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
Gone were the days When men swarmed her hut, And passed metamorphic nights. She was a peerless beauty, Tall and stout, and an elusive broad smile Always stuck her. Body shapely and muscular, eyes, large And liquid, Hair long, thick and black, and Men bought gifts night and day. Traces of beauty still she holds, But her old suitors tread her yard no more. At times a few drunken strangers visit her. She then shriek, ‘I sell flesh no more,’ And drive the strangers out, But clients she can’t dissuade thus. So she hung
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."