Don’t fear, dear, I do no harm, I promise, For one eve let me sit beside you. She coldly stares, and her Eyes fixed
When children cry I cry. When a girl is raped I laugh as a madman , when a clash is fought among
Four corners I have In one are buried my ancestors. In the next There sleeps a cooking pot. Over the third thatched roof
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
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."