from Symphony No. 13
(deconstructed idyll idol)
from Insignificant Figures

A form extant
a slow movement through dissonance
sonorities sought in faces staring from inside
the framed photo
uncertain
partitions terminating
a past
in a blur the eye returns to observe
a door open
intermittent light
and other faces
unravelling sparrows
caged in memory
threadbare fragments
leaving forms
tenuous if
barely discernable
footsteps and voices
orchestrating the environs
a room surrounding
a quantum fog
greyed out
embers
iron filings
and a blank wall as a presence
to reflect
the edge of a frame eschewed
time aligned to gravity’s passage
to synergistic perturbations
of a theoretical singularity
cosmic veils in flesh and bone stalemates in blood and cellular stigmata
and to
define this space
as elemental
to observe
an open doorway
light traversing corridors
a sift through
sallow interiors
windows as grey
overtaking the blue
or to speak of one
who is immune
to these changes
surpassing the blood
brain barrier
to usher in
speculative destiny
a surrounding spatial waste
a singularity sought
in all but a physical constitution
a palliative depth
that remains the unplumbed
hinged mechanism
rusted over
…
+++++++++++++++++

Substances to differentiate
a vase
a ledge
a table of chairs
an unopened door
holes in the floor
and sun elongating

two rectangular voids
in a brick façade
“and that we have found

ourselves here again
removed into
an intimate echo’s
effacement of days
landscapes and the horizon
a world of imaginary numbers
having only half heard
a parody of voices
a colloquy of memories
a dissolving into worlds
indistinct and made
nameless by fate”
in this a song
reaching beyond touch
maybe another
dimensional plane
abstract musings
dissonance and counterpoint
a Bach fugue
resonating sublimity
points and promontories
of relativity
a widening berth
to turn the ship
unobserved through the window
a crescent moon arisen
silhouetted winter branches
and hearts given
the confines of loneliness
assembled in rooms
two by two
talking of worlds
that intimately refuse
to cohere to sight
to repeat the many words
that have since been deemed
as inarticulate as shadows
angled on walls of flaking paint

The glimpses of a nothingness
conceived in flimsy husks of faith
fated nocturnes
recalling a logos lost
behind a fence
-line’s
torso
-moon drift
altering the presence
of a Sunday morning
where they are talking of the dead
rising on the final day
where a relative measure
is to be achieved
with the intervention
of myth or fact
negating Einstein’s law
or in a garden of olives
where Christ is said to have wept
here a variable has been
removed from an equation
the perpetuation is
an unknowable hypothesis
as the sun recedes
on the ecliptic
the season draws down
a solo oboe through the fabric
constituting an aspect
in a continuum
hidden in plain sight
another anomaly of presence
a synthesis of elements
flowers in a vase
ocean through a window
aspects of objects
sooner seen
dispersing on a landscape
or through the alcove of a room
prayers to invisible demigods

penitent rags of fleshly supplication
clinging to internal deserts
and this draining aridity
surrounding every heartbeat
its reticent ocean
a choral ecstasy
hymns to the unborn
held in limbo’s cellular memory
a non
-terrestrial realm
coalescing forms
in a stasis of voices
…
++++++++++++++++
from
Fractal Labyrinth

33

Descriptions
forged in temporality
hazy sun
through grey clouds
each moment’s duration
a change in perception
too many variables
where place names
abandon a landscape
where the lay of the land
follow
s contours
through lines of sight
through annular spaces
in the flux of the irredeemable
quantum occurrence
or the mnemonic concretions
that travel from the past
an altered awareness
negating the clockface
and its ageing manifestation
the habituated intransigence of place now in an oblique presence…the present

returning through the (r)evolving door
hazy sun
through grey clouds

34

This window
seems less comprehensible
for all it refuses
to let in
though there is no mystery to this
no clock to denote
the arrival of entropy
entering the terrestrial environs
no hesitation to exit
through the doorway
to emerge onto an empty landscape
to know no objective reality observation cannot resolve
no primordial
beat of the heart
at birth
leaving only conjecture
to work through
the physicality of space
the atoms existing
in the absence of thought
in the opacity of images
in the subtle echoes sounding
in the slow drain
through clutter and accumulated debris
through the inaudible illusions
sufficient in their being
apart from what the eye can resolve

