that single spot, shunyo, a hole that is filled to its circumference, I drive and the sun is bigger than I’ve ever seen and orange, look directly into it or, i had to write a poem to go along with the first

His face was growing warmer, it seemed as though the intangible entity that was stinging his closed eyes was growing stronger.

Love is the enormous mango tree growing directly from an ancient grave, so old that no headstone remains at all.

from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached

I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.

From moon beamed mountains  To plains deltaic; In Diasporas–detached 

This poem has been translated by the author from Zahir Raihan’s poem, ‘Kotogulo Kukurer Artonad’ on account of the novelist, writer and filmmaker’s birth anniversary.

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.

The burst of fragrant marigolds on the blanched porch of our old Calcutta home, free like sand, unbridled like the wind

To sit on thy laurels seems apposite, Yet to dig graves for perceptive pleasure resemble a breach Of lines bridging the things learned, unlearned.

We walk past the singing bells and our chambers, Blind to the perils beyond our walls.

I am from the 19 houses in 15 districts, none of which could become "my home, sweet home"  

The motor car is always a thing of darkness, In the sun and lighted roads of day And in the luminous gas at night though 

I found a gold pendant which I decided to keep. I wore it around my neck and looked in the mirror. Did my mother ever wear this pendant?

I frolic and burrow myself inside the vastness of the fields And the prairies that stand tall Of spaces heavily concentrated, and then stretched out to infinity

Suddenly, a giant shadow covered up the ground beneath their feet. When she looked up, she couldn’t see the face of the figure until it came closer and sat on the edge of the branch they were sitting on.

Sentiments are best preserved for people who can pay for extra baggage.

Clouds in heaven bow and billow around your feet, and you- glide through, oblivious to their ethereal presence.

The theocracy is crumbling in its seat

I am asked where I am headed. The expression in the lady’s eyes suggests this is not the first time I was asked the question. I stand there, wondering if the pits around her eyes—white as the sun—are caused by the likes of me, and I tell her where I’m headed.