A High Official Hunting for Scenes

My dead father and I are face to face now,because I am a high official — althoughmy father was a small-time thief, and it is a duty to give him a post as well.

Father's Day. It has gone popular, it has climbed the tree and sat there,day by day.So, Facebook's content hour is running.

Coloured glasses over my eyes,concealing that I am the son of a thief, or of a farmer, Iam producing a new manner of speech.

The wholesettlement has come and sat down in front of me. My ashamed past.

Father is on the ground, eating panta rice with chillies.Mother is fanning him with a palm-leaf fan.

The self-taught jungle and the jute field have begun to sway, to tremble.The memory of the night of the cut wall is swaying, and the ghosts with it.

Every father is being given a post: history, blood, caste,and all of it is turning into hot rice, steaming.