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,
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
Between the Jaldapara forest and the village lay an acre of land, cultivated, furrowed, unweeded. Yards had patches of all sorts of vegetables, maize, and tall lean betel nut trees. Men and women still working on their fields. Children were all barefoot and some of them had running nose. Elderly men and women sat on their haunches on the dusty path, and gossiped. It was winter. The day was chill and icy. The sun for the whole day hid his face under the veil of smoky clouds. And a mild breeze blew. It added more bitterness to the cold. Still
Last week I visited nine or ten school children. The school was in the middle of a Adivasi village. The children sat on the dry grass and dust, and the headmaster on a red plastic chair. I spent a hour with them. The children all were wonderful, and the teacher was so kind. And I loved the place. The school was surrounded three sides by vast farm lands, and only by one side a path went to the interiors of the village. It was late noon, and the weary winter days were in adieu mood. The trees began to shed
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
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."