আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি সহাস্যে জঙ্গল বিনাশ করেন। আমি কান্না করি যখন আপনি হৃদয়ে দেওয়াল নির্মাণ করেন আর নিজের গণ্ডীকে আরও দুর্ভেদ্য
Ask not my country Or state. Ask not my trade Or job. Ask not my tongue Or region. Ask not the colour
Tagore! You are our poet, our identity, Our leader, our mentor, To whom we return At dark nights and in shining days. Tagore! You
1 Bilkis! you are not Lucrece you have no lily hand or rosy cheek and your eyes are not marigolds, hair not golden threads
Are you the children of the forest? Else what are you doing amid The bare, old, ghost trees? Orphans you are not, For,
a poem on love, beauty,death.
A dawn in winter, And the sun’s first rays Glowed the stubble-field. Yonder a hundred herons, Milk white, Basked on a treetop. From
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
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.
It was noon, but the rays mellow and soft! Let’s stand awhile on Dyna Bridge, dear, under which River Torsha moaned meandering naked, unabashed!
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."