first publication in Hellbender Magazine, Winter 2025 issue. 

Who it was 
To be honest, I don't know who it was. He just came out and said that he would live with us in the kitchen now. A small piece of a man inside a stone. We decided not to argue, and a small piece of a man inside a stone settled in our house. 

Over time, he needed more space to live, so we moved to the basement (we imagined that it was a bomb shelter, and not a basement where we could be buried to death by rubble). The khaki-colored sea was burning with the sun, but we know that the sun doesn't care who it shines for, and the side and the gun don't care either about blood or sperm. An endless sea. Such a space. 

If you repeat the same actions every day, time will not stop. Even if you die, time will not stop. The parents got tired of sitting in the basement and went outside into death and old age. Old age smells like a burden, like childhood. 

The parents looked around: there were animal corpses and soldiers' guts lying around. I feel most sorry for animals because it is not their fault that they live on a human planet and are not capable of thinking so deeply that they can fall into the abyss. My parents went outside and disappeared like pigeons in a minefield of life (plants and flowers grow on the earth, but the bones of the violently killed lie underground). 

The light bulb in my personal basement was constantly blinking, and I was stealing money from my health and talent to pay for artificial light. A friend of mine had a grandmother who was fed condensed milk from the Third Reich by Wehrmacht soldiers during the occupation. 

My grandmother was not fed condensed milk at all for the first five years of her life. These years just happened to fall on the post-war hungry years. I am increasingly showing signs of diabetes. Perhaps I ate too much condensed milk as a child. And the flowers without graves continued to grow. 

And the graves without flowers continued to grow. Graves without names: just remains dumped in a pile (this is called, according to Soviet tradition, the "tomb of the unknown soldier"). Another friend of mine didn't have a grandmother (how his mother was born remains a mystery). 

It's very difficult to change light bulbs in the dark. My personal basement was damp, and bones were growing stickily under my bed (at night, the same bones were burning in the red prison sky). My grandmother, or as she called her babushka, will never see this again. 

My grandmother didn't see much, for example, the northern lights or the southern Italian embankment. My friend's grandmother only saw endless concentration camps and the rails on which prisoners were transported from a German concentration camp. And straight to a Soviet concentration camp (it's something like an Indian ghetto or slave labor in Africa, only without any connection to nationality). 

Sooner or later, they will kill everyone: even themselves. Sometimes, I let the cat out of the basement: it reflexively hunted mice, then played with the corpse for a long time, then gnawed. I could regularly see the mouse remains at the entrance to the basement. And my cat often vomited (usually grass). 

I, too, often feel a sense of emptiness at the frozen snowy silence from what I have seen. My cat doesn't see anything and doesn't even know what war is.  And I don't tell him about it anyway: what if he starts protecting our house from the blast wave and dies? 

It’s funny, I still haven’t figured out the gender of my cat, but by default, I think he’s a boy. Actually, this isn't even my cat, and I don't understand how we ended up on the same ark together. When I first saw him, he was clean and skinny, like a Jew who found himself in the gas chamber of Auschwitz or a Polish prisoner about to be shot by the NKVD. 

This all reminds me of a sad fact: someday my cat will die without ever knowing that a war has broken out. What’s more, my cat will never know why the war started. I will probably die, too, without ever finding out why people go to war. 

I want to die without finding out that there is a war. my basement was gradually filling with the water of time, and I couldn't swim like a statue of a dead man. Something was bursting in my eardrums of memory. 

Sometimes, the crow king would visit me like a picture and peck at my hair. Someone coughed blood into my eyes. Somewhere in the basement, the pipes of tired lungs hummed.

Some god soared up and did not kiss me like Hyacinth (I probably won't come back). Some day, i looked into the mirror of my own world history. The reflection did stirred. To be honest, I don't know who it was.

Mr. Tough Knuckles 

"I want you to understand what you've done, Johnny." The man looked at the boy sternly. "I want you to understand what it means to destroy property. It means something." 

The boy looked worried in a vague way, but was silent. 

"It wasn't just the window you broke, Mr. I-Like-Throwing-Rocks." 

The boy's expression did not change. 

"There was a complete set of very fine heirloom china on a table in the room where the window was broken. Most of the china was negatively affected. The window, all that very nice china, and the memories contained in the china, all broken by you.Also, on that very day, there was, by a twist of medicalized fate, a bottle of human urine in the room that was by consequence of your impulsive and selfish actions, over turned. A large part of the carpet was stained and the resulting odor was pervasive. Mr. Littlejohn has recently informed me the stench is still lingering." 

The boy's nose wrinkled as consequence of the man's description, but the boy still said nothing. 

"I'd like you to think, Johnny, of the meaning of your actions and their consequences. I'd like you to take some time and think. Really, really use your mind. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, Johnny." 

