Every day Bathunda rose from bed before the sunrise. But today he lay asleep even after the glowing sun kissed his yard. He had no
Category: Short Fiction
“My boy, where do I bury my dying jute plants? The canals, the ditches and the rivers are dry as a bone. There was not
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
“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
“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
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
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
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
“Hey poet! Why do you look so sad? Searching seven heavens you bring home a queen at last. Be happy, and enjoy forever life of
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."