Star Literature
FICTION / The hawk and the mice
Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save.
FICTION / Ira in my town
After many years, Ira has returned to my town. She hops four towns to get here. We are supposed to meet today. I’ve been ready since morning. We will meet by the lakeside.
POETRY / The ghost of Arun Das
Raise no alarm, if on a night dimly lit,
ESSAY / A surreal graphic novel by Subimal Misra
As I read Subimal Misra–I was therefore seized by the urge to bring out his stories, or "anti-stories", in graphic form
POETRY / October: An unfinished poem
Glamorous lightweight raindrops from the October sky keep
POETRY / Silence
A star fell on the ground in the windy night
ESSAY / On the national anthem of Bangladesh: An apologetic discourse (part two)
The question here should be: Why does the nationality of the poet matter if the sentiment and emotional dimensions are the central focus that keeps the dynamic of a national anthem active?
POETRY / Republic of the dead
As if playing a game of chess / Still the world waits for the next dawn
REFLECTIONS / Utpal Dutt and the new dawn
The audience for the jatra was all any Marxist theatre director in Kolkata could have wished for.
The tall and short of it
It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.
Valley of blood
teardrops trickling down / the valley / mingling with the static— / hollow waves of Kaptai lake
My heart's longevity comes from my maa's magnifying kindness
Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness
Alone beneath the mountains
His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."
Stories of passing strangers
My train just started / I found my seat / When she called me
A night in Kalimpong
As I turn back, my eyes catch sight of what appears to be hands, but of a tan, furry kind, feeling its way inside the sliding doors
On travel and writing
It is perhaps not an overstatement to say that humans are, at their core, wanderers.
Hazardous miasma
The night smoke carries out the riots of innocents,
The creek drank the sorrows you sang to
Rose-tinted glasses are just red, and I have painted myself with the color now that the hollow of your eyes isn’t there, now that
City of bougainvillea
“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.