns gold, And sky orangey. Columns of white herons Perch
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.
“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
"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."