Suprabhat Bhaduri, a contemporary Kolkata painter, mainly works in acrylic is The Antonym’s artist of the month
I’ve seen old timers wrap their hives before a storm
with old tarp, drop cloths, one even pulled a blanket, hand-stitched
by a silent wife. He lifts it from the cab of his pickup,
the door groaning, and I think, that’s the kind of love I want.
How strange! It was Bonnie who had sent Samantha. No one understands Siddhesh as well as her. But did Bonnie’s nostrils ever spread when he caressed her? Did her nipples ever change color? Did her navel ever tremble with hushed anticipation? Samantha experiences all these. She plays copybook cricket. Siddhesh can press the remote and let her know the level of pleasure he requires.
I found you in the abyss of these men. And I liberated my desperate body as their greed devoured it. So this husk you hold is not me but from me, and the lover of its heart is the heart of the sky.
Shoes: two prisoners sharing the same fate.
The child shares the joy of walking with their shoes on, taking the first step into the street, the first step into that different world in them. They protect those tiny feet from cold, dust, mud and from cuts. How indispensable they are, these singular witnesses of each of our adventures. In truth, we can’t really do without them. Yes, we can fare into the street with no watch, earrings, bracelet or hat but never without shoes!
Trails of rampant insects
and pied pipers with their heads turned away
to not see
to not carry out
the megaphoned promises
between branches of communicating trees
all now hanging from laces
on street lighting wires
Since our inception last year, we at The Antonym have been attempting to understand and highlight literary works in translation without which much of our connection to the literature outside our native linguistic circle would remain inaccessible to uS.