35

Noting these clouds
…

before the sun sets
and that there will be no equilibrium
to the visions entering
the darkening room
no transparency allotted
to the opaque eye
moored to the precision
of a physical existence
and in this room
there are stains on the wall
facing north
one can detect
magnitudes in flux
complications of structure
dimensional boundaries
that ebb and flow
and grayed spaces
retained for faces of the dead…
toward what end
is it needed
to return here again
to extinguish the candle
to bleed an intoxicating breath
into a sacrosanct realm
to feel beneath the epidermis
fractal bits of vibratory echoes
a consciousness of voices
without breadth
without blood
without
a physicality of decay

In 3 Minutes of Listening

The beat

of this country

is near

everlasting

bells ringing long ago

and now

the brokenness healing

blowing down walls

and hearts bursting open

with glorious endless love

seeing

through the trees

branches open to all of us

even when we cut them down

treehouse built by Daddy

for children touching the sky

with dreams of flight

and no fear of falling

cloud pillows

and flying carpets

when our fathers leave us

by dying on the vine

we will sob within ourselves

growing older

in a world whirling too fast

until we realize

not fast enough.

Sacrifice

Books opened

to torn out pages

wondering why someone did that

when trees died

to make the paper pages

and sometimes the ink

made with blood…

Wisdom

My 93-year-old mother laughs

and my wife does a dance

in the center of the living room

as 3 old people remember

there’s more to come.

The Purity of Vivian Maier


Vivian D. Maier (1926–2009) was an American photographer whose work was discovered and recognized only after her death. During her lifetime she took more than 150,000 photographs. She is not known ever to have shown them to anyone.

No hail to fame, not even a shy
nod to sharing, it would seem.
Just her own small delight;
the tough love of light.

A photograph? 
Not a serious thing
when she was young and taking,
as they say, pictures:
mere proof of fact,
magnet for fashion magazines,
hook on the local newspaper stand,
damning piece of evidence,
tool for advertising,
and glamour’s sinuous liar;
captive in a web of shadows,
bare, brutal, impossible
almost to deny.

The only one invisible,
the photographer,
capturing reality
in a little black box.	

Maybe that was why
Vivian Maier, governess,
lover of children, 
caregiver, one of the
perpetually invisible,
slightly awkward
with her black magic box,
took all those photographs—
the crowds, the streets, the mansions,
the disillusioned sidewalks,
the phantoms of the alleys,
the secrets blazoned to every sun,
the hands, the faces, the entire world—
in secrecy and stealth even
the shadow of herself;
the ephemeral caught 
in amber—
to capture, to master,
in pure little rectangles of joy
with her invisible eye.

_____

Christopher Bernard’s book The Socialist’s Garden of Verses won a PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award and was named one of the “Top 100 Indie Books of 2021” by Kirkus Reviews.

BENEATH THE WORDS
by Haroon Rashid

Creation does not begin with a word,
but with stillness
a pause, before the rush,
before the world insists on speaking.
It begins with the quiet observation
of a world moving without permission
a leaf, stubborn in its fall,
a cloud folding into another,
a glance exchanged across crowded streets,
never to be remembered.

Stories live in what is not said.
The visible is but a fragment
what matters lies hidden,
beneath the surface.
Like an iceberg,
its strength resides in the unseen,
where shadows move in silence
and thoughts drift like forgotten tides.

To write is to observe,
not merely to see,
but to feel
the weight of a shadow on a hot afternoon,
the ache of silence between words,
the whisper of wind through ordinary things,
the sigh of trees that have witnessed lifetimes.

Language is not decoration.
It is the pulse of the soul.
Every phrase must earn its place,
must be sharpened against the stone of truth,
must tremble with meaning
each syllable a heartbeat,
each line a breath caught in the throat.

An ending should not close
it should linger,
softly, like a thought that refuses to fade,
a door left ajar,
letting the mind wander,
finding its own way out.

There is no beauty
without attention
no truth
without the courage to face it.
No art
without the risk of vulnerability,
the surrender to what we do not know.

What we create
is not for applause,
but for connection
so that someone,
somewhere,
feels less alone,
when they find their own heart
hidden in the spaces between lines.

The work is not to impress
it is to remember,
to reveal,
to reach.

