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One Evening at That River Khwai

About Moinak Dutta

Name: Moinak Dutta
Occupation: teacher, published fiction writer, poet.
Date of birth: 5th september,1977,
Nationality : Indian
Sex : male
Short bio:
Born on 5th September, 1977, he has been writing poems and stories from school days.Done postgraduation in English. Presently engaged as a teacher of English.Many of his poems and stories are published in national and international anthologies and magazines and also dailies including 'The Statesman' ( kolkata edition), ' World Peace Poetry anthology ' ( United Nations), 'Setu' , ' The Indian Periodical' ' Pangolin Review' ' Tuck Magazine' ' Duane's Poetree', ' Tell me your story' ( literary and travel magazine), ' The Literary Fairy Tales' ' Defiant Dreams' ( a collection of stories on women empowerment published by Readomania, New Delhi ), etc;
Written reviews of books and fictions, among which notable ones are : on ' The Upanisads ' ( translated by Valerie J. Roebuck) which can be found at www.blogapenguinindiaclassic.blogspot.com and the review of ' The Ballad of Bapu' ( written by Santosh Bakaya). Written some essays and articles on education and literature and other topics which had been published in both e- books/e - journals ( like Cafe Dissensus) and as printed books/ papers ( like one on ' Amalgamation of social media and literature: pros and cons, published by Viswa Bharati Research Centre and Sahitya Anand).
He is first full length english( genre: literary/romance ) fiction ‘Online@Offline’' had been published in 2014, by Lifi Publications.His second fiction(genre: literary/quest) titled ' In search of la radice' was published in 2017 by Xpress Publications. Also worked as an editor of a poetry collection titled ' Whispering Poeisis' , which had over one hundred poems from sixty poets from different parts of India and abroad, published in 2018 by Poeisis. Loves to do photography apart from listening to music and watching films and traveling.

email :moinakdutta@yahoo.co.in

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‘You could’ve turned up a bit earlier’
The autorickshaw driver told us,
As he plodded his vehicle down the uneven bumpy road;
It was the fag end of February,
The spring was thinking of going back
Allowing the rain and dust to come and settle on the country of red soil,
As we moved along, trees with myriad shapes passed by,
One by one,
‘How far is Khwai?’
One of us asked,
‘Just a few kilometres more’
The rickshaw driver blurted out quick,
In his practised tone,

Tourists come to this region only in spring
And winter,
The rest of the seasons no one bothers to come,
So this end of spring is his last few days to earn quick extra bucks,

The first time we saw Khwai was a great disappointment,
A big joke as if,
‘Where’s the river? It is so slim’
My son exclaimed,
He must have dreamt of something noisy and full of waves,
But then,
We all descended from the rickshaw
And went near the river Khwai,
Up close,
Personal,
We all dipped our legs,
Into the water,
Cool it was,
And then we thought we could swim too,
The river might not be that much big,
That much wavy,
But we swam,
Like people who had come a long way like pilgrims,

And Khwai,
It gave us what it had,
Its dreamy meandering soul,
Its slim and slender shape carrying songs of bauls,

Its heart that had beatings of ‘dhamsa‘ and ‘madol‘.

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