Author Feature - October 2021
SUBHRASANKAR DAS was born on the 1st of May, 1986 and hails from Tripura, India. He is an award-winning (bilingual) poet, a translator of distinct repute, an editor and a passionate composer. He is a Post graduate teacher by profession and had worked in esteemed private schools of Tripura. He is one of the very few authors of NorthEast whose books are fully sponsored by the publishers without any condition because of their stature and eminence.
Books of Poems written by Subhrasankar Das:
Tontukit ( Vasha Prokashani, Tripura, 2008 )
Zebracrossing (Barnes and Noble, 2010)
Baul Molecules (Srot Prokashani, Tripura, 2016)
Sfotikchapa Phosphorus (Akshar Publications, Tripura/Kolkata, 2019)
An Anachronous Shower (Insha Publications, Delhi, 2021)
English Translations by Subhrasankar Das:
Bukhari (Novel, Shadowkraft, 2020)
Monster of the Jungle (Graphic adventure, Insha Publication, Delhi, 2019)
Jamichhalang (Short story) by Shyamal Bhattacharya
'Deo nodir jol' by Padmasree Majumder (yet to be published)
Subhrasankar Das has also translated some of the significant literary pieces of Larissa Shmailao, Mario Santagostin, Linda Pastan, Trishna Basak and others.
Some of his poems are Translated into Russian by Russian poetess Anna Halberstadt.
He is working on various projects for the upliftment of Northeastern Literature and for the sake of peace and creativity.
Capturing the postures of a photographer
is also a way to unlock his epistemic perspectives
One such winter morning,
in a foggy suburb,
a stranger had an encounter with a home.
He transformed it into a house,
then… into a hole... then into a void.
But actually, it was a human!
Hiding in the hood of a rickshaw
a perfumist captured this scene
and made it viral…
The stranger broke the wall.
The perfumist joined him.
Then came a politician, police, a father, a brother…
All of them thrust their weird rats of lust.
into the void.
Here, the materials for making home
are lying around.
The owner is missing.
Even from the formless rooms of the house,
the smell of burning.
Every home has its fragrance.
To forget this presumption,
I spray perfume around the room,
close my eyes for a blue, profound sleep.
Inhaling the aroma of incense stick,
plunging into the coil of smoke,
I try to find:
which puff of breath had made you fly?
The blade nearing black-vein
is ready to dive into the pink water.
Sleek and silent cellphone is vibrating
Only he knew
You had never been addicted to
the aroma of damp wood around the home
THE LEFT VENTRICLE
Keep the words aside.
Allow the cell-phone to fly
from the nest below human-ears.
See, the peaks climb to unite with thunder;
running streets halt afront the beggars.
See how nature transforms plains into hills,
deserts into oceans;
lakes disappear with a click.
Breaking the laws of vastu, laughs Buddha.
See how the princess peels the husk in the left ventricle,
performs like a harlot
sporting with the neon spinal-cord…
It had been too long…
There's no news of your whereabouts.
It was... I forgot when
U made me stop, stand still,
staring at U at the zebra crossing.
Do U remember?
U were subverting the roads
with your fingers,
Saying, “be careful!”
Now I violate traffic-rules
without being injured
Reserving the swelling of heart,
share-market... hospital... dark-chamber...
Could U recall the date
we had sailed on the street,
crossed by a cat?