By the river bank At the forest edge The sun goes down. Water turns gold, And sky orangey. Columns of white herons Perch
Are you the children of the forest? Else what are you doing amid The bare, old, ghost trees? Orphans you are not, For,
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
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
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.
It was sunset lone The sky deep orange, and the birds lined For homecoming, and lazily they gleamed. Thirteen peasants angling, their eyes fixed
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
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."