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!
Her man stole a neighbourhood girl, And went Arunachal a long ago, When Munni crawled in her Belly, swollen to burst. She lived at
Twice a month I go to Hariahati and drink haria Among the drunkards, peasants and labourers all, Two pigs skinned and men have their
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."