Today Indian Muslims are falling like autumn leaves, Hot election days or calm winter nights Spread the same aroma of blood and deaths, Alien even to age old ‘good’ neighbours, Barred to beautiful blocks they live and die in ghettos, Naked, they are lynched even in resorts, A poor race known only for wrong reasons, Used, abused, exploited, killed by better brothers. A few, however, wear mask of bhadralok, They have painstakingly mastered the art To be quiet in crushing quakes, floods or fires. The rest, only wagons, carrying filth of masters’ fiefdom. Who have betrayed the sinless country lovers?
a poem on love, beauty,death.
The scene was magnificent. A pyre was burning and the peasants, all drunk, were chanting bolo hari, hari bol; bolo hari, hari bol. Some were crying loud, some were sobbing, some sat terribly silent. It was monsoon. The fields and ponds were alike with water everywhere. The rain stopped for a while and the dark clouds disappeared. Instead, streaks of fleecy cloudlets covered the face of the setting sun. A huge tamarind tree stood resolute by the burning pyre. The pyre was laid on a rugged brick structure in a raised land by the side of a big pond. Men
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."