EXPRESSION 13TH AND 14TH COMBINED ISSUES

Posted on October - 25 - 2024
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EXPRESSION 13TH AND 14TH COMBINED ISSUES

EDITORIAL

EDITORIAL 13TH AND 14TH ISSUES OF EXPRESSION

Once in a moonlit night in my adolescence, I was enjoying the serene beauty of moonbeams flooded over the stagnant water, ripples were fleeting around our house, toads were croaking, crickets were chirping, glow worms were illuminating, crows were cawing and a swarm of Egrets fleeted away. White clouds were composing collages on the sky canvas of our imaginations. These impressions inscribed has not yet been depleted from my memoirs. And it was such an environment as if we were not in a house; the feeling was like I was in a houseboat. Then it was summer vacation of my school. And I was feeling cool at that moment. The fact is really absurd and astonishing nowadays.

why?

How?

The environment has been changed, yes, it has been changed completely by us. I am not a scientist, but I dare assume that the environment is also being mutated and creating some new unwavering, strangling claustrophobic impact on human beings. We are transforming nature with our ignorance, and ignominious greed. We are killing our environment, where we inhaled at the time of our birth and where we would last our breath.

A few days before, a heavy thunder shower awakened me from my sleep. In search of memoirs, I wished to open the window of my teens. A waft of rain brought the smell of rotten, musty stuff from nearby dumping grounds, which engulfed the room. Instead of the small ground flooded with stagnant water, a multi-storied building stands out like a demon. There were no croaking, cawing, or chirping sounds. I peeked through the building to find out the sky, which appeared to be a blurred dusky dome covered with black smoky clouds, but there was the moon still giggling from a corner. Are you too searching your memoirs? An absurd futile effort, you yourself have erased those.

I think all of you understood what I meant. We are destroying our ecological setup through deforestation, pollution of the air with harmful chemicals, filling all water bodies, and even using our groundwater without restoring rainwater harvest, thus introducing all sorts of pollution and destruction.

In an interview with ‘The Guardian’, a famous scientist and cosmologist warned us about the environment: if we want to live another 1000 years, then we have to find out a suitable environment on another space on another Earth for our living.

In the ‘Science Journal’, a paper has been published about ecological deterioration and restoration. If we want to revive our nature and want to live in an environment that existed 100 years ago, then we should maintain afforestation, planting trees per head (10 nos. at least). For that purpose, we need X acres of land, which we have more than our requirement. Then only we could get back to our previous environment.

Our realizations and choices are ours. What we have to decide is whether to search for another space in the outer world or to afforest and restore our nature step by step reducing pollution through our sincere and persistent efforts. With such ideas in mind, in the coming monsoon I will sow seeds, and implant trees of flowers and fruits whenever and wherever I will go on tour and broadcast Otherwise, we have to find out a new space that is suitable and affordable for us to live with our next generations.

We have nothing to blame others or enjoy the solace of mind. Days are chasing us, water scarcity declared in India scaring countdown has been started, no time to escape.

Tirtha Basu

CONTENTS

POETRY

1.Biswajit Chattopadhay

2) Prasanta Bhattacharya

3)Bibhas Roychowdhury

4)Bimal Dev

5) Rehan Kausik

6)Zinia Mitra

7) Anjali Das

8)Syed Kawsar Jam,al

9)Dipak Roy

10)Inam Hussain Begmullick

11)Sujanmo Sarathi

12)Prajit Jana

13)Tathagata Chakraborty

14)Farah Inam

15)Rudrajit Paul

16)Pallabi Nandy

SHORT STORIES

1)Parthapriyo Basu

2)Rehan Kausik

FICTION

1)Aveesto Basu

Idleness

Sundays are bloomsdays...

Long motionless days of static inertia

beginning with usual hunger pangs ...

Who is going to land in the basement in search of newspaper?

Who is going to make a cup of morning tea?

Habits die hard, so I die a thousand death in artificial mourning,

Mr. Ghosh's emotive speech in a TV channel about the next summer election brings relief and laughter.

And there comes a cup of tea on its own and some sleepy neurotransmitters....

I remember Mr. Russell's book of idleness with some frailty

And switch off my mobile phone.

An idle brain is not an ideal brain.

Remembering it's a long Sunday

I go off to sleep and say goodbye to morning raga and health walkers for a good couple of hours...

Scorpion

'Never argue with a dead man,’ says Thomas John

An unknown voice tells me when the clock struck four

I was going to argue with a doctor living next door

But in the morning, I came to know that he's dead and gone.

Netizens do what Jan Kochanowski did not write

I have been reading his 19 laments before the pages went blank

Are we asleep? Or dead? Or playing a prank?

