When children cry I cry. When a girl is raped I laugh as a madman , when a clash is fought among imagined enemies I howl in pain. When a house is torched, I become its ashes. When a child cries At dead of night , I shudder. When I see the beggars Lay coiled with dogs I count my days. When I see enlightened souls Bargaining hard at potato shops And smartly use cards to pay exact And earn reward points more I praise the market. When I see the elders
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
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."