Muddy Joys 

I kept collecting little pieces of shells
The muddy white sand had many.
Two handfuls of them,
Until I couldn’t hold any more.
My happiness beating through the gripped dead shells
I threw them up as much as I could.
They flew up,
They scattered into the sky.
Rainbow dotted crystals.
They didn’t burst into those patterns of engineered lights.
They fell on the ground.
The noise was sweet.
I had a thousand ears to perceive and acknowledge each of them.
Some falling on soft leaves,
And some on rocks to bounce again,
And some on me.
I started collecting them again.
They didn’t make the sound and light that everybody loves,
Perhaps because they were not bought with money.

Gaurav Biswas

I was born and brought up in a joint family in Jalpaiguri, a small town adjacent to the scenic heaven of the Dooars. I grew up idolizing my father who inculcated in me both emotion and reason. Being a close observer of things, I have seen how fallacy dominates our lives and how it numbs most of our senses. Having read about existentialism, absurdism, postcolonialism, and deconstruction, I have learnt to look at things as they are. The things I see around me become the subject of my writing. Observing people trying to delve deep into their psychology and writing about them has always been my favourite pastime. At present I work at a village school close to the Indo - Bangladesh border.

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