And if nothing golden is found,
then let the ink bleed honestly.
Let the silence speak.
Let the page carry the weight
of what we dared to feel.

Because in the end,
what matters most
is not how beautifully we wrote,
but how deeply we made someone stop
breathe
and remember
that they are not alone
in this vast, unspoken world.

— Author Haroon Rashid

ABOUT HAROON RASHID

Haroon Rashid is an internationally celebrated Indian author, poet, and humanitarian whose soul-stirring words transcend borders, cultures, and languages. Revered as “a movement of thoughts” and “a soul that breathes through verses,” he is a global ambassador for peace, education, and sustainable development. Through literature, he fosters empathy, cultural harmony, and a collective vision for a better world.

KEY LEADERSHIP ROLES
• Global Ambassador & International Member, Global Federation of Leadership & High Intelligence A.C. (Mexico)
• SDG Ambassador (SDG4 & SDG13), World Literary Forum for Peace & Human Rights
• National Vice Chairman, Youth India – Mother Teresa International Foundation
• Peace Protagonist, International Peace Forums – Mexico & Greece
• Honorary Founding Member, World CP Cavafy

AUTHOR & LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS
• We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another – poetry book, translated by 2024 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Eva Petropoulou Lianou
• Author Haroon Rashid Quotes – A soul-deep treasury of reflections
• Works translated into: Greek, French, Persian, Urdu, Arabic, Chinese, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, German, Indonesian, Bolivian, and more.

GLOBAL HONORS & AWARDS
• Diploma de Honor al Mérito – Mexico (2025)
• World Art Day Honor – Indonesia (2025)
• Friedrich von Schiller Award – Germany
• 4th World Gogyoshi Award – Global Top Vote (2024)
• 1st Prize – Silk Road International Poetry Exhibition (2023)
• Golden Eagle Award – South America (2021 & 2023)
• United Nations Karmaveer Chakra – 2023 & 2024
• REX Karmaveer Chakra – Silver & Bronze – India
• Global Peace Award – Mother Teresa Foundation (2022)
• Cesar Vallejo Award – UN Global Marketplace
• Honorary Doctorate in Humanity – La Haye, France (2021)
• Sir Richard Francis Burton Award – European Day of Languages
• Prodigy Magazine USA Award – Literary Excellence
• Certificates of Honor – Greece, Serbia, Indonesia, Mexico
• Honorary Award for Literature & Arts – Trinidad & Tobago

GLOBAL PRESENCE & RECOGNITION
• Invited Guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show
• Featured in O, The Oprah Magazine
• Speaker at:
• International Peace Day – Mexico & Greece
• 3rd International Congress of Education – Mexico
• Paper Fibre Fest – Represented India in China, Greece, Mexico, Peru
• UN SDG Conferences, Global Literary & Peace Forums
• Work featured in education campaigns, peacebuilding initiatives, and cross-cultural literary dialogues
• Admired by global celebrities, educators, artists, and policymakers

CULTURAL AMBASSADOR OF INDIA
• Embodies India’s timeless storytelling, spiritual ethos, and peace traditions
• Bridges Indian philosophy with global consciousness
• Revered as an ethical thought leader, visionary poet, and global voice of unity

PHILOSOPHY & SOCIAL VISION

Literature, for Haroon, is a sacred space for:
• Healing, empathy, and consciousness
• Advocacy for:
• Mental Health Awareness & Emotional Resilience
• Climate Action & Sustainability
• Spiritual Depth & Interfaith Harmony
• Youth Leadership & Cultural Preservation

He aims to inspire changemakers, dreamers, and peacemakers across generations.

GLOBAL PRAISE & LOVE

Described as:
“A movement of thoughts.”
“A soul that breathes through verses.”

Celebrated across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Haroon is loved for his:
• Authenticity
• Emotional depth
• Literary brilliance
Honored by governments, universities, and global literary councils.

TITLES & GLOBAL IDENTITY
• Global Literary Icon
• Award-Winning Author & Poet
• International Peace Advocate
• Global Educator of the Heart
• Cultural Diplomat & Ethical Leader
• SDG Voice for Education & Environment
• Voice of Peace, Passion, and Purpose

QUOTE BY AUTHOR HAROON RASHID

“It’s our responsibility to create a better world for our future generations.”

