Resident Poet Issue

(Man, that puns in so many different ways...)


I have found two things to share with the bongs, presuming I don't know enough of either Bengali or English to translate these pages: 


1. Kaurab for those enthusiasts of Bengali little magazines, who think that visiting the Montmartre pavilion in the Kolkata Book Fair is kind of integral to the idea of this entire Bong-connection thingy and nostalgic what-nots. Personally I have been rendered choke-full of the various patrons of little and big magazines in and around the city - poets and artists who want to hit it big, poets and artists who think its against their entire life's principle to try to hit it big, poets who worry about whether its a fair thing to break up with girlfriends with disabilities, stone-broke writers who spend their entire miserable savings to publish the first book, artists who break up with the incumbent girl/boy friends every month and still get back together, poets who cut off the nicest of braids and tonsure their heads to protest against the typical standards of beauty held by the Bengali slash Indian males and so on. You get the idea. One of them wrote me my first ever letter when I was three and asked me if I could get some details about a book "Jalpai Kaath-er Esraaj" (loosely, The Olive-Wood Guitar) from my father when we are not too busy with our respective preoccupations and please let her know. I prized the blue inland-letter and probably still have it somewhere back home. And then there is the thoracic surgeon-turned poet who called me Misibaba, introduced me to my first scotch (on the rocks, baby!) and kindly divulged the secrets of getting the best doped slash Bhang-ed Kulfi in town. So you kind of see that they remain somewhat the necessary evils of my life but nevertheless this post would not see the daylight if I was still living among them. 


2. I knew that the resident poet publishes hugely on Kaurab but this is the only thing I found online: Bondhu (Friend). 


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