Loneliness of Moutushi Mallik-
After much deliberation Moutushi Mallik took the lane on the right. This, and as a simultaneous action the city turned away to her left. In practicality and in black and white these puritan acid opinions are of little concern to Moutushi Mallik and these fool’s paradises of roads are usually unrecognized in her itinerant dictionary. And then, the recent replenishment of lullaby preludes has deconstructed her material judgments, generally, quite alike now.
Moutushi Mallik turns right- the metropolis turns away to her left
Residential crisis of Dr. Dan-
Dr. Dan fears no foe. This is perfectly, absolutely OK with any goddamn daredevil, but the problem, or better to say, paradox, lays in this
fact that his foes weren’t afraid of him either. In this given circumstances of utter melancholy Dr. Dan got married. Well! It is a completely different perimeter that it didn't last long enough to add to the list of his real foes. Thus, in an adolescent nutshell Dr. Dan is tensely aloof. A daily doze of a certain amount of carboniferous material is all he is living for or with; the statement doesn't matter to him at least.
While all these rolling stones were gathering moss, out in the salt-water orgasm a solitary nymph kept gazing and gazing over the steel grid horizon on a depleting coral reef somewhere, someday
Con currency notes of Karim Kamal Khan-
On every juncture of dappled afternoon Karim Kamal Khan brings out his pack of cards and plays patience, for within that word there is a hint of tolerance somewhere. And he is tolerant about many whereabouts, though he himself is not that unprejudiced. But vices are there to be taken granted. In this region of simultaneous vertical fundamentalists and impartial secular livelihood the Joker of his stake laughs at him
There might be deep evening a few moments from now or a daybreak much swifter. Karim Kamal Khan plays patience on the juncture of a dappled afternoon
The poet within Kalipada Ganguly –
If poetry is lucid with high content of water present within, then it is but a justified a statement that Kalipada Ganguly is never dehydrated at any point of the day, week, month or so as to say –year. So, it is crystal that Kalipada Ganguly is a poet. But due to some mysterious quantities unaware of Kalipada Ganguly no publisher never ever publishes his poem. As a result Kalipada Ganguly tightens his belt and publishes his own. Now, a further puzzle awaits him when he finds out -no compositor is willing to compose his poem. As Kalipada Ganguly can never be dismayed, he peruses the press-owner and composes all himself.
Kalipada Ganguly doesn’t know for sure whether whatever he writes is, in fact, poetry or not. But added fact is that he cannot quit writing at all