When the sun is down, the invisible stars are burning bright.

Energy travelers roam around the city of joy

To write about the funeral of a silent killer

And we all know that sacred lips don't lie

Writing against your conspiracy is not enmity but a ploy

For every grieving soul there is a holy balm and a healer

Those alive here is 'Scorpion' for you to try...

My Story (Kamala Das)

The train compartment looked like a human jungle…

I could not recognize you amongst the ruins of an old half-read story.

But you were there, a palpable teenage girl, like some 14th century Indian princess reincarnated, counting your lazy fingers for her,a young relative to come and sit beside you.

I already know what was going to happen between the two of you...

But in a very intelligently crafted poem later in your life you have described the incident as a folly of nature, like moon's transient lust for a dying mountain brook.

Or may be an unripe young poet's aberration during an accidental tea break near an imaginary cemetery.

I have read you before a couple of times without knowing how you had lived your life, your forbidden love,your extra sensory sensuality, your failure to perceive a woman's infatuation without judgement.

And also, I mark my failure to demystify the cloud of your own story around midnight till dawn.

Even if I go and don't purchase your book at a minimum price (habits die hard),I shall walk back through the history of Indian English writing, yesterday today and tomorrow to secretly celebrate your 90th birth anniversary...

About the poet: He has been working as a journalist for over 30 years having association with field-reporting for a long time. He has been writing columns in newspapers for years as a political analyst apart from participation in debates on political issues over electronic media. This apart he is popular as poet, essayist and feature-writer and has made his place in the literary world with a number of books already published. He wants to be known as a person who earns his livelihood through whatever he pens.

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

After a brief stint in engineering services outside Bengal, he joined Government of West Bengal and still working. He is a passionate reader of literature and likes to express himself in different forms of literature.

Mindscape

Let the tale of river lie

Under pebbles and stones

Love reified in water colour

Makes us wait as a blue-necked

Shadow with a crown of light

Waits at the end of the road

Sound exalts in symphony

Migratory illusion flies away

Now night under the bridge is

In sleep embracing the shadow

Private Roof

Prasanta Bhattacharya

Transcreation: Goutam Chakraborty

Every roof is somehow different from the other

As is a temple on a courtyard clean

So I send the message of drying of the hair of a roof

to the rainy edition of the sky from my attic.

Dream without imagination.

There is a call from the roof

with sounds of anklets

to the cornice of a cloud.

Since no one is present

in the darkness of the roof

Khusidi looks at herself

in the bathing Spring.

Moonlight floods the

cornice of broken cloud.

Not blind is an attic

but dumb and static.

My innocent body gives

me a lesson of letters.

Fascinating songs of a cloudy day are

in search of Sun in own style of a roof

With the sound of a gentle shower

an attic gives away it's all to

the magic cradle of the Spring.

In a local train at lockdown

Prasanta Bhattacharya

Transcreation: Goutam Chakraborty

Now local trains always ply in my dreams

A solitary platform is at rest like a sharpened steel

There are soots all over my favourite station

I wish but can't get down at Hridaypur

Krishna Mohan Halt eagerly waits for me

In a neolithic hope to wake up, I set a digital alarm in the branch of an acacia tree

A carriage and a pair with no horse occupies the stretch of the road

A flying snail eases itself on 'clean India'

The sway of a local train can't disturb my sleep

A station penetrates into another

The focus of rain like a yellow light, listens to the passage of time and alights from a ship in mid-sea

The lesson of getting a friend within reach appears in mind

With the wonder of Apu and in the company of a local time table, I remain awake overnight at Diksunyapur

3) Bibhas Roy Chowdhury: Born on August 1, 1968 Sri Bibhas Roy Chowdhury is a Bengali poet, novelist and essayist. He has authored thirty books including seven novels and numerous essays in various Bengali literary magazines. He received many awards like Paschimbanga Bangla Academy Award(2013), Krittibas Award (1997), Binay Mazumdar Puraskar(2020) from Paschimbanga Kabita Academy and Nirmal Acharya Gold Medal for poetry. Some of his poems have been translated into English by Dr. Kiriti Sengupta, a well-known poet and translator, and published by Inner Child Press (New Jersey, USA) in association with Hawakal Publishers (Kolkata). He is also one of the chief advisors of the Bengali literary magazine, Kabita Ashram, and founder member and director of a theatrical troupe named Bongaon Natya Charcha Kendra.

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

Eternal

I know that you are in pain when you lift up your eyes.

In the absence of a body, it is the talent which bears with everything.

I know tears in the eyes

blinds all love,

but you have to speak about yourself.