Silence. 

"Well, Johnny?" 

A longer silence. The man folded his arms impatiently. 

"I’m waiting, Johnny." 

"I'm thinking," said the boy softly with a hint of firmness. 

"Good! Very good, Johnny. I'm chuffed to hear you're thinking. Please, keep thinking, and I'd like for you to tell me exactly what it is you're thinking. I'd like for you to put actual words to your thoughts and to communicate them to me directly.”

Silence.

“Can you say something, Johnny?”

Silence. The man leaned toward the boy, and the boy made a fist and scratched his knuckles on his front teeth. 

“Well. This defiance is unacceptable. I can only conclude, Mr. Tough Knuckles, you’ve been toying with me from the very start. I think you actually desired to cause damage to private property. In your mind—the law calls it mens rea, Johnny—you truly are a destructive little turk, aren’t you? Henceforth, we will have to seriously correct this attitude.”

“I wouldn’t piss into the wind of this market.”

“Excuse me, young man?”

“Pissed away years of gains.”

“This is completely unacceptable, Johnny.”

“Piss on me, I piss on you.”

“I’m nonplussed! I simply have no choice now, Johnny. This issimply beyond thought! Your days at this school are over, and I will be contacting your parents immediately. Piss on me?Indeed.”

Johnny found his way outside and walked around the parking lot as the night approached. He picked up a rock and threw it at an Audi SUV, shouting, “The bond market’s goin’ to the pisser!” 


MJ 

"I've never met a chest of drawers I didn't like, and you, dear, are no exception." 

"Joseph, you've become tiresome. The most deadliest of sins, really." 

"Your drawers are of exceptional quality. They slide silently with the best of them. They slide on air." 

"Words slide on air. Yours do." 

"Your legs. Let's not forget them. A chest of drawers is nothing, nothing, nothing at all, without sturdy legs." 

"If you keep this up, you will realize what it means to have neither leg to stand on." 

"I will perorate upon your drawer knobs. In a class of their own, darling." 

"I’ll terminate monthly payments to your account if you don't stop talking immediately." 

Joseph raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. He twisted swiftly away from the woman towards the open balcony doors, picking up his vodka ice. He took a sip and looked over his shoulder at the woman, asking her tartly, "Who was it who said life is a brief wave from a balcony?" 

"Twas my dear husband, Jojo." 

"No, no, it was MJ.” Joseph danced toward the balcony railing, laughing, drinking, and beckoning to the woman. “Isn’t it time for a little moonwalk, darling?"  

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!

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

School — The Golden Garden of Childhood

(Dedicated to Graduates)

School — a sacred trace etched in my heart,

Each letter a memory, each day a part.

Here we learned life’s very first truth,

Here began each dream, each light of youth.

Classmates’ laughter, teachers’ wise tone,

Moments engraved, in our hearts alone.

Notebooks and pens won’t fade from mind,

Each second a memory, one of a kind.

The echo of the final bell now rings,

Eyes full of tears, hearts with longings.

The future calls — the paths unfold,

But school remains in hearts of gold.

Thank you, dear teachers, your love a stream,

Your lessons the staff that holds our dream.

Farewell, our school — you’ve always been

Our first stairway to the stars unseen.

Jo‘rayeva Marjona Baxtiyorovna was born on October 18, 2003, in the Termiz district of Surxondaryo region, Uzbekistan.

Soul Awakening

A vivid light splits through darkness, depth and despair

Opening my heart to new beginning, diving deep inside to go aware

Nothing, and no one can block your way in finding the truth

Get comfortable with yourself, leave the messy things, be in sooth

Somewhere beyond the deep horizons, is a place you belong

Where an orchestra plays your favorite sweet melancholic song

Save from vultures that feasted on my loving and peaceful heart

The hungry predators preyed upon to tear me apart

Rising from the past failures winning the battle of ebbs

Still finding courage, gaining strength to stand upon my legs

The scars will heal, and you will feel lighter and better

You will change and blossom,  to get more positive and wiser

Love is not the only endeavor to hang  and hold on forever

Open your soul to new awakening, feel the nature’s hidden treasure

Essence of Peace

The world is going through unprecedented chaos

Wars, hatred, confusion is  looming widely across

Death and destruction is bringing enormous loss

Conflicts are raging high, the affected people are living in pathos

Love and hate are closely related with one another

It is only in the human nature  to feel certain cloud cover

Hating someone leaves scars that are too ugly to ponder

Avoid toxic people, fear the path of darkness, feel better

Elegance  is when the inside is as beautiful as your face

The further you drift from hate, the more beauty you embrace

Forgive your enemies, let your anger pass and tenderness surface

It is only the light that can drive out darkness and bring grace

Good things are hard to achieve,  and bad things trouble free to grab

It is very difficult to save a fellow human,  but easy to stab

Freedom  from prejudice,  discrimination, snobbishness is better to nab

The worst sin towards humanity is violence, that needs a dab

The Night of Solitude

The night is murky and lonely, lights have gone out

After showing their beautiful effects, stars enshroud

The moon has hidden her face behind the clouds

Stormy winds have silenced their sounds

Colour of spring is fading away in oblivion

Stop a while, the atmosphere is full of passion

Sing a song for me, full of joy and exhilaration

The confusion buried in my heart has no easy solution

When there is resolve, why to stay untraced?

