All my childhood I had known Santa Claus to be the one in a red fury coat at the crossroad, a few blocks from my house, lending gifts to kids and wishing people Merry Christmas. Someone who will readily give things to people to make them happy. I remember how much I loved hopping on my toes to ring the bell at the tail of his ca...
Quotes Box
"I have known music to be her timeless reverberation in a forlorn corner of my soul; just when life was closing down upon me with its pangs of haunting silence."
"Hope is the point the 'world within' comes to an equilibrium with the 'world around'."
"The cold that my body feels can be comforted by pullovers of our choices.
It is the winter that comes back each year, inevitably; is how we are connected on the face of time. A sweet suffering of forever..."

"My poverty, I know, was glamorous because trading you, my love, for a better life is outright heinous."
"Love was the day when she drank and I felt quenched."
"Life, ever since, had been one gripping tale. Your happening gave it a genre."
"Want is the soul's desire. Need, the mind's crave. Love, thus, I believe, is a bit of both."
"Art is how you lie to the world without ever feeling sinned."
"Sorrow is true and beyond the powers of healing, when you can taste the oceans on your lips."
© Sobhan Pramanik
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STOLEN KISS - Part 2
To the lanes of College Street,
Calcutta…
It was another sticky August night in the city of Calcutta and a
half radiating moon loosely hung in the sky. For some reasons, she was having a
bad headache that day and was lying in the bed as every other second a throbbing
pain, like an electric wave, originated from her temples and sped down her neck
to hurt her shoulders. Each of those torturing waves made her writhe on the bed
with slices of the sullen...
STOLEN KISS - Part 1
To the lanes of College Street,
Calcutta…
A clicking sound from behind tenses him up. He quickly turns
around to see her walk through the door; a line of shadow diagonally splits his
face. She drops her handbag at the counter and collecting the token, walks into
the dim, narrow aisle guarded by high, iron shelves with books spilling from
the edge...
STARTLED
DESTINATION
THE DRAGONFLY
Like
always I was sunk into my old cane chair; the varnish from its handle faded to
pale brown and the jute windings on its backrest, thinned; with its floral
pattern now appearing to be a mesh of tangled sewing threads. With my head
dropped back on the shoulder and a small red cushion crushed to the canes under
my weight at my waist, I gaze at the wall ahead of me. Every time I shift to
sit up straight with the cushion sliding further down on my back, the timber of
the chair creak like a person cracking knuckles. Timid yet distinc...
APPLE TREES
To see you wander in
the orchard, swift through the trunks of apple, filling your trug with the
ripened fruit; I walk all the way down the hill. Staggering along the twists of the clear stream, hearing its clear waves roll over the pebbles. Right at the neck of the valley, where the sun kisses the mist goodbye, I stand and watch you pick the apple...
A FATEFUL MEMOIR - Part 5
(Based on incidents post Indira Gandhi’s assassination)
Daylight, a faint shade of yellow streamed through the crack
of the window to scatter on the floor. The buttermilk sky faintly visible
behind the draping of the curtain, gently flutters along the frames. Outside,
singing in chorus in the trees were herds of sparrows, their scales camouflaged
against the bark. At the far end of the courtyard, on blades of high grass
growing wild at the foot of the walls, glistened the morning dew. Along the
roads that ran parallel to Mehran’s house, were heard the hoofs of buffaloes
and the heavy wheels...
A FATEFUL MEMOIR - Part 4
(Based on incidents post Indira Gandhi’s assassination)
Wiping his face with the back of his palm, he jumped from the branches. It was late noon and the sun, a brighter orange shone low in the western sky where tailed colorful kites made merry to the tune of the breeze. Glints of the orange light caught in the ripples of the lake ahead.
...
A FATEFUL MEMOIR - Part 3
(Based on incidents post Indira Gandhi’s assassination)
That morning, the first of the winter breeze had started to blow across the village drifting through the canopy of our Jamun in a sullen puff. In its shade lies freshly shed leaves of the tree amid a pattern of light and shadow, as the soft glowing sun peers through the leave...
A FATEFUL MEMOIR - Part 1
(Based on incidents post Indira
Gandhi’s assassination)
2nd November 1984
Little Mehran
sat frightened behind the thick Sal trunk, the flat top of which still wet with
the morning trade. Pieces of flesh lying in puddles of blood and long, flat
knives, the edges of which yellow with the fat tissues occupy the surface. The
woody brown texture of the trunk slightly dark with the soaking of the goat
blood through the crevasses made by the steel chopper, every time it came down
on it through the meat....
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