Raise your head once...

I'm not there, but there's a sky full of emptiness...

And there is nothing to be ashamed of before the sky!

In winter there are many trees

which stand tall in this world

even after shedding off leaves...

you're like them.

I like being alone like this.

We are not crying for each other...

Not crying to own each other...

Just wailing forever to become more emptied!

At the backdrop of a sad man the earth always looks like a shadowy saint.

4)Bimal Dev

Born in 1954 at Bihar Sri Bimal Deb is very popular as a poet. He has 7 collections of poems and 5 collections of prose in his name. He is one of the editors of a film magazine and has a long association with the film movement in Kolkata. He is also associated with the Bengali Theatre. He has been writing since 70s and still continuing. He had received Bijan Bhattacharya Memorial award for his creative contribution.

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

A day of Balsara

Turn on the lamps of the auditorium, said Balsara.

I cannot play in the dark.

I don't want to play in darkness.

I want to see faces of audience and audience with faces.

There was light in the auditorium.

There was light in the communication of the artiste.

He played songs of Tagore, songs of bygone days.

He played musics from Hatari, Come September.

We were lost.

We set sail on an extraordinarily thrilling voyage.

Was it an evening on a coast, a cloudy noon or a festival of lights.

At the end of the programme Balsara came out with moist eyes.

In an impeccable voice, he said:

I have failed to play anything in this life.

A single life is not enough......

There was symphony of Beethoven all over the horizon.

Jamaika Farewell

Bimal Deb

Transcreation: Goutam Chakraborty

Torn slipper, shirt buttonless

Pocket money? Only twelve annas

All over the town is scorching sunshine

Survival or death both are equally fine

Who cares? Belafonte, you are in the core of my mind

I am penniless to go to the other side

But maestro! Your Jamaica Farewell sounds within me

I sing and walk:'Down the way where the nights are gay......'

An Elegy

(Saroj Lal Bandyopadhyay)

You loved the sky

and the

earth.

You loved people

and dreamt

day and night.

Protest and resistance

are signature

of your poems.

You were a visionary

but we are blind

without a feel.

5)Rehan Kausik

: Rehan Koushik is now a well-known name in the ambit of Bengali literature. Although he started life as a journalist he left journalism for creative writing. Currently writing is his passion and profession.

He mainly writes research-based novels apart from short stories, poems and lyrics.

Some of his notable books are Roopmati, Chitrakar, Tepantarer Swapno, Sada jahaj ebong holud projapoti, Dhyan aar dhulor bhaskarja, Ore chithi tomar shahore, Holud haaoyaar chithi, Ei aayu, ei andhokaar, Krisnachura o nadir galpo etc.

He has got many recognitions like Basudeb Deb Sangsad Samman(2014), IBRAD Samman (2016), Renuka Smriti Sahitya Samman (2018), Terminus Samman(2019), Shabdo Sanko Samman(2020) and Rendezvous Samman (2020)from Bangladesh.

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

Wreath of stanzas

I have seen much marvel

within the country and you

than the extent of magic, illusion and delusion

lying awake in the folds of fifty two cards.

After copulation every man becomes as extensive as a hill. And a woman?

She becomes a sandalwood forest flooded with moonlight.

In thousands of such letters from Chandidas

the lost faith wakes up from death

and the ninth decade left behind as well.

Amid the abounding light at dawn

drenched in dew and fog

the house of personal lingo stands silently.

Outside the fence of leadwort there is the vast expanse of a field, not exactly a field,

the country and the sunken wreath of stanzas.

Sal forest

Never be sad even if old letters are yellowed and fragile.

Just think, you have an endless sal forest today in your hands.

Think that a fleet of boats is sailing today like a jolly swarm of soft butterflies in the waters of a long river.

Think for a while why a man never turns old.

A gush of painless air blows away melancholy and darkness...

You tried but could not say anything to the person you desire.

Go and tell him today... I love you.

Think once, you have a endless sal forest today in your hands.

6)Zinia Mitra

ZiniaMitra teaches at the University of North Bengal. She has authored several books, including Indian Poetry in English: Critical Essays, Poetry of JayantaMahapatra: Imagery and Experiential Identity, and The Concept of Motherhood in India: Myths, Theories and Realities, Fourth Wave Feminism, Social Media, and (Sl)Activism. Zinia has served as a co-editor for Twentieth Century British Literature: Reconstructing Literary Sensibility and Interact. Her poetry volumes include Some Words never Sleep (Indie Blu(e), Pennsylvania ) and Fern Tunes (Hornbill Publications , Kolkata) .Her poems have been published in notable journals ; KavyaBharati, East Lit, Indian Literature (SahityaAkademi), Asian Signature, Teesta Review, Setu, and Poetry Potion, Poems India. Her translations have been featured in books and journals, including Indian Literature (SahityaAkademi) and is part of ICSE text book The Magic Place.

She was a part of a poetry project on duoethnography under the Australian Association of Writing Program. ZiniaMitra is an editorial board member of Teesta Review, an international journal of poetry. She is on the editorial board of academic journals.

I was afraid to leave your translations unfinished

I was afraid to leave your translations unfinished

reposing on the uneven slope, leave

your lines leaning against dark green pine trees, I was worried

they would find another leguminous tree for themselves, take on

indigenous hues of a different moist soil

mean a different culture.

I was afraid to leave the spaces in your lines

filled with water, for words swim across mind’s blue stream

gather mossed connotations

I was worried that they would jump into distant green fields

and grow millets instead of rice with curious insects

buzzing above them.

While you could comfortably stretch yourself in the caesural pauses

expose your arms and legs to the sunlight

to the wind

let your abundant hair loose for a while

I was worried that your turquoise cloistral silences

would grow longer, so long that we would never reach

another word as we hopped barefoot

from sun -warmed rock to cool rock, hand in hand

touching the cascading waterfall.

SoI packed your words, white spaces and punctuations

in a wicker basket promising to keep them safe

until I finished.

Seeds grew into yellow sunflowers

and returned back to dark brown seeds,

clouds broke off piece by piece into the green river

and flew back to the cerulean sky to join the tenuous clouds

tired grey eyes closed, new eyes bloomed in new landscapes

only the old buffy sparrows fleeted

from roof to roof in search of the cascading waterfall.

Halfway through my translation, an uneasy fear

brings me to the feeble waters. Will the readers now

comprehend your words ?Will the readers

understand you? Your moments of

turquoise silences? The white spaces?

Anjali Das

Smt Anjali Das is a post-graduate in psychology from Rajshahi University. She has been writing poems since her teens.Her first collection of poems is "Parir Jiban". She likes to live in the leafy pockets of poems. Her poems, stories and novels are mainly the result of her studies of the subconscious nature of human beings. She was the editor of the literary magazine 'Zebra Crossing' from 1978-81. She received Birendra Chattopadhyay Memorial Award in 2010 and the Paschimbanga Bangla Academy Award for her poems in 2014.

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

Diary of Chuni Kotal

At the third glance the esteemed enlightener forgot the trick of the dark game

The wall is now white and the veil of curses has dropped down from the head

With eyes closed I threw away the keys of the chest

Please count the number of noes over my lips and find why the tongue is black—I could not inform that finally.

I just want to reveal the forehead behind the skin to show a gold-plated script on a green slate. My mother had blessed me to grow up and to become true like the shade of a tree

I cry out to inform that I bent my head several times alone to bear with the burden of the outer space... Today is eternal rest.

Note: Chuni Kotal was a Dalit Adivasi of Lodha Sabar tribe who became the first woman graduate among the Lodha Sabars. Her death through suicide on August 16, 1992, after years of harassment by officials, united the Lodha Shabar community in a big way.

A new sum book

One – Alone in midnight,

a sandy sleep pens down the story of water in bed.

Two – They wait back to back on two sides,

with a vacuum of cloud in between and the flute is still silent.

Three – The sky has leaned in front of a third vision in absent mind,

and there may be rain.

Four – There are colourful watches on all four corners, yet there is grey in the centre,

one has never touched another.

Five – Free love in the fifth,

without any sign and favour of _Phalguna_.

Six – Six types of barbed wires,

and there is a seventh attachment before taking the decision which one is to be crossed first.

Seven – A noon without a bath;

there is water of the seven seas in the eyes yet unable to rinse a braid of hair.

Eight – The goddess made of eight metals,

wipes off her tears after the worship.

Nine – In a set of nine leaves is inscribed the names of fallen leaves;

this is memory, this is half combustion.

Ten – When nothing is visible at the end of ten horizons,

I know, desires reveal themselves according to their own rules.

Sayed Kawser Jamal

Syed Kawsar Jamal is MA in English from Calcutta University. After a brief stint in teaching, he joined All India Radio in his 20s serving all over India.

He taught journalism and mass communication as a guest lecturer in Visva-Bharati, Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan and Techno India. He has a book on radio broadcasting for students of Mass Communication.

It was only in poetry that his unfrivolous maturity was striking. With over a dozen collections, right since when 20 to his recent book, Swogotoktipray.

He is recipient of awards like Ashalata Smriti Puraskar, Sopan Sahitya Puraskar for poetry.

He has translated French poetry into Bengali including poetry of Paul Verlaine and Gerard de Nerval. He has authored a collection of essays on French poets from Victor Hugo to Rene Char.

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

SMELL OF A SEVEN -LEAF FLOWER

The talent was so brilliant that

You couldn't notice.

You are at the opposite side of the bridge, in darkness, as usual.

The full moon ends with a lack of lustre. A pale image is there like a replica of melancholy.

By now, you've developed a clear vision quite unexpectedly.

You've felt an apparent contradiction like a perplexed chapter of life.

There is only 'no' on one side and the other side is exceedingly 'yes'.

A restless tune of sarengi originating from the crises of twilight is in between.

If there is flow of light inside you, the voice of subconscious confined within percolates down from the memory and heaps darkness within the gorge.

Who dares to say that there is no beauty? The earth is grey in the telescope of talent only!

You have lost direction in the process of pursuit and lost Him in emptiness.

Void is like a rigid stair, of passion—you tried to touch the peak in this way.

Never did you try to see that even this narrow lane is charmed by the smell of a seven-leaf tree.

The touch of evil

Is the coffin ready? May I get down into those eyes?

Such a soft and serene look gives me the feel of a feather.

Touch is the thrilling memory of birth of a child, fond of love

The place where days were spent in trees—summer, winter or fall

In a land of severe cold I was in search of flowers and fruits

I searched baby birds within leaves in the hole of a tree

No one knows where the bird with red beak flew away

I have never seen your eyes covered with mist

I know not why there was a vigil along the boundary of death

There are ominous signs ignoring all forecasts of warning

A siren in the days of youth made our eyes quiver

The sound faded away in the horizon accelerating your heart-beat

So is this illusion of birth, death and show after death

There are blind wells in your eyes where I jump betting my life

In the hours of the nether world I want to settle issues to be compromised

I now place all the evils of touch in your frigid eyes.

Dipak Roy

Since birth in March,1948 Sri Dipak Roy is a resident of Chunchura, Hooghly. Though he is a post-graduate in commerce and teacher by profession, it is poetry that sustains him.

His difficult upbringing had awakened the poet within him. We see a perceptive satire in his collection "Ekhane jini thaken tini raja". His poems are multifarious reflections about life. His collection of poems include 'Sledgegari', 'Agyatabaser choddo din', 'Jagannather jibancharit', 'Akul ghanta baje ananda pathsalay', 'Grihajudder uthone rachito' and 'Basho ki likhechhe kono chaturdaspadi'.

His collection of essays include 'Padya niye gadya', 'Sholo diner Europe chobi o kobitay', 'Helafela sarabela' and 'Durer bandhu Sambhu Rakshit

TRANSCREATION BY TATHAGATA CHAKRABORTY

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

Darkness came, Babulal

Dipak Roy

Transcreation: Goutam Chakraborty

Babulal, I'll stand up today, please hold me.

Babulal, I'll stand up at the station, please hold me.

I know not where I am going after crossing a bridge amid a jingling sound;

The playgrounds, the tents, the forests and the chimney lights of brickfields pass by outside.

He requested me to get down and went away almost one year ago.

Is he still in the waiting room! My days pass by looking at his way.

It becomes dark and the night descends. Then comes the morning.

Why can't I get down, Babulal? Why can't I find the station?

Babulal, I have stood up today, hold me please.

Amid forests, darkness, tents and playgrounds

I can't find the station, hold me please.

A quintet

Dipak Roy

*Jealousy*

Jealousy

may drag one

at best from a bylane

to the highway.

Then?

*Hatred*

Hatred may pull one

down from the roof

on the third floor to

the ground floor

and drive one

onto the road.

Then?

*Anger*

Anger may pile up

and in one fell swoop

bring one to the

door of death.

Then?

*Envy*

Envy

may burn one up

and wear one out

in days,

one, two or three.

Then?

*Love*

The morning

rolls on to the noon

and to the evening later.

Then darkness descends at night.

At the end of the night

the first train in

the morning comes.

Then, with hands on

the door grill

someone is waiting...

10) Inam Hussain Begmullick

Inam Hussain Mullick

Poet and Editor, Composer, Photographer, Performance Artiste, Independent Academic

| Director-Founder-Editor, The Kolkata Arts | Poetry Editor, Erothanatos | Author of Roses for the Madhouse, Winter's Electric Architecture and The Magical Life of Inamorato | Co-editor of Peacocks In A Dream: An Anthology of Contemporary Indian English Verse, The Kolkata Cadence: Contemporary Kolkata Poets and Freedom Raga 2020

A libidinous cat

A libidinous cat
eats
the night clouds,

an insect worships
Edgar Allan Poe,

I made some moonlight
to shine
on your nakedness,

we raid
hell's auditorium
and recover
a saxophone sunset,

my sense of history
cracks,

who won the battle of Plassey?

