Author Archives: Sunil Sharma

About Sunil Sharma

Sunil Sharma is Principal at Bharat College – affiliated to University of Mumbai, Mumbai – at Badlapur, Mumbai Metropolitan Region, India. He is a bilingual critic, poet, literary interviewer, editor, translator, essayist and fiction writer. Some of his short stories and poems have already appeared, among others, in prestigious journals like: Hudson View (South Africa), Munyori, The Plebian Rag and the Bicycle Review (all three USA e-zines), Asia Writes; New Woman (Mumbai); Creative Saplings, Brown Critique and Kritya (Indian e-zines); the Seva Bharati Journal of English Studies (West Bengal), Indian Literature (of Sahitya Akademy, New Delhi), Labyrinth (Gwalior), Poets International (Bangalore), Contemporary Vibes (Chandigarh), Indian Journal of Post-colonial Literatures (Kerala) and Prosopisia (Ajmer). Some of his poems and shorts have been anthologized in national and international collections. Besides that, he is a freelance journalist in English. His areas of strength are Marxism, Literary Theory and Cultural Studies. His book on the Philosophy of the Novel – a Marxist Critique is already published and got a good response. His debut novel – The Minotaur – dealing with dominant ideologies and sociopolitical realities of the 20th century was also published from Jaipur (India) in 20009. The novel was released in South Africa in December, 2009. As a freelance, he has more than 1,000 news articles published in DK Plus, Times of India, Mumbai. His six short stories and the novel Minotaur are prescribed currently for the undergraduate classes under the Post-colonial Studies at the Clayton University, Morrow, Georgia, USA. He has also edited, along with Dr Jaydeep Sarangi, an anthology of shorts, The Editors’ Choice: Contemporary Short Stories in Indian English, published by Gnosis Publications, New Delhi, 2010. He is one of the editors for the NFJ (New Fiction Journal), an international journal devoted to the short stories. A collection of poems: Poetry amid the Golden Barrel Cacti was released in November-2011 from Authors Press, Delhi. He serves on many advisory boards of quality international literary and online journals. He can be contacted through email at: Special achievements: Featured in this encyclopedia: Poet of the month at The HyperTexts:

Shrieks of ghosts


Midnight cold-n-cruel unfolds

At the witching hour the moon

Hides her scarred oval face and disappears

Then the raging curs and December wind

Keep him awake in the well-lit apartment

At the 10th floor in the Vasant Enclave, a

Leafy suburb of New Delhi,

Where the wealthy and the powerful live;

A shriek is heard that congeals his blood

A loud terrifying shriek travelling up,

A woman calling out desperately:

Help! Help! Please help!

And loud footsteps are heard and

Muted cries and barbaric laughter

As if a pack of laughing hyenas is loosed

Upon a prey in the concrete jungle;

The nerd loses his peace and peers out

Into the brightly-lit alley outside the wall of

The gated community, well-secured and patrolled;

He finds no human figure out there!

But the shrieks are heard again-n-again

Rising in a crescendo that shatters the eardrums!

Next morning his hosts tell the geek an urban legend

Years ago a young working woman got murdered

After being raped by few thugs high on drugs;

The folks in the neighbourhood did nothing to

Help her, the poor object of combined male lust;

Since then, on dark nights, her ghost stalks the

Deserted narrow alley and raises hell by knocking

On each door that was once closed for pleading her!

The spectral presence slowly drove the scared

People to sell their flats to strangers but

The lonesome shrieks followed them

To their new homes everywhere.

Although rapes/murders have not stopped even after that

Gruesome episode of urban indifference, and,

The gleaming city of the flyovers and high-rises has turned into a graveyard of unburied and the revengeful female ghosts, demanding justice.

Why this ongoing nightmare? he asks.

Well, some can see such stalking ghosts but the governments cannot!




A cynical term — A cliche for some—

In the media society,

But often, surprisingly,

It blooms

Unbidden, in calcified hearts,

And it becomes

A pleasant feeling or a

Sudden sensation you feel, while looking at the wild flowers

Blooming in the old brown plains, Scalded hills or dusty grounds

—————This ancient emotion experienced by even the non-humans————–

Refreshed by a departing strong shower of the

Tired Indian Monsoon


The Mumbai evening lingers

like that latch-key kid
on the cold threshold

of the semi-shut door

of the neighbours

busy with their soap,

the tiny steps unsure,
eyes appealing gently

to the viewers;

while a raven unsettled

by the blast from a hurtling bus

settles down on the sill a few inches away,

scaring the solitary figure,

while darkness deepens around

and wind moans in the narrow corridor.


Politics of hatred

Two South Boston brothers Scott and Steve Leader beat a homeless man

A 58-year-old Hispanic, on August 19, inspired by the hate speech of a man called Trump.

Hispanics, homeless, blacks, Arabs, Sikhs, Muslims, Indians and practically every immigrant are suddenly suspect and these groups kick up hysteria on those mean streets that were once made by the immigrants from Europe and UK and slaves from African continent!

How immigrants demonize others as illegals and sub-humans and even zombies!

The one appearing different—in a hoody or tattooed or with a top bun—can become a grave threat to the commune/collective/gated communities. Paranoia has no expiry label, feeding upon our urban angst, fears, insecurities and make us all vulnerable!

The politics of hatred spreads everywhere like a swollen river of toxins flooding the cities and towns on its destructive course.

