# Even Birds Go Home

- Link: https://writersworkshopindia.com/2023/12/15/even-birds-go-home/
- Published: 2023-12-15T13:28:51+00:00
- Author: us\_basu

5/5 - (1 vote)

**Author:  **Purabi Bhattacharya[⌊A sample cover of the book: Indigo-blue handloom sari with gold embossed nameplate and lettering for the title and author's name. The border of the sari lines the right hand margin of the cover.⌉](https://writersworkshopindia.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/Even-Birds-Go-Home.jpeg)
**
Pages:** 128 **Year of Publication:** 2023 **Price:** Rs 500 **ISBN:** 978-81-961291-
7-0 (9788196129170)

_**About the Author**_

Purabi Bhattacharya writes from the granular ground of Gujarat, guardianed by the
prickly cacti and hot air, pining for the rains, the pine fragrance and the undulant
Khasi hills of Shillong where she was born. The serenity, simplicity and serendipity
of the serpentine alleys that saw her growing up seeped into the very core of her
being. So much so, even two decades of stay in “developed” India has been barely
able to urbanize her, an essentially cerebral nomad.

Ever since her first poem was published in _Wanderlust_ (a journal of Writers’ Forum,
Ranchi) in her formative years, her works have appeared in print, online journals
and anthologies. A **Writers Workshop** author with two collections of poems, _Call
Me_ (2015) and _Sand Column_ (2019), Purabi teaches and frequently reviews books
as a panelist for the literary e-journal _Muse India_.

_**Teaser**_

_The belief centres morph quickly as ballot boxes_

and why do I name it so?
 Its bitumen roads where the ungulates, “bangle cars” pedestrians:
men, women, their litters, politicians, assassinators, victims, rioters, activists
alike trod. This is a place we haven’t slept in peace for long. At 45 degrees the
_dhoklas_, the _dabelis _spruce up the street. The belief centres morph quickly 
as ballot boxes where the blessed keep their surplus safe.

This land doesn’t cry, it cries foul: on food and fashion pandemic.
 You and I, 
the hill-lost, visit a six-hundred-year-old city, still prime with heinous promises.
The women here cave in a hundred tainted tales between their cleavages. They are
the lionesses of their land. They stray all around, loosely knotting hundreds and
hundreds of years of culture in the back of their blouse knots. You do not see the
sun kneeling down anywhere, as chivalrous as he gets here. He knows it’s worth every
wait.

Meanwhile, the city at its fluky hours sautés
 the hill woman and her man.

_**Contents**_

82 poems across three sections

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