A dead boar, a terrible Ram Rajya, a crippled grasshopper—
A toothache-stricken sky—you, I,
The frustrated Jampui and Bhuban Bru.
My twenty-first lover—Bhuban Bru,
...
After Course No.172—
He finally learned to love.
Under the glare of the halogens,
...
মৃত বরাহ, ভীষণ রাম রাজ্য, বিকলাঙ্গ ফড়িং
দাঁতের ব্যথায় কাতরানো আকাশ
-তুমি, আমি, হতাশাগ্রস্থ জম্পুই ও ভূবন ব্রু
আমার একবিংশতম প্রেমিক - ভূবন ব্রু
...
Abhijit Das is a contemporary poet, educator, and philosophical voice from the northeastern state of Tripura, born on December 23,1998. Growing up in the rural heart of Ujan Dudhpur, his relationship with the written word began in early childhood, evolving from a youthful curiosity into a lifelong commitment to literary rebellion. His academic journey was rooted in local soil, attending Dudhpur High School and later 82-Mile Proper H.S. School, before pursuing higher studies at Gurucharan College in Silchar and Indira Gandhi National Open University. Although he holds a Master of Arts in English, Das is a profound believer in self-education, viewing institutional degrees as merely a framework for a much deeper, more personal pursuit of knowledge gathered from the immediate world around him. Professionally, he serves as a teacher, introducing students to the intricacies of literature. This daily engagement with the foundations of language informs his own poetic craft, allowing him to navigate the bridge between formal structure and raw expression. It is within this intersection that he founded the movement known as Abhijitism, a style of writing that deliberately avoids the decorative and the 'polite' in favor of a visceral, anatomical truth. The writing of Abhijit Das is defined by its refusal to sanitize the human condition. He treats the body as a metabolic landscape, utilizing imagery of blood, 'ghilu' (brain matter) , and bone to ground abstract emotions in physical reality. His verse is marked by the 'grotesque sublime, ' finding profound meaning in the unpoetic—a dead boar, a toothache-stricken sky, or the 'spider-saliva' nature of the earth itself. By defining soil as a predatory, sticky secretion rather than a maternal figure, he challenges traditional tropes of nature poetry and forces a confrontation with the predatory mechanics of life. A defining characteristic of his work is the seamless transcendence from local imagery to universal truth. While his poems are deeply rooted in the geography of Tripura—invoking the Manu River, the Jampui Hills, and the specific dialects of the region—these are not mere backdrops. Instead, he uses the hyper-local as a surgical entry point. By burrowing into the specific dust and silt of his hometown, he strikes the common bedrock of the human experience. He suggests that the physical agony of a single person or the biological function of a cell is a cosmic constant, identical whether one is standing on the banks of the Manu or in a distant metropolis. Through Abhijitism, Das proves that the most profound universal truths are not found in the abstract, but in the meat and bone of the life right in front of him. His linguistic style mirrors this, blending standard Bengali with regional rhythms to create an authentic, jarring music. He remains a vital surgeon of the modern soul, choosing instinct over artifice and reminding the reader that beneath our social masks, we are all composed of the same red earth and pulsing nerves.)
A Poem Of Sudden Love
A dead boar, a terrible Ram Rajya, a crippled grasshopper—
A toothache-stricken sky—you, I,
The frustrated Jampui and Bhuban Bru.
My twenty-first lover—Bhuban Bru,
He had two hands, a brain, and a dozen or so bidis.
He knew how to cook well, and he could eat too.
One day, he made a broth with a wild boar and my blood—
Eating it, I felt like sacrificing my entire body to the cooking.
I even told him so; he didn't agree and sat down to write a poem,
The poem was titled Soil—
'Soil is nothing but the saliva of a spider
Soil means some deaths, soil is just the spider's own spit...'
Those memories come floating, sinking and rising in the Manu River,
I keep staring...,
Then someone comes and covers both my eyes and says—
'Tell me, who has come! '
From drenching in the rain, the soil has run a fever; Paracetamol is nowhere to be found.