“Hey poet! Why do you look so sad? Searching seven heavens you bring home a queen at last. Be happy, and enjoy forever life of conjugal bliss.” I commended. The poet eyed me with a queer look and said nothing. He sat on haunches in the backyard of his hut, and writing a suicide note on a piece of crumpled paper. “Are you mad?” I said, and snatched the note and tore it into pieces. The poet looked vacant. He hung his head between his knees, and sat silent. I feel awkward. Till this morning I enjoyed each moment of
One late summer afternoon I was returning back from the day’s rambling around Sarugaon tea garden. I surveyed the long green carpets stretched miles after miles, sometimes wavy like a foamy sea, sometimes like a placid and stagnant green lake. My eyes feasted on the rain trees dotted the garden, and glistening plumes of a flock of white herons flying lazily over my head. Adivasi women plucked the tender buds and leaves, and men caressing the trees. Naked children roamed and played in the yards, elderly women sat silent and sad in front of their huts. The rays of the sun
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."