When all the world sleeps, the moon gently weeps,
and the agents of darkness, they rise!
The foolish are but deaf, and the brave are but blind,
Yes, the heroes are the wise!
Behold their valor, and praise their might!
Let their words and their thoughts be your guide,
Have faith in their lore, and hope in their light,
The forces in you will reside.
Fear not the dark, and dread not the night,
Hear what the heroes they say,
Follow their path and keep them in sight,
Till you arrive at the light of the day.
And then will you see that the skies, they are clear!
The agents of the dark are no more!
When night will fall, there will be no fear,
And the moon, she will smile as before!
I dream.
The heavens unite,
as I diffuse out of the corporeal sphere.
The world is not the world anymore.
Day is night and night is day,
reality is but an illusion.
Cries mingle with laughter.
Mortals weep in sorrow,
while the Gods rejoice.
Their eternal music pours into my ears,
my being and my life.
Time stops. It stops for me.
I stand while fierce storms tear the world apart.
The agents of death and destruction fear my existence,
because I am their master.
Because I am the supreme power.
Because I dream
Hello Sir, How are you?
I hope you are fine.
It’s been a long time since we last met.
Well, I guess the fault was mine.
You see, I’m so very busy these days,
Not a moment to spare.
Was only last week I plucked from my head,
twelve strands of grey hair!
Life is harsh, harsh my dear Sir,
Harsh as harsh can be,
Let me explain what I mean to say,
and for yourself you will see.
I’m quite a poor man, as you already know,
Not much in my purse,
Six children and a basset hound,
makes matters much, much worse.
Things were fine, till early last month,
when my career hit a bump,
Nothing much, I just lost my job,
Guess it was the slump.
I tried my luck at a private firm,
They said I was too slow.
They don’t realize that with people like me,
their profits are bound to grow!
I have the brains, the brains my dear Sir,
the brains to make things work,
So when they said that I was too slow,
I just couldn’t help but smirk!
To top it off, the mutt fell ill,
a horrible running nose,
With doggy snort all over the place,
We had to walk on our toes!
But now he is fine! We’ve killed them all,
The germs in the nose that lurk,
Four and a half days of mashed potatoes,
seemed to have done the work.
As for my house, that’s another pain,
and a rather boring tale,
My landlord, without letting me know,
put it up for sale!
He said that I hadn’t paid my dues,
that I hadn’t cleared his rent,
Six little brats and a four legged beast,
We’re stuck up in a makeshift tent.
So you can see how busy I am,
As busy as a man can be,
But Sir, I do have an hour at hand,
How about a cup of tea?
(I wrote this poem for a good friend of mine, shortly after our last day in school.)
It was a long, long time ago, I remember…
Twenty of us…or maybe even less,
huddled together in a group,
Crumpled shirts, splashed with paint,
the colors of childhood…
The uncle with the camera,
having a hard time,
getting us in order,
And then, the stern voice of Ma’am Roberts,
floated in through the room …
A flash illuminated the small classroom,
and it was done,
Stained clothes covered with dirt,
but our faces ever so bright…
And through the window,
the morning sun piercing through the crisp winter air…
That was KG, I remember…
The long column of desks joined together,
with tiny chairs of various colors
on either side.
You sat opposite me then,
and there was Eric, Vaiz and Partha,
giving us company.
A formidable gang!
But there was peace,
and we did make our way to the land of the Big Bhaiyas…
Class one.
Ma’am Roy…
I still cannot find the words to describe her,
Perhaps there are none.
All of us stood as she entered the class
for the very first time.
Our legs shaking in fear…
But we all know how special that year was,
how special she made it.
And when the year was done,
I still remember her parting words,
“This is a very happy, and yet a very sad day…”
We did not live so close to each other back then,
The car rides home started much later…
but the rest of junior school had it’s charm…
Trading FX cards, hastily tearing through the chips packet,
waiting eagerly for a good card.
The trip to the jute mill in your Bolero,
with Spandan Ghosh by our side,
and Dhir in the front seat,
sitting beside Bimal kaku,
or Bimli as you fondly called him…
Then the time came for the transition,
Into the land of the Bigger Bhaiyas.
and Ma’am Dutta was there to guide us,
through that crucial time.
She continues to guide us,
to this day.
I had moved into Jodhpur Park by then,
Those trips back from violin class,
and those stories and discussions,
fiddler’s fancy, fiddler’s…
Middle school was so very different,
Mr. Pitts, and his illustrious legacy,
Those times we spent, building our stock,
And even selling them,
to those in need.
“In 1757, a 17 year old Frenchman…”
We were introduced to the terror that was detention.
Even though we never gained the experience.
Ritu Singh, and her Academy of Fine Arts,
comprising of boys in class eight…
And Royan’s “You Mister…”
We strode along the path,
stumbling in places,
but rising again…
“I want to meet your mother…”, said a familiar voice.
But we were quite used to that by then…
He certainly taught us a great deal.
We were in senior school,
wearing long pants,
but as D.Dutta reminded us,
we were not long ourselves…
Class Ten went by like a storm,
and before we knew it,
we were ICSE pass…
But we never seemed to reach that stage,
where you suddenly become Big Bhayia…
Our class had undergone a lot shuffling by then,
but we were never separated…
Probably the only ones in our batch.
And suddenly we knew,
that we were moving slowly, but steadily,
towards the end of our school lives.
But the fun never ceased…
You jumping out of the window,
much to Raja’s amazement.
The cheeky comments from the back of the class,
much to Sur’s discomfort…
Srijit never stopped.
The fun never ceased…
And as the final months approached,
more and more cameras were smuggled in.
More pictures went up on Facebook.
Pictures which I could not see.
Should have signed up earlier…
The last days arrived.
Signing on shirts, more photos with old teachers,
Carving names on the Grand Staircase…
Yet something was amiss…
Something not complete,
there was a strange vacuum somewhere,
somewhere in my mind, where I could not reach….
And then I found it.
While rummaging through old books.
It was covered with dust, and stained with time,
The crumpled shirts were painted with the colors of childhood.
but our faces ever so bright…
And through the window,
the morning sun piercing through the crisp winter air…
There was once a subject, EVS by name,
No one had ever heard of it, till it suddenly rose to fame.
Don’t ask me how it came, or why it came at all,
but in the list of school subjects, EVS stood tall.
In came the teachers, one by one,
fat textbooks in hand,
Textbooks filled with Utopian thoughts,
from many a far off land.
The time had come, ladies and gentlemen,
the time to shed a tear,
With global warming and climate change,
the end of the world seemed near.
Such were the thoughts that came to our minds,
to our minds when we read these books,
and the authors of these pages of utter rubbish,
seemed no more than a bunch of crooks.
But then it struck us, or at least it struck me,
that what the crooks were saying was right.
I looked out of the concrete window,
Not a bird did cross my sight.
I strained my eye, I sprained my neck,
but not a tree did I see,
The tall buildings lay before me,
as lifeless as can be.
Where are the birds? Where are the trees?
Where are the lush green lands?
They are gone, gone my dear friends,
killed by our very own hands.
I ran out of my huge classroom,
out into the open sky,
We are the ones that get to live,
They are the ones that die.
Is this the way? The way to live?
The way to move ahead?
We can still work to turn things back,
The birds, not all are dead.
There is one thing I am going to tell you,
and mark my words well,
The crooks are the gods, listen to them,
and all will be well.
