i am a Marxixt and I have built a sweet home with tatas who with military forces destroyed adivasi villages in Kalinganagar. i am a Marxist and my home is built with bricks made of blood red of tender limbs. i am a Marxist and my children hate vernacular, low lands and plains, and dream of inhaling pure air of Canada, Texas, Bristol, New York, Chicago. i am a Marxist and I never raise my voice for the rights of adivasis, muslims or other outcastes and I collect plods to renew the old walls of status
One late summer afternoon I was returning back from the day’s rambling around Sarugaon tea garden. I surveyed the long green carpets stretched miles after miles, sometimes wavy like a foamy sea, sometimes like a placid and stagnant green lake. My eyes feasted on the rain trees dotted the garden, and glistening plumes of a flock of white herons flying lazily over my head. Adivasi women plucked the tender buds and leaves, and men caressing the trees. Naked children roamed and played in the yards, elderly women sat silent and sad in front of their huts. The rays of the sun
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."