Every day Bathunda rose from bed before the sunrise. But today he lay asleep even after the glowing sun kissed his yard. He had no strength to rise from bed. He visualised again yester night’s terrible incident. Bathunda left house early in the morning. He hoped of buying some rice anyhow. But at night he returned home with empty hand. His wife and children were still waiting for him. Bathunda could not look at them. He accused himself that he was an unlucky man. He shouted in pain and rage, “No longer I can bear the burden of the family.
Four corners I have In one are buried my ancestors. In the next There sleeps a cooking pot. Over the third thatched roof has a hole through that rain and sun peep, There is also a plastic flower, brought from fair ages ago, now Sullied with soot. And in the darkest There is a cot, lousy Worm-infested, And when when we sit It creaks.
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."