CONNECT WITH HAROON RASHID
Follow and engage across all platforms:
@AuthorHaroonRashid
(Facebook, Instagram, X/Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, Threads, and more)

A strange octet

He carried a cage

with nothing in it.

A small bird.

Thalidomide wings.

Flew quite delicately.

Mouth open. Mute.

A beautiful song.

It carried the cage.

The Roberta Flack CD

In the evening, in

between the hisses

of the lawn sprinkler

on one side & the

airconditioner on

the other (where

some southerners

have moved in &

are having trouble

adapting to the heat)

L. puts a Roberta

Flack CD on &

in the evening

Suzanne takes my

hand & leads me

to a place near

the river where

there is otherwise

silence.

Panodrama

The sea comes up

out of the sea &

washes the city with

a green light. It is

a kind of symbiosis

that allows street-

lamps to also shine

through as a contin-

uous but black by-

product of an alter-

nate reality in  which

many things that might

still exist will take on

a different color to

how most people

will remember them.

manganese petit mal

Despite the low penetration

resulting from bitumen aging,

& the fact that photo-oxidation

can speed up that aging process,

the takaful industry continues

to be nascent. Cyber cover is

making strong inroads into trad-

itional insurance; &, oh boy, don’t

those beef tenderloins look amazing!

A line from John Sandford

Today we emptied the pond. It’s

an active & intentional skill that

can help reduce the body’s res-

ponse to foreign invaders. Many

people have experienced the

strong connection between stress

& the absence of things bucolic.

The countryside was nothing but

farms at first, but later augmented

by Sisley’s artistic interludes from

Moret-sur-Loing. Thus the trail

we leave behind becomes precise.

As the Crow Flies

There’s a saying in English:

“As the crow flies.”

It means a straight path—unbending and direct. Apparently, crows love to fly in straight lines. They aren’t troubled by bends or barriers, not like us earth-bound beings facing obstacles at every turn. And unlike airplanes, crows aren’t bound by strict navigation systems.

In practice, this idiom often shows up when talking about routes—be it literal or metaphorical. But walking or living as the crow flies, my friend, is not an easy job at all. Sure, you know a straight line will get you to your destination faster, but can you really glide across homes, crowds, fences, and ponds just because you want to follow a straight line? Can you thumb your nose at every twist and turn in life and embrace the simplicity of the straight path?

It’s a familiar question. And its answer isn’t unknown. A simple life is delightful—but becoming simple is a terribly hard thing. And yet, sometimes, miracles happen. Like a sudden spring that paints black tar roads in fiery hues of Palash flowers. Then, and only then, the path becomes like that of the crow—straight and unhindered.

What’s that? Things are getting too tangled? Alright then, no more delay—let’s begin the story.

                  ***************

That day, Prabir was getting ready for office, as usual. He was caught in a whirlpool of tasks and thoughts. In the middle of this rush, his phone rang. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Unknown number.

He picked it up, irritation evident in his voice:

“Hello? Who’s speaking?”

No response.

“Ugh!” He was about to hang up—when a low, grating, mechanical sound came through.

Then, a hoarse whisper:

“Prabir! Son, don’t go out today! Today is… different. Stay home.”

Who on earth calls to say nonsense like that during busy office hours? He was just about to snap back when the line went dead.

No time to waste. There was an urgent group meeting at work—being late could be disastrous.

He grabbed his car keys and left. But something unsettling had lodged in his mind.

Who had called? What were they trying to say?

The voice… it sounded familiar. But he couldn’t quite place it. His mind grew absent. A faint melody seemed to rise near his ears—first just a murmur, then clearer:

“Life’s no longer straight and narrow / Laughter today is just borrowed / I survived—but barely so…”

It was true. Life was tangled in needless complexity. Work, more work, and more work. Always running. No time to pause, to notice the magic in the ordinary.

Chasing deadlines and targets had left him drained.

Stuck in traffic, he reflected on all this—until suddenly, his senses snapped back.

The world around him had changed, as if by magic. No traffic jam ahead. No bustling crowd on the sidewalks. No weekday chaos. And he wasn’t even driving—but the car was speeding ahead on a silent, unknown road, straight as an arrow. Was this possible? Or a nightmare?

He pinched himself.

“Ow!”

Nope, he was wide awake.

