He wanted to see his own reflection in the water under the big bridge. Inam, Sardar’s younger wife’s oldest son, his nose and mouth hobbled over the silver water. The frost settled almost audibly. The breeze trembled scrunching away peanut shells. A Lunar iridescence spilled from the Ashshyaora leaves. The branch on the east side of the jackfruit tree waved ugly, as if luring. A hundred tambourines clanged.
“…when something is struggling to come out in words it declares itself to me in the form of a “mental boiling”: an idea that keeps tossing and turning until the proper first sentence comes out, dragging with it parts or all of the rest in an embryonic format “
“, any point you can depart from will lead you to all the other points”
, every writing is political, even writing that tries hard to evade being political adopts a political position by doing so”
“I’d be long gone and transformed into a Gurguri bird – floating atop the ocean waves. My island moves – you won’t be able to trace it.”The young poet Avijit said, “Why not come to Kolkata with me.”
“No one needs anything else after a drink of moon rays, Selim. Give me a glass of water.”
Alokeranjan Dasgupta’s poetry is both fascinating and difficult. There is no passe-partout, or general key, for decoding it – not because it lacks codes, but rather because the codes themselves are not fixed and seem in continuous flux. His poetry is playful and oscillating to a high degree, and in a way constantly redefines itself anew