How many dreams from the beginning, I have braced

Alas!  When my eyes opened, dreams have fled.

Leaving me to lament, the mind body and heart to bled

It is not so easy to suppress the bounties of emotions

Wounds may be healed but scars can’t be cured by lotions

One can forget the pain by pretending to be fine

But it returns when the loneliness and solitude combine

Inayatullah is a well-known poet, essayist, and academic from India. He is a regular contributor to renowned international poetry groups and journals. His weekly posts “Sunday Slice,”  has a wide readership and has earned him recognition  in scholarly forums for providing value based education to the student community. His poetry covers a variety of themes and has earned him many accolades.

HOPE NEVER BURNS!

To that land of blue fairy where the moon smiles
I 'll go wearing my favourite suit in this green earth
Where the assembly of flowers smile sprightly
And the silver vine blooms with diamond buds 
Where in a forest a golden bird brings ecstasy
In a boat made of floating clouds drifting along the sky
Where hope never burns and the lotus never cries
Life on earth full of separation and union is never a dream
Built with truth and dreams, disillusioned by the dreams only
Fooled by the deceptive truth, crush me not like a flower.


MORE THAN EVER BEFORE!

The Goddess of purity you are to me
I do hatch pain and my pleasure as well
My sleep often breaks for the first time
And I see the morn by rubbing my eyes
The sun light becomes brighter with you 
My day rises from behind the thin clouds 
The moonlight soothes with all the grace
My vibrant mood is hiding nearby me 
If you met me, sadness would be mine
I would console you though I'm broken 
My stars break to start falling nonstop 
I want your novice heart more and more
It incubates in me more than ever before.

GRIEF FOR THE LIFE TIME!

Walking alone, I did come across you
It poured and you got lost somewhere 
As if a dream had passed away from me
And it's a bit hard to forget you now
Just in a moment you became my life
Then you gave grief for the life time
On the rainy night my heart was broken 
I remember your wet face looking great 
You have never gone through memories 
I feel like feeling you here this evening 
As you and the very weather used to be
My journey of love caught the evil eyes
Tongue is silent though my heart breaks
You look happy and you are not mine.


I REMAIN SILENT!

Even if I remain silent without any word
Your love, face, and gaze'll grow & glow
I am witness to your love, downcast eyes
And all your grace indicates the depth
Someone has stolen your heart & mind
Whenever the swirl of your hair falls
Even more beautiful you look, like a fairy
With cherubic smile I read in the books 
I cherish to stay forever only in your soul
In mind and bosom, arm and embrace
And in your eyes & memories unlimited.

Biography of the Author

Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai
(DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet, while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha. He is an accomplished source of inspiration for the young generation of India. His free verse on romantic and melancholic poems are appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small, typical village, Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha. After schooling, he studied intermediate and graduated from Kabisurjya Baladev Vigyan Mahavidyalaya, then M A in English from Berhampur University, PhD in language and literature, and D.Litt. from the Colombian Poetic House from South America. He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that need urgent attention. He is an award-winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writers worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspire young readers but also the readers of the current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of whom are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems have been translated into different Indian languages and have received global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in the future. He is an award-winning poet and author of many best-selling books. Recently, he was awarded the Rabindranath Tagore and the Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips. A gold medal from the World Union of Poets, France & winner of Rahim Karim's World Literary Prize 2023. The government of Odisha's Higher Education Department appointed him as the president of the Governing body of Padmashree Dr Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar.Winner of " HYPERPOEM " GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023. Recently, he was awarded from the SABDA literary Festival in Assam. The highest literary honour from Peru, for contributing to world literature, 2024.Prestigious Cesar Vallejo award 2024 & Highest literary honour from Peru.Director at Samrat Educational Charitable Trust, Berhampur, Ganjam, Odisha.
Vicedomini of the world union of poets, Italy.
Completed 248 Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines, USA.
Books.
1. Psalm of the Soul.
2.Rise of New Dawn.
3.secret Of Torment.
4.Everything I never told you.
5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata.
6.100 Shadows of Dream.
7.Timeless Anguish.
8.Voice of Silence.
9.I cross my heart from east to west . Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines