reader submission
POETRY / My scarlet incarnation
Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
Poetry / Bombardment
What’s life if a sense of darkness/ doesn’t connect night to sunlight
Poetry / Silent screams
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Poetry / Prompts
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
Poetry / The colour of revolution is red
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
Poetry / Black swan
from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached
Poetry / House of god
I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.
Poetry / Oak cognacs
From moon beamed mountains To plains deltaic; In Diasporas–detached
Creative nonfiction / Anjuman and the stories of the mango people
My father’s ancestors were Ayurvedic medicine men from a remote corner of the North Bengal. A few generations ago, one of them had cured a long-lasting ailment of the Raja of Taherpur and had received, as a reward, a large chunk of agricultural land or “joat” next to the mighty Joshoi Beel.
My scarlet incarnation
Being a woman comes to me naturally If not me, then who? I was never asked to be one I was never asked to cook
Bombardment
What’s life if a sense of darkness/ doesn’t connect night to sunlight
Silent screams
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Prompts
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
The colour of revolution is red
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
Black swan
from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached
House of god
I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.
Oak cognacs
From moon beamed mountains To plains deltaic; In Diasporas–detached
Anjuman and the stories of the mango people
My father’s ancestors were Ayurvedic medicine men from a remote corner of the North Bengal. A few generations ago, one of them had cured a long-lasting ailment of the Raja of Taherpur and had received, as a reward, a large chunk of agricultural land or “joat” next to the mighty Joshoi Beel.
Diphylleia grayi
The burst of fragrant marigolds on the blanched porch of our old Calcutta home, free like sand, unbridled like the wind
