সবে সন্ধ্যা নেমেছে।আকশের গা বেয়ে তারাদের ফুল ফোটেনি এখনও।আর ফুটলেও দেখার উপায় নেই। ট্রাকের অনবরত যাতায়াতে চারিদিক ধূলাময়।অবশ্য কৃষকরা ওসব গায়ে মাখে না। মাখলে কি আর চলে। এখনই তো দু পয়সা ঘরে তোলার সুযোগ।বছরভর তো এরা সব হা পিত্তেশ হয়ে দিন গোনে এই দিন কয়েকের জন্য। যেদিকে চোখ যায় সে একই অনবদ্য দৃশ্য। আলুর অজস্র বস্তা নিপুন শিল্পীর হাতে পড়ে মাঠে অতন্দ্র পাহারারত। বেশি তো নয়, মাস খানেক আগেই মাঠ ছিল সবুজ কার্পেটে আচ্ছাদিত। আর আজ সব ধূলাময়। মাটির সাথে এদের টক-মিষ্টি সম্পর্ক।ফসল বুনতে মাটির উপর রুক্ষ হাতে ফালা চালায়। আবার সেই ফসল ঘরে তুলতে সেই মাটির সাথেই কি ছেনালিপনা!
Category: Short Fiction
“কেমন আছো?” “ভালোরে ভাই।” মুখে হাসি নেই, চোখের সেই ঝিলিক নেই, শরীরের সেই ভাষা নেই। “কোথায় থাকিস?” “বনে জঙ্গলে।” আমাকে আজাদ ভাই এবং উনার মতো আরও অনেকে ভদ্র ছেলে হিসেবে জানে। কিন্তু এখন এই ছেলে যে খানিকটা বাউরা হয়েছে তা উনাদের জানা নেই। আর থাকবেই বা কী করে? বছরে দু বার বা তিন বার দেখা হয়।তাও আবার দু একদিনের জন্য।ফলে এরকম উত্তর পেয়ে আজাদ্ ভাই কিছুটা উশখুশ করে। “কার কাছে খাও না নিজে করো?” “তোর ভাবি মারা যাওয়ার পর থেকে কিছুদিন নিজে। পরে হ্যাবল ও সাত্তার আমকে ভাগ করে নিয়েছে। দু সপ্তা ছোট ছেলে আর দু সপ্তা বড়োর কাছে। ভালো
“Tut, tut! Come quick, help my hair,” a well-built, bald man, aged fifty, hitched up the dirty curtain and stormed into the lean-to, and sat heavily on the lonely rusted wooden chair. He was admiring his look before the cracked mirror, and crooned. He turned his head side to side, and happily twitched a week’s grey beard. The boy just opened the shop and was sweeping the floor. His head spun, and he muttered, “Ugh! The day is lost!” “Why moving lips, my boy? Have you cut tongue with your tiger teeth?” Mr Saputa carelessly asked without turning his head.
its a tale of a over-enthusiastic village party worker who goes to meet his leader in a city gathering. It narrates his hopes, harassments, crude realisation, and so.
In an early morning in late September I made a visit to Kunjnagar haat. The street from Falakata to Kunjnagar was almost deserted. A few peasants in lungi and napkin sat on haunches on the both sides of the street and smoked bidis and began day’s gossip. The village was all silent. Rows of betel nut trees guarded the tin-roofed huts. I passed the neighbourhood and came soon to the open ploughed fields and drove straight to the haat. Some dogs lied at one corner of the haat like logs of wood. The haat was littered with plastic cups, bottles,
One winter afternoon I went to Galakata haat. It was on the western side of Jaldapara forest. On a clear noon one could eye the treetops of the forest, swaying and singing, from the haat. And in the evening one could see the line of men and women carrying homes loads of lakri and pieces of timber on their heads from the forest. They were all set towards their huts. Of course there were some patches of greenery and some acres of tea foliage, and some peasant huts stood at the extreme outskirts of the forest. But the tall trees
In a late winter afternoon I sauntered around Moiradanga village. The day was one of the coldest of the year. People were happy as such a chill weather with five or six degrees they found after 150 years or so, as many dailies claimed. Most of the villagers stayed at home, and street was almost deserted. The sun reclined on the west, and it lost its blaze and splendour. And it seemed that one could touch the mellowed ball of fire, so low it hung overhead. The layers of mists began to set on the icy air. It made the
The scene was magnificent. A pyre was burning and the peasants, all drunk, were chanting bolo hari, hari bol; bolo hari, hari bol. Some were crying loud, some were sobbing, some sat terribly silent. It was monsoon. The fields and ponds were alike with water everywhere. The rain stopped for a while and the dark clouds disappeared. Instead, streaks of fleecy cloudlets covered the face of the setting sun. A huge tamarind tree stood resolute by the burning pyre. The pyre was laid on a rugged brick structure in a raised land by the side of a big pond. Men
Two middle aged men sat on an iron bench at Falakata station. One was stout and clean shaven, and wore a business suit and his tensed eyes set on his laptop. The second man, gaunt and bearded, wore slippers and faded pants, and his eyes fixed to the distant whitish Kanchenjunga. The station was empty. Only some beggars and stray dogs lay under the tin shed. It was 10 a.m., and till 11.30 no trains would stop. At times a mail train speedily passed, leaving a trail of smoke and dust behind. The beggars then stirred their limbs, and fell
Teja, the great old man, aged seventy five, was sitting on his haunches on the open yard of his tin-hut. He was all bare, except a short napkin stuck to his loin. He was huge, over six feet and well-built. He was almost bald, and his thick eyebrows all white, nose sharp. The man was clean-shaven. He had bulging muscles, though loosened at the burden of age. His face was square, and eyes small but keen. And the veins of his neck, when he spoke, twitched, and stirred. His marooned teeth were in perfect array, and he enjoyed his food
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."