A Poem by Sumana Roy with illustration from Subarnarekha Pal

Looking at Hill Cart Road from Google Earth

Hill cart roadc-01

This is the truth we avoid until our death –

that love causes anxiety, sunburns and squints,

even as we feel rustled by its antique energy.

I do not know why I want to see Hill Cart Road

from the sky – as if air gives things more grace!

As if only lightness was art, a loss of legs –

the reason why statues can’t walk or dance (or squat).

Hill Cart Road, Jorebungalow, Sukiapokhri, Darjeeling –

the names drag, like limbs of a clock on crutches.

On my laptop screen is a forest – green pimples,

trees standing, as if in a choir;

silent, like snow eating soil.

Not a single man, no haughtiness of looking.

I wonder what it is that I miss –

the tenderness of dimension;

background sound, biting consciousness;

the jealousy of light, its desire to conquer?


There’s too much knowledge here,

as there is in photographs –

everything’s too awake,

like time, always sleepless.

I’m scared that I’ll never get lost here.

I miss the unknowable,

its scruffiness that keeps life’s shyness alive.

The arrogance of information,

the deafness of addresses,

the pomposity of the aerial image …

I run, out of breath, without stanzas,

just relieved, to return to doubt.


Sumana Roy


Sumana Roy is the author of How I became a Tree, a work of nonfiction, Missing: A Novel, Out of Syllabus: Poems and My Mother’s Lover and Other Stories, a collection of short stories.





Subarnarekha Pal is an independent thinker and enthusiast and jams poetry with her friend. Amidst everything, she struggles to be an artist.


Scribbles on Suicide: Poems by Abin Chakraborty and Sayan Aich Bhowmik

Abinash C. Halder Muses on a Suicide

When someone your age
But famous and great
Plunges in the darkness
You longed to embrace
Halt in your tracks and ponder
On life’s many blessings and wonder.

Veiled in his tower
He vainly had sought
A sympathetic heart
A pat on the back.
But robbed off of succour of validation craved
He shut himself in and finally he caved.

Whatever the notions others might nurse
His voice in your veins still pulses as verse
And behind features of people you know
His shadow does lurk and sway and glow.

Bid him farewell as you cherish his smile
And don’t let the world either kill or beguile



                                                                                                   — Abin Chakraborty

The Last Time


It was the day,

When he, who loved

His afternoon nap,

Slept for the last time.

The post-box outside his door,

Had been emptied

Of the brown leaves

That had been living there since autumn.

The electricity bills had been paid,

And a prediction for evening rain

Lay outside his door.

he was last seen,

By the window, scribbling furiously

An examinee’s race against time.

If it hadn’t been for the suicide note,

That filled the entire neighbourhood

With the scent of a mazhaar

No one would have known

That it was the last day

When he, who loved his afternoon nap,

Slept for the last time.





Suicide, you are not so scary anymore.

You don’t come to my door,

With the cold North wind,

Or the sombre knocking.

Your footsteps walk into my room

Like an unexpected guest,

And I always have the chessboard ready,

If you win, I lose,

If I win, I lose.

                                                                                                 —- Sayan Aich Bhowmik


Abin_20151029_13_05_00_Pro - Copy (2)


Abin Chakraborty teaches as Assistant Professor in English in Chandernagore College, sporadically attempts poetry and prefers pontificating, with irony, sarcasm and indifference, about all things under the sun.



Sayan-Aich-Bhowmik_SetuSayan Aich Bhowmik is currently Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Shirakole Mahavidyalaya, Kolkata. When not under the burden of answer scripts, departmental work and meeting deadlines, he can be found nurturing his love for watching movies and writing poetry.

Poems by Susmita Paul


Unimaginably long lines coil
at the mirror’s edge
hoping a crossover will be

the man on the cross
hand from the sky

cusping the new-born
born the day her father was killed
blood isn’t a shade deeper
that wipes the mirror still

voice in the desert
saviour , faceless

the trail budges a little
the pain in the back
broken by lathis
still upright


destruction precedes
nurture and creation.


The wait before the rains


as the sun’s rays seep through the skin

uncontrolled lack of bath

births the scent of earth

one more day

one more night

nihilates life.







upends the words

that lie down

after breakfast

one character killed at a time

the sacred wood beckons

listless digits flutter in the wind.


Susmita Paul_photo


Susmita Paul is an emerging writer in English with only a couple of English poems recently published in Montauk. Her sole book of Bengali poetry was published by Kaurab in 2019. She is also a Zentangle inspired artist and mother to a curious five-year old. She lives in Graz, Austria.