Bhaskor Mollik was born on a humid summer afternoon in the year of our Lord 1900, in the narrow bylanes of Jessore, in undivided Bengal. The monsoon clouds hovered heavy above, the scent of wet earth and mango blossom swirling in the air. His first cries mingled with the drone of mosquitoes and the distant…
Author: Trishikh
A well experienced artist and creative writer, with more than twenty years of experience in the field of communications and design for the social development sector, advertising, and public relations. Well versed with different designing software's and capable of grasping any new computer application. Have a fair amount of experience in product, commercial, event, locational and disaster photo and videography.
Bonomali’s Cathedral
A cold winter dawn lay across the St. Paul’s Cathedral grounds, in the heart of Kolkata, like a thin veil of grey. Faint mists curled between ancient tombstones and evergreen shrubs, and the air tasted of damp earth and the distant tang of dew. On one side of a narrow pathway, under the skeletal arms…
Two Bengals Across Ichamati
The moon was a pale lantern over Ichamati that night, its silver light spilled across the rippling waters, trembling on the floats of sculpted clay that drifted downstream. The river smelled of wet mud, moss, and the faint, sweet burn of marigolds. Somewhere upstream, women’s laughter mixed with the deep drum of a dhak; somewhere…
The Armenians
The whistle shrilled like a winter’s breath, sharp and cutting, in the frosty air of the Calcutta Cricket and Football Club field, better known as the CCFC. A low sun filtered through the overhead clouds, scattering gold upon the dew-kissed turf. La Martiniere Old Boys or LMOB Captain, Harrington “Harry” Devlin, full back, stood at…
Fat Mama
The wok hissed like a temple gong struck in fire. Fat Mama’s large, seasoned hands dipped the last wonton into shimmering oil, its skin puffing golden almost instantly. Steam rose, twirling into the dusky air of her drawing-room-turned-eating-house. The smell of pork, garlic, ginger, and a whisper of sesame clung to the cracked lime-washed walls,…
The Great ISC Entrance Debacle
Dilly and Dally Mendes were born seven minutes apart in 1980, but their mother swore it felt like seven hours. The doctor said twins. Time said mischief. From the beginning, the boys were late. Late in crying, late in walking, late in talking. And when they finally spoke, their first words that anyone could remember…
Pandu And The Beast
As the sounds of a moonless night descended on the nameless little village of twelve tiny huts situated amidst the dense sal-wood forest in the heart of Bengal on the 12th night in August of 1854, Pandu tossed and turned in his jute-rope bamboo charpoy. Anxiety of the journey at the crack of dawn, just…
The Varanasi Seer And The English Shadow
Pandit Pankaj Pandey had been waking at the auspicious hour of 3:00 AM for as long as he could remember. Long before the swelling roar of the city fully stirred from its dreams. On this particular winter morning in 1984, as the faint chill of mist clung to the crumbling rooftops of Banaras, he rose…
Ye Olde English Hillclimber
In the crimson-lit hush of a late 1930s Himalayan dawn, young Sam Bolo, aka Sambo, roared through the uncharted jungle flanks of Shimla aboard his trusty metallic steed, Silverblaze, a 1936 Model JF 500 cc Royal Enfield Bullet with a gleaming 4-valve bronze head, his engine thrumming like a wild heartbeat. He traced paths unknown,…
Baburam
The sun was soft gold over a teeming park in Kankurgachi, North-East Kolkata, early 1980s, but to galloping fitness freaks, vegetable‑laden housewives, wandering loafers, fish‑loving babus with bags of silver‑scaled Hilsa, and children skipping along, the heart of the day was held in a mystical man’s hypnotic melody. Baburam sat cross‑legged on a frayed grass…
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 