We beguile our time
watching
a wicked star
as high appellations crumble,

the horror
the horror

a city
drenched in platinum
is your recent address,
your lips

the shade of an easy gree,

I know
your gentle face
and the wrath
within,

all is not lost,
Juliet,

in our underground opera

of contraband songs,
the blade of love
cuts less.

An Unhinged Couplet

love’s mendicants become monsoons’ pour—cornflower blue horses on a cloudy

day—hasten towards the laguna of gelatin skulls,

you gently prune solar leaves in meadows of clay orisons; the feather is a
wakened gypsy whom the unhinged, carmine wind lulls.

11)

Monideepa Chowdhury

The poet has done her masters in English and is currently teaching Computer Science and English Literature in St. Thomas Boys' School, Kidderpore, the oldest school in South Asia.

The poet is a sporadic writer of English as well as Bengali poem and short story which have been published in little magazines named Lekha Joka, MasikKobita Potro and others.

The poet is also a passionate actor, associated with the theatre group Naye Natua.

Dichotomy

Look at the girl with innocent face
Hair cut short
Reticent though
But she spoke to her gallant friend
In words so mean
Which broke the bond
That was like earth and water
Look at that truant girl
Who creases around with everyman
That passes by her earthly tresses
Flashing cigarette in her hand
But she went there on time to turn the girl from fire to flame.

The Child

You are a child said she
Go to the garden and play with flowers
While we get and seek them
Little did she know
That the child had grown up
And was in the arms of the lad
That had come to deliver
****

12)Prajit Jana

13)Tathagata Chakraborty

14)Farah Inam

Farah Imam loves to write. She lives in Kolkata, India. She has an MA in English from Presidency University

Paroxysmal

The dew falls on the flower,

The butterfly dances around,

The girl's ribbons are nude and blushed,

The vagrant passes by,

The scream of the crows,

The darkness of the shores,

And babies are carrying the huge cylinder fields,

The run and the rush,

The breath and the silence,

The spasms, the abysses, and the forced hissing of the soda bottle,

In the night when darkness shades, colours frighten,

Call me not,

I hear no sound,

The zigzag of the flies,

The humming of the mother,

The siren of an ambulance,

The scream of cars,

And the thud of the things falling around,

Sleep is lost,

They would call me again.

15)Rudrajit Paul

Dr Rudrajit Paul is a consultant physician in Kolkata.

His passion is literature in general and poetry in particular. He is bilingual and writes in both English and bengali.

He has published poems in both languages in many online and print magazines and journals, including the prestigious IPPL annual journal.

The main themes in his writings are modern life, the intrusion of technology and climate change.

Heatwave in Kolkata

The thermometer climbing up in fury

Hot winds, scorching sun

The tired leaves wilting in pain

Squirrels have nowhere to run.

Birds silent under the billboard

Leafless branches; nowhere to rest-

Water, water-just a tiny drop!

Their vision blurry in endless quest.

Once upon a time not long ago

There were shady trees; green grass

But tall towers now rule the landscape

Shining crome, steel and glass.

Everyone took up a tiny bit of nature

But the bits added up as a whole

And now we’re left with dead rivers

And a gaping ozone hole.

The last green of the city

Butterflies would dance in the verdant landscape, so free--------
Beneath the mango tree.
Monsoon rains bathed the soil, mellow afternoon sun would make it dry
The nestlings in the high branches would utter a hungry cry
As the cycle of life went on; nature, so peaceful, yet proud -----
Far from the crowd.

One day the city developers came with their bulldozer and crane
And their engineering brain.
“Wasteland” they said, as they drew up their plan
And set to work as fast as they can.
Out went the mango tree, out went the grass
As they poured in their concrete, steel and glass
Roads were made, the moon was dimmed by the electric light
Machines sang through the night.

The green shrank day by day, as the towers rose
With a proud pose.
New shops were built, new bungalow and hall
They planted exotic trees, grotesque and tall.
The air was filled with electronic beats; drowning out all sense
So intense!

A last piece of land remained in the city park behind the bus stand
A memory of the forgotten land.
Children would frolic in the park, pet dogs would bark

They played till it was too dark.
The concrete and granite would try to strangle its breath
And bring about a slow death.
But the last piece of green land remained defiant and bold
And talked with the sky about memories old.

“Its too dusty, lets make it beautiful” they said
And brought truckloads of stones to be laid.
As the shovels and axes dug deep into the land
Replacing soil with sand---------
The last patch of green in the city, its last refuge of nature was lost to time
Was it development? Or was it a crime?

Summer in the city: A Limerick

Parched streets, asphalt melting in the heat extreme,
The blinding reflections, drooping leaves-----a bad dream.
Tired souls brave the sun
Panting dogs unwilling to run
No respite in sight, just a haze of dust and steam.

Flame of the forest

It was a nondescript tree with flat green leaves
Which citizens never paid heed to.
As they passed by, oblivious of its existence,
The tree was barely visible behind the tin shacks
And heaps of garbage.
A tree at the edge of the road, almost covered in billboards and electric wires.

Then one fine morning, as citizens were walking down the grey path
They noticed a change in the skyline.
Against a backdrop of the greyish sky and the ochre skywalk
Was a magical riot of colours.
A jamboree of red, a sudden sprout of the scarlet.
The tree, leafless, was full of red flowers.
Branches which had seemed almost dead a day ago were now
Full of a flaming red inflorescence.
Unknown birds were chirping on the branches.
It seemed as if the billboards and electrical wires had melted away in the face of
such beauty
The brown and the black of the city were pale in comparison to the vivacity of the
red.
A reality or a short lived dream?
Flame of the forest was blooming in the lifeless city.

A banyan tree

It was as old as the frescos in Ajanta hill
Aerial roots tangled like a painting of Amrita Sher-Gil
An epitome of time, as it stood still.

Many a nameless bird has built its nest
In that secret world at the tree crest
In its cool shade everyone is a welcome guest.

16)Pallabi Nandy

PALLABI NANDY is a teacher-facilitator, who aspires to inspire young minds. She likes weaving dreams into verses and also enjoys literary achievements of her peers. She is a thought writer, penning down her thoughts that echo the human experience, crafting tales of wonder and empathy

KINDLED WINTER
Silver, white, and glittering red
Christmas decorations on the spread
Vibrant windows and frosted buildings
The sound of church bells still rings
Reminding one of the approaching winters
The hungry hearth devours endless cinders
With her icy fingers and graceful gait
The silver queen penetrates
The earth and our hearts alike
The frozen skin burst open from the strike
Allowing a budding seed to sprout
A warm feeling lingers within and without.
Whispers so soft, of dried brown leaves
Winter advances through bare trees
Resting snowflakes and dangling icicles
The mad queen twirls her skirt’s frosty ripples
She beckons and mesmerised we follow
And in her pleasures, we blissfully wallow.
Steaming hot cocoa, sweet cinnamon buns
Hugs and snuggles for loved ones.
Dressed up, the city looks like a regal bride
With silvery attire and blue-grey skies
Veiled under a foamy white blanket
Embellished with bright ornate trinkets.
We find beauty in icy puddles and frosty lakes
In handmade cards and goods well baked
We put old malice into the pyre, and
Revisit the halls of Hogwarts by the fire, as
Neither autumn, nor summer, or even fall,
Winter is the warmest season of all.

THOUGHTS WITHHELD WITHIN
Bring me a drop of gold
And I will burn myself to cure thee.
Selfish might I seem
For I wander not into your world.
Bless those who cannot seem to fathom
My love for the fire of gold.
Burn in crimson flames
Bringing the wings to ashes,
Fall, fall, fall,
Each feather with a silver shine,
The glitter of thy smile
Outshines them all.
The pen breaks
The ink runs
With all the might of the Art.
Blessed be the Mind,
That falls for
The curious Heart.

A physicist turned Signal & Telecommunication engineer, SujanmoSarothi(aka Amit K. Kamila) is a small time writer of Bengali short fictions and poetry. He is an avid tracker of world literature also. He had two published books of short fictions titled Tycho Brahe's Sky(টাইকোব্রাহেরআকাশ) and Of The Green Beneath The Blue(আকাশেরনীচেযেটুকুসবুজ, তার). Recently he has transcribed selected pieces of John GUZLOWSKI(Echoes Of Tattered Tongues) and Raymond Carver(What We Talk About When We Talk About Love) for the local Bengali magazines.

Sujanmo, after retiring from Indian Railways, concentrates on writing full time and studying quantum consciousness of oneness from the city of Kolkata, India.