Then, like a flash of lightning, he remembered—

That voice earlier? It had been his uncle Hari. Uncle Hari, who had died five years ago from a terminal illness!

A chill ran down his spine. Was danger approaching? He tried desperately to control the car—but it was no use. He had no control. No one around. Even if there were, who could stop this possessed vehicle? Still, by instinct, he screamed:

“Help! Help me! Please, for God’s sake—help!”

Just then, he noticed a young woman sitting beside him.

Masked.

Her eyes caught his attention—intense, magnetic. Even amid this chaos, they captivated him. Her gaze held sorrow. A deep, distant sadness. She reached out to the steering wheel. With a mere touch, almost magically, the car slowed a little. Still racing forward, but calmer now.

Prabir, voice shaking, asked:

“Y-you… how did you get here?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, sharp-toned:

“What do you mean how? You were the one yelling your lungs out—Help me! Help me!

And now that I’ve come, instead of saying thank you, you’re interrogating me?”

She pulled down her mask. Her face clouded with a storm of hurt.

Prabir cleared his throat awkwardly:

“Sorry, sorry! You’re right. I forgot myself completely. The way this morning’s been going—my head’s about to explode. Anyway, thank you. Thank you so much.”

She stayed quiet, lips pursed. Then said in a choked voice:

“Forget it. You’re only thanking me because I pointed it out. Otherwise you wouldn’t have.”

Then came the downpour. Rain matched her heavy sighs as she went on:

“I always try to help people. Always. But people… they misunderstand me. They say awful things behind my back. Smile to my face, then betray me.I don’t need anyone. I have no friends.”

Prabir was in a proper fix now. The haunted road. The possessed car. And now, this mysteriously appearing girl filled with sorrow and magic. But it was true—if she hadn’t slowed the car, he might have had a heart attack by now. Her sadness touched him.

Gently, he said:

“Hey… don’t be sad. We’re friends now.”

He extended his right hand for a handshake. She looked at it suspiciously. Then wiped her eyes and took his hand. A soft smile spread across her lips.

“You seem like a good person. That’s why I came when you called for help. Okay, then—we’re friends from today.”

The car was now cruising gently along the straight road.

Another change:

Earlier, the road was flanked only by thorny shrubs. Now, silk cotton and gulmohar trees lined the path, ablaze with red flowers. Even the black tar seemed to blush with their hue.

Prabir hesitated a bit, then asked:

“Yes. Definitely—we’re friends. But tell me something. What is happening to me? The car is driving itself. You showed up out of nowhere. How did you hear my call for help? And how did you enter this locked car?”

The girl laughed, like a waterfall—clear and musical.

Then said:

“You really don’t know? Well, just like crows fly—Sometimes, humans get to travel that way too. Not everyone. But some. On very special days. Like today—you got the chance. As for how I knew? And how I entered the car? We can do that. Such things aren’t difficult for us.”

Her voice had regained its sweetness—but her words were strange.

Prabir stammered, “N-now w-who’re we?”

She replied, quietly, seriously:

“I’ve never told anyone this. I won’t again. We are the forms of consciousness—the Chaitan-rupis. Those for whom rainbows rise even in deserts. We are they. Keep this secret. You can’t trust everyone like you. Usually I lock my heart in a vault. Too many spoil it. Not everyone’s like you.”

Prabir didn’t fully understand. He just laughed awkwardly and scratched his head.

After that, they passed time chatting. Prabir lost track of how long. Then, suddenly, the car stopped. Grotesque figures—half-human, half-beast—stood blocking their path.

They circled the car, leering and making obscene gestures at Prabir and his mysterious companion.

Yes, Anamika—that’s what Prabir had decided to call her in his mind. Maybe she isn’t ordinary and somewhat uncanny. But she is good. 

The grotesque cheers of those hideous humanoid figures had nearly deafened the two of them. Anamika had been quite composed until now. But suddenly, she seemed to shrink inward. Tiny tears streamed down her cheeks. Prabir’s heart ached too, but his jaw tightened with resolve. He held Anamika close with both arms. 

A few words escaped his lips.

“Don’t be sad at all, Anamika. Why should you let people who hold no place in your life, good or bad, hurt you? Don’t let them make you sad. Just imagine you’re watching a film. They’re all acting. So don’t let it get to you.”

