Twice a month I go to Hariahati and drink haria Among the drunkards, peasants and labourers all, Two pigs skinned and men have their
I love you, You are so good! You pledge your life For a square meal, Day you toil and night You sleep and populate, Evening
Gone were the days When men swarmed her hut, And passed metamorphic nights. She was a peerless beauty, Tall and stout, and an
And when the sun sets, and darkness descends We have to cross the river. No pain, no sorrow, no dirge, no lamentation. Why do
An Old Man on a Wooden Bridge An old man sat on an old wooden bridge amid the forest deep Beneath ran a hidden mossy
A twilight scene at Kadambini Tea Estate planted long long ago by the colonial masters. Birds sang, the sun sank, and tribal men went hutwards.
At Kunjanagar beside the potholed street stood I at blazing sunset lone. The orange cloudlets scattered the western horizon. Slowly evening descended, and tiny dew
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."