Dr. Sunil Sharma (India)
Sunil Sharma, an academic administrator and author-critic-poet–freelance journalist, is from suburban Mumbai, India. He has published 21 books so far, some solo and some joint, on prose, poetry and criticism.
He edits the monthly, bilingual Setu:
For more details of publications, please visit the link below:
Words can become frigid in a global market. They no longer respond as they
did—earlier but those were simpler times.
Not anymore. Words are overworked—like executives riding subways or trams or cars to their offices in the SEZs across the world, layered with gloss.
Then, an occasional break, some literary place…
in new hands, they get charged, become fiery
The girl on the threshold
A girl-child, unsure,
Standing near the partially-door
Of a neighbour’s, suburban Mumbai high-rise,
Searching for a friend
With round eyes in that
Dusty passage, desolate
With locked doors, both sides.
Whipped by a whistling wind
The frail child looks scared
Her solitary childhood stark lonely
A bright fire burning in a street corner,
In a locality where adults hardly talk with each other
In the lift or the corridors.
The December wind
This Monday morning wind of December,
Raw and arrogant,
Aware of its power immense,
Walks like a mast elephant,
Or, a youth in love,
Caressing everybody with its
Knocking things in the
Deserted hall, crowded
Of a 2BHK suburban-Mumbai flat;
The cold breath of mild winter
Being carried on its invisible wings,
—How does it sweep the entire region!
This big-bosomed wind, knocking off the caps
And slipping inside the shirts and tinkling
Bare skins— and whistling in pleasure,
A dulcet long moaning heard after very long in a
Working couple’s bedroom,
The whistling done by a
Smiling patient recovering
Slowly from a fatal disease,
Like an out –of-work guy,
Sitting/fretting home for three
Bleak months, then suddenly getting hired
On a long-distance call,
For a tiny office full of faded hopes,
In a busy Detroit, Delhi, or, Madrid.
between a dad and son
in a high-tech world—distant,
yet intimate, like a Keats poem
memorised before the oral exam
five decades ago,
on that rain-swept night
like a prodigal son
giving delayed delight
to his native home.