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.
Wonder
I feel my rage, ma, a living thing;/ A beast, caged, like me
Storm child
You must have heard the story of your birth a thousand times by now, sweetheart. Your mother and I—home alone.
All that I’d despicably known / Things I wish I didn’t know
All that I’d despicably known / Things I wish I didn’t know–
Omniscient
Skin sticky with perspiration from a long month of June
All that I shouldn’t have known
What I wish I didn’t know is that when your dear friends whisper the word “psycho” behind your back, you’ll grow up accepting it.
The things I wish I had never known
I skip talking to myself for hours / The “me time”, before going to bed
The journey
If you travel on a bus, always take the window seat.
The exiled daughter
Is it true that when we migrate, we lose a few people from our past?
After the rain
Again, I wasn’t a poet, but words and sentences jumbled up seeing that small face, light make-up enhancing her beauty. A loose strand of hair cascaded down her cheek, framing her face.
The golden hat
It was not a question one would ask as he did/ With his round glasses at the end of his nose