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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

droplets began falling. The birds went home and stopped their songs and fell soon

asleep. But a wayward parrot flicked in the air still. Later a full moon bathed the

harvested field, and crickets sang incessant, and eyes feasted on fireflies’ dance round

the bogs. Frogs croaked, and the clusters of stars hung heavy over me. The silence

broken by the occasional barking of the dogs and motorcycles’ whiz. The air was heavy

with scent of the woods and herbs. Looking at the patterns of the stars and the fireflies I

glimpse a heaven.


a young boy collects for cooking, twigs, and dried leaves from a shredded tea bagan

long planted. The garden once boasted of its charm and magic, with lush green foliage,

and the beautiful rain trees spotted the long stretches of the horizon. Now it lost its

charisma; poverty, and illiteracy, and lack of a square meal run its nourishers. The

‘coolies’, once they were so, and they all came from ‘Goomla’, Chhotanagpur, now

Jharkhand. A paltry payment after in weekend, and all they gather to haats, for haria,

and the vegetables, and groceries. Hardworking lot, from sun to moon they labour, now

not in tea gardens, but in some in the houses of Falakata babus.

Visit a haat, and see the charisma of GOD!

labouerers, unfed, half-fed, barefoot, children’s noses running, And the Adivasi women

selling ‘haria’ for a bare living, or somewhere, they even sell their emaciated bodies,

breasts lost the sense

of erection, all dull flesh, and the nipples dried, black.

Body twisted, and scarred, through the years shine, and shower, and male turpitudes,

I see on haats, or in pavements dry, or in bus stops, children sucking pale, pale mothers,

and they try hard to cover breasts with one end of their sullied torn sarees,

Sometimes, mothers don’t care at all men’s lustful gazes. I see it at Gayerkata haat too.

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Abu Siddik

Abu Siddik

It's all about the unsung , nameless men and women around us. I try to portray them through my tales. I praise their undying suffering and immaculate beauty. And their resilience to life's vicissitudes, oddities, and crudities I admire. They are my soulmates who inspire me to look beyond the visible, the known, the common facade of the educated and the intellectuals.

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  1. Its ⅼike you read my mind! You appear to know a lot ɑbout this, like you wrote the book in it or
    sometһing. I thіnk that yⲟu coᥙld do with a few pics to drive
    the message һome a bit, but other than that, this is fantastic blog.
    A fantastic read. I ᴡill cеrtainly be back.

    • thank you very much hermetic. I really appreciate your comment. you love it and me happy. if you have a site, plz share with me so that I can also read your mind.
      Thank you.

  2. This is a fantastic poem, jolted my senses and disturbed me ( which only an extraordinary poem does), for portraying the condition of these people – a forgotten lot. Tragic !
    Please post this on your wall so more people get to read it and perhaps make a small dent in the somnolent collective consciousness.


    • mam your comment and appreciation I like most. I like your posts as they have capacity to stand alone amid the crowd. and people like you truly make my life much richer and beautiful as well.
      Thank you very much.

  3. Beautiful lines, every year I go over there as the nature has the mesmerising power, your poetry enables me to realise that special beauty beyond the beauty I have experienced.

    • mam thank you for reading and enjoying the poem. your poignant comment I appreciate much. and I like your posts as they have a separate thought line.

  4. I do an English course, and the lesson this week speaks in muisica where he talks about falling raindrops … really beautiful fantastico his poems … thank you very much for sending me the address of this blog

  5. Very well etched the lives of these people…what makes the story so poignantly telling is the beauty of the language the writer uses.Sad is it not that there are so many among us Indians who strive so hard to make both ends meet, especially when there are those rolling in money, not knowing what to do with their immense wealth.Will there be any chance of these people leading a normal life, with enough money to meet their needs

    • thank you very much mam for sparing your precious moments. I like your appreciation. and your message is truly an inspiration. love your posts mam as you have a unique angle to looking at the world.

  6. Good lines become wonderful when those touch our soul .And our soul pleads to nature & it’s includings .Those who able to hear the whispers of it be a real painters .So it is not only a poem but also a painting of nature & nature beings .

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Subhash Chandra
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