In this era of Internet and social media, such messages circulate seamlessly and create the Instant Other even in advanced nations, transforming friends and neighbours into enemies.

When politicians in democracies talk of the Hispanics and immigrants as threats, the virus kills the conscience…and nobody wants to see the deadly power-games.

The two brothers urinated on the old victim’s face and beat him with a pole and broke his nose and teeth…and laughing, went away from crime scene, feeling vindicated for a vast nation built upon the bones of the previous immigrants and massacred indigenous folks.

If looks decide the fate, we all are doomed, one place or the other; we are the fall guys for the wrong lingo, clothes, beliefs, hairstyles, sexual orientation and skins; the 21-century sadly rewinds to an age of feudal anarchy and bloody revenge.



A Tribute To Gabriela Mistral

A child’s tiny feet,
Blue, blue with cold,
How can they see and not protect you?
Oh, my God!

Tiny wounded feet,
Bruised all over by pebbles,
Abused by snow and soil!

Man, being blind, ignores
that where you step, you leave
A blossom of bright light,
that where you have placed
your bleeding little soles
a redolent tuberose grows.

Since, however, you walk
through the streets so straight,
you are courageous, without fault.

Child’s tiny feet,
Two suffering little gems,
How can the people pass, unseeing. 


O great mother to all the invisible kids of the world!

You wrote these lines in 1922

Yet they sound so true even in 2015!

The world never heard your heart-felt appeal

The crying of a heart for a child of the street

With bleeding feet.

For the Chilean poet

Adopted by other versifiers as a symbol of protest

Their icon and teacher

You show the snow and the path underneath

Those two suffering little gems

And how empathy works across the

Time-space continuum for poetic hearts;

You make us see the blood trail left by a poor child

Where tuberose springs up fast.

Things have not changed much here in the Indian streets

The child worker, bare-feet and ill-clad, matted hair,

Brown-eyed, hollow-faced, hunting food bins and rubbish

For daily survival in a gleaming city with flying cars and beckoning malls

Full of a sunny smile and hope, despite being Unseen by the surging mass!

On lonely nights, perhaps, another Oliver Twist hears your songs and bucks up for another day

Of hard war against a system denying him inclusion, agency and rights.

Showers of gold

The clusters of the yellow flowers

Tucked on the Gulmohar trees

Now in full summer bloom, spreading an umbrella

Behind the shacks of sheets and cardboards

Along the serpentine highway in the

Suburban Mumbai;

The tall trees, slim and smiling

Rain down the tender showers of gold,

Thus turning the asbestos sheets of the

Illegal hovels into shining canvases of pure

Colours of dull brown, white and bright yellow

Branches green kissing the airless tiny boxes

Providing the forgotten citizens cool shade

And succor in the hot winds.


The Nepali earthquake: A prayer


A giant snoring in the womb of the earth

Woke up and hit with mighty vengeance

Roaring and erupting/rupturing the solid surface

With uncontrolled fury, hissing and pounding, tearing

Everything on his way up;

The 7.8 magnitude quake jolted violently

The tiny kingdom on last Saturday,

Killing thousands and maiming others,

Sending tremors as far off as New Delhi,

What a terrible morning for us!

With the infra flattened and folks buried

Under grey mountains of rubble,

A scary situation which can hit any place

Or time with immunity;

Slides, floods and quakes have been rattling

And devastating the battered planet,

Waking up the giant more frequently now

Always leaving a trail of bloody destruction

And tragic results, be it Haiti or India or Nepal;

Let us pray for the dead and show solidarity

In this hour of crisis to all the affected humanity by

Doing our humble bit!

Let us stop raiding the natural resources for greedy purposes

In the name of ill-planned urbanization and illogical progress;

Instead through concerted green efforts, try to make safe

Livable/habitable this old earth for the future.


To Papa Hemingway


You continue to inspire me

One among your die-hard fans

Across the world still in turmoil.

You drove an ambulance during the

World war I and got wounded,

You were always there leading

From the front be it Paris or Madrid

You hunted and fished and boxed

Bullfighting was another passion

That provided insights into the

Game of life and death for him

The man who saw the wars and climbed hills

Did the safari and talked of a code of conduct,

And committed suicide, when fed up with life,

And became known as Papa Hemingway to others,

Giving succour and hope in the face of ugliness

And a world brutalized by the power-hungry.

He tells us there is no gap between his beliefs and

Daily conduct, thus making his work truly authentic.

Flowers in a pot

Flowers in a pot

—Sunil Sharma

The slim widower

Tends daily to the potted plants;

His speciality the white flowers

In a corner of the balcony

Of the one-room apartment

On the eleventh floor,

In the heart of the commercial district,

From that vantage point, the world is a blur

And nobody cares for the grumpy man,

Nor he, for them,

He is so bitter;

But, flowers beckon, dancing in the wind,

And the muttering occupant, lonely and miserable,

Waters them daily and they both talk,

And he sees in their smiling

Tender petals,

A son now forever lost;

These brief conversations

Conducted twice, everyday

Delight an ageing heart.

Through fragrance and colour,

The long-stemmed flowers,

Fragile and vulnerable,

Spread cheer everywhere,

Every nook and corner,

Like the sunflowers of

Van Gogh.

(Courtesy: The UN’s anthology on Happiness: The Delight-Tree)