
A Tribal Mother
A poem on the the struggle and resilience of a tea tribal mother of Dooars, depicting the poverty and illness of her daily existence.
A poem on the the struggle and resilience of a tea tribal mother of Dooars, depicting the poverty and illness of her daily existence.
A poem on the hope and hopelessness of jute planters of Bengal, depicting dreams and nightmares of the Bengal peasantry in general.
Madrasas are waiting for coming flames,
For they are terrorist hubs
Medical schools are not required,
For they presage our age-old ways of healing
And when I closely look at him,
His sweaty, sculptured face delights me,
A cheaply designed t-shirt, hands full of lines,
Face marked with pangs of leaving home,
“We are the mob and the mob is us.Left-wing, right-wing or in the centre, what difference does it make?” Apurba Asrani, “We are the mob and the mob is us” When I searched on Google for some Indian poems which…
To put it mildly, the social, cultural, religious, political and strategic events that history will remember as the "Arab Spring" sent a shockwave across an entire region. Today, the legacy of this chain of events is contested and, to an extent, still uncertain, but one thing is clear: the conditions for engaging in politics in these countries have shifted completely. Across the region, the social and political spheres have become more secular as both a cause and a consequence of the Arab Spring.
I love this book because it demystifies the myth of communal harmony, the tale of vibrant Indian democracy, the myth of India as an oasis of spiritual bliss, and the myth of accountability of public servants. Afzal is a tight slap on our face! The ugly fact is that corruption, hatred, power, wine, and women rule the roost. The novel is a brilliant commentary on contemporary India.
Names like Spanish-flu, Chinese-virus, or corona-jihad are not only misnomers but also socially debilitating with long-term mental and political ramifications. Such adjectives not only attribute negative essence to communities, races, and nations but also belittle their human essence.
Yesterday I went to Galakata and met there Mustafijur, a graduate shopkeeper of the village. I took no interest in him at first. He is an ordinary college pass out jobless youth like thousands of others I know and find…