DIVINE INTERVENTION

of all your avatars

broomstick in hand

is the most

striking

throughout summer

the pigeon couple would gather

small dried twigs

sneak through the side gap of the balcony net

dry grass in mouth

say a silent hi to me

cross the length of the balcony on tiptoe

and place them gently in the corner sink

'brick by brick' as they say

all this, betraying your prying eyes

finally with the first drop of the seasonal rain

the pigeon duo joined in a ceremonial dance

‘bak bakam bak bakam bak bak bakam’

signalling completion

but not without inviting your attention

you pleaded vociferously

in response to the pigeon couple's apparent

betrayal and summoned your broomstick-in

hand persona in the balcony frame

outside it the pigeon couple's entreating eyes

with egg heavy female counterpart's nurtured

possibilities my reverse pleading

and appeal to invisible jurisprudence

just fell short of convincing you

the kind landlady eavesdropping

from the neighbouring balcony

came to the rescue

'let it be, i won't mind,'

chided she

softly smiling

all through

the nest, the eggs and

the future offspring

all were saved thus

at least for the

time being

you also had other regular enemies

the dust, the flies, the cockroaches

and the mosquitos

to fight against

in your broom

stick-in-hand

avatar

you do not know Bernoulli's theorem

it hardly matters to you that such a thing

ever existed

but whenever you fly

you would prefer a window seat

just above one of those huge wings

our marital abode on the fifteenth floor

located close to the country's busiest airport

the expanse above the verdant hills

traces a path for incoming flights

the approaching plane still far far away

will hang on like a stationary dot

due to vast distance

you will tell me, look, it has come to a halt

for the airport signal

i'll argue against: if it halts, it will descend to the ground but you don't care

you thought a plane just happens to exist

just as a blade of grass

or a cockroach or a lizard

does

and can stand still mid-air

you believed, when gods do aerial survey

their chariots will hang on in space

every now and then

directly below our window

there's a pond

a kingfisher was concentrating on its catch deep

inside water

keeping itself fixed at a point in space

while flapping its wings

violently up and down

'why this damned thing can't do the job without fluttering

its wings?' you quipped

and looked at me

I stared back

and shrugged.

*******

Biswajit Das

Age 64 yrs . A man interested in History of partition with reference to colonial and persianate age. A die hard fan of poetry and good Novels . Likes to read . Last wish to die while reading a favourite book. A retiree of a small time state govt service.

Transcreation by Tathagata Chakraborty

Tathagata Chakraborty: Born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, Tathagata moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier's college.

Nivasashi or Meghabati

I think I'll wander now in
some airy thoughts.
It will be like burrowing into the heart of the tree as a woodpecker.
I think you haven't written anything in the appendix at all.
The words don't come running at me with ecstasy anymore.
Did you call me while walking away?
Like the whistle of an engine
it settled within, louder and louder.
Please come and hug me, Nivasashi ,
centuries old, or
a Meghbati , like
the Shillong showers.
Write anything in the appendix,
even if it is wrong.
If it is totally wrong,
let it be so.
Oh woodpecker, or Nivasashi , centuries old... please listen to me.
No, let it be Meghabati ... only Meghabati .

Parthapriyo Basu

The curtain is heavy

cannot swing freely

unfolding creases

movement brings forth swinging shadows

not the curtain itself fearful

but oscillating non-existent shadows

colour printed bright

but don't compose a pattern

pattern diverts mind to regularity

is regularly essential?

not so.

colour make impression

impression is all

Life delayed like an Indian Train

lagging behind time

people running fast

how fast?

faster than life

life can't cope with

lifeless people reach the barren

finally life appears

people can't connect

No roots

they speak

rootless speeches

darkness in disguise

false beard, fake spects

identity anonymous

broken self camouflaged

fearful, repetitive, cornered

shows closed, curtain dropped

heavy, shadowed in cleaveges

climbers to the cliff top

other side is free fall

survive on razor's edge

no water, no food, no shelter

climb down the well

well of death

only flying saves

fly like Birds, migrant wetland seekers

stay calm

poised, slow

believers in untoward

grow camping habits

translate nature

Chandrani Mukherjee

Chandrani Mukherjee is a teacher at a city school by professionand a poet by hobby. She is a member of the Inter cultural Poetry and Performance Library.

The Pilgrimage

Just an ordinary day it was.

I was sitting by a brook

Flowing by like a trickle,

Musical in its tune.

The grass beside waved gaily

As the first rays gently kissed its dewy blade.

Far away, the mountains rose out of their sleep

Like wisened men -

Grey with years

Wrinkled, silvery, knowing.

Heads bowed.

Hands folded in prayer.

I felt a tug.

Mesmerized I looked on as the splendor of the sun

Gradually warmed me to the core of my being.

The golden halo dispelled the momentary darkness

And filled all the dark crevices.

Shaking off my stupor, I limped forward with my broken limbs behind a band of pilgrims -

Towards the roughened feet of the Conscious.