Tagore! You are our poet, our identity, Our leader, our mentor, To whom we return At dark nights and in shining days. Tagore! You are a torch-bearer, A cool shade to trammeled millions. Wo/man you celebrate And we are your avowed followers Our land you inherit And make us tall Before the eyes of the world. Thousand miles of woes and wounds You walk alone with calm and poise, And we wonder how! You are a symbol of protest Against unreason, superstitions, Bordered minds, narrowed walls Of caste, creed, religion, language And we love you
“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
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."