Don’t you see— I can only write dark. 

Saikat Majumdar writes with a sharp poignancy that arrows straight to the core of the heart.

Resistance takes many shapes and forms, from taking up arms, to facing police batons, to picking up a pen

This is the third and final part of “Storm Child”, serialised here on Star Literature

Eternity collapses at the wheel of change. / Past is lost

Markan didn't have an answer. The word "Arakan" felt distant, like something from a dream he couldn't quite remember

August, marked with dying things. Summer’s end, / My freedom spent

but i can't. i cannot be bothered to find / meaning behind the faults in my father's eyes

Hark! / Busy work of Hands

It feels like only two days ago that my dadu was still here, worrying I’d always be too short like her.

teardrops trickling down / the valley / mingling with the static— / hollow waves of Kaptai lake

Maa, you are an endless exhibition / of sweet-sour happiness

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."

My train just started / I found my seat / When she called me

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

It is perhaps not an overstatement to say that humans are, at their core, wanderers.

The night smoke carries out the riots of innocents,

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 

“The roads are too clean. The sun is too bright,” she thought.

Sumedha replied with annoyance, "I will make him say the words. It's so simple, 'Apni kemon achhen, bhalo?' Why can't he say it?"