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
Who are in charge of the destiny of our boys? nobody, they make their own destiny. When I get a job, my worries for tomorrows’ dal and rice gone and I manage time to ponder over our boys. At first I’m pained to see them lolling under our pakur tree dawn, noon, afternoon, evening the same boys, the same talks. then one day I buy a house in town and leave my village and my visits to village become irregular— a day in a month, a day in a half year, a day in a year. And
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."