The girl wiped her eyes and softly said,

“Anamika… what a beautiful name! I really like it. And now I’m no longer sad. Because you’re here—as my friend.”

The car had started moving again, gathering speed. Those grotesque human-like figures had been flung far behind. A few tried to chase after the car—but failed to catch up.

In a tone of mock regret, Prabir said to Anamika,

“Looks like I’ve lost my job!”

Anamika replied,

“You’ll find another. But if you hadn’t come this strange way—like a crow in flight—we’d have never met. What would’ve happened then?”

Prabir gave a soft smile and nodded in agreement. As the crimson glow of the setting sun stained the horizon, his lips gently touched Anamika’s forehead.

The car kept gliding forward in a soothing rhythm—straight and steady. Just like a crow flies!

Dying City

Honking taxis, buses, blue-white buildings reshaping

the city’s flesh and bones, scattered anecdotes,

a murder on the serpentine lane, wagging tongues,

desiccated trams, stained walls, imperial nostalgias,

twilight extrudes the spectral accumulations,

time never progresses here in this dying city

strobic eyeballs of the passerby, not cruising,

the crowd speaking in half- knowledge, are caught

up in the eddies of chaos,

An anemic crow on the branchless tree sharpens

his eyes; untangle the reflection upside down,

The slum boys play football on the roadside park.

A memory dormant, a dirty dark alley draws ambigram.

A clock-tower shines in the first light of the morning sun.

@ gopallahiri

…………………………………………

Threes

1.

At each shout, each footfall,

the wind breaks into a song

under the canopy of rain clouds.

2.

Drumbeats harden in autumnal light

rain drops falling in the puddle,

the round of applause settles.

3.

The images fill up, glimmer and silence

there is a long pause, almost an inertia

of feelings- forsaken, murky.

@gopallahiri

………………………………………………..

Anaphora of This Afternoon

This afternoon is sauntering

through the forest

This afternoon is smeared words

feelings of sorrow.

This afternoon is a retreat from sun

and electric heater.

This afternoon is blood on the streets

for us to lick.

This afternoon is that breaks out

in my heart.

This afternoon is the dim light

of the foyer.

This afternoon is the tongueless mouth

mumbling your name

@gopallahiri

………………………………………………………………..

Tea Pot, cups and two Souls

(Inspired by the painting of Jean-Francois Raffaelli, Art Institute of Chicago)

I extend my hands to touch the canvas-oil on linen,

surely pure colours mix in the original brushstroke.

There two souls sitting together- quiet, pensive, brooding,

tilted heads, woolen hats and white scurf covering grey hairs. 

Tea pot, cups and plates, milk pot, sugar bowl roll out,

No splashing tea, clinking cups and spoons, finger licking.

The tablecloth reminds the fragments of what they know,

soft, silent looks bring the most interesting dreams.

Brick walls and flower plants draw daytime lucidity

the plucky cat alone stiches the hem of the afternoon.

Aroma of fresh tea oozes magical, daylight doze, 

no one is to hold them in check, to steer their new age journey.

Time and space for being lost and in a kind of hurry

A lingering whiff, it says about tomorrow.

©gopallahiri

……………………………………………………….

Intense Love Stories

I walk through the vast fields of mustard

in the breezy and windswept morning.

The golden heads are falling on my toes,

touching and calming my bare feet.

I lie down on the grass, let the haze and

miasma come in and roll me back,

Two sparrows stand on their wonky feet,

each in the ease of a single, feathery body.

Bees wait at a distance on the tip of a white

flower, sunrays touch their shining faces.

It’s a hot summer day, but there in the water

a flock of geese winging fast, an epoch melts,

Singing, chirping, roaming where lilies stand,

This morning taps out intense love stories.

@gopallahiri

…………………………………………….

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, and translator. He has authored 31 books, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poems are published across more than 150 journals and translated in 18 languages He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021. He has received Setu Excellence Award, Pittsburgh, US, in poetry in 2020 and Ukiyoto award  for poetry in 2022. He has been conferred First Jayanta Mahapatra National Award on literature in 2024. Recent Credits: One Art Journal, Ink, Sweat & Tears, Shot Glass Journal, MasticadoresUSA, MasticadoresTaiwan, Amythyst Review, Verse-Virtual Journal, Setu Journal, Kitaab Journal and International Times.