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SUKRA ORAON

4th December 2018 4 Comments

In an early morning in late September I made a visit to Kunjnagar haat. The street from Falakata to Kunjnagar was almost deserted. A few peasants in lungi and napkin sat on haunches on the both sides of the street and smoked bidis and began day’s gossip. The village was all silent. Rows of betel nut trees guarded the tin-roofed huts. I passed the neighbourhood and came soon to the open ploughed fields and drove straight to the haat. Some dogs lied at one corner of the haat like logs of wood. The haat was littered with plastic cups, bottles,

HOSSEIN, THE RHINO FIGHTER

4th December 2018 No Comments

One winter afternoon I went to Galakata haat. It was on the western side of Jaldapara forest. On a clear noon one could eye the treetops of the forest, swaying and singing, from the haat. And in the evening one could see the line of men and women carrying homes loads of lakri and pieces of timber on their heads from the forest. They were all set towards their huts. Of course there were some patches of greenery and some acres of tea foliage, and some peasant huts stood at the extreme outskirts of the forest. But the tall trees

SANTALPARA

4th December 2018 2 Comments

Bored being confined by four walls, I set out for Santalpara Where I hear rustics sit idle whole day And drink, brawl and do nothing. A fine drizzle washed the forest path a while ago, And yonder the fairy trees all stand naked And sacred. I wish to be hugged But no rays enter there, no path laid. Forest I cross, and come to Santalpara, But where are the Santal peasants? Heaps of tourists’ waste—plastic bottles, beer cans, dotted condoms, And painted, flashy faces, and civilized prattle. Ten minutes stay I there, and convulsed, And again come

AN OLD MAN ON A WOODEN BRIDGE

7th July 2018 8 Comments

An Old Man on a Wooden Bridge An old man sat on an old wooden bridge amid the forest deep Beneath ran a hidden mossy creek, and beyond, The trees were lovely, dark and green, and the grassy path lay virgin. Fish scuttled and dived head high, and the cool black water swirled. The old man with shaking hands and legs trembled Sat there for hours, and admired the awful scene. Twilight and the tinged cloudlets Sailed across the sea blue sky, And a flock of white herons gleamed, and lazily went by. He looked each side,

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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.

Praise for my writing

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Praise for my poem "Elderly Men Two"

"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."