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
a poem on love, beauty,death.
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.
Her man stole a neighbourhood girl, And went Arunachal a long ago, When Munni crawled in her Belly, swollen to burst. She lived at
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."