Those Summer Morning Walks

                 

The quaint little town of Andul was inhabited by a few hundred people who knew each other all too well. They were friends or neighbours, acquaintances or relatives. There were the old men who trudged along for morning walks, young chaps who flocked around at the market place or the ladies troop who gathered around the puchkawala.

One such simpleton was old Mr Manna. He was one among the old residents of this town. Every morning at the crack of dawn he and his friends would take the mile-long walk to the railway station. This summer the old men had the company of a little sprightly girl and her tiny white furball, Jimmy. Five-year-old Dona was Mr Manna’s granddaughter and Jimmy was her pet spitz. This year she was spending her summer vacation with her grandparents. 

‘Come now little one, don’t wander away’ Mr Manna would often call out to Dona and her pup. 

The old men were thrilled to have this little girl for company. Her abundant energy kept them rattling tale after tale to her. Dona was an eager listener and couldn’t get enough of stories.

‘Grandpa Mitter, would you tell me the story of the mango tree Giant again? I won’t be scared today, I promise’, Dona said pleadingly.  

Mr Mitter rubbed his chin and said, ‘hmm…so you see little one, there was once a giant who lived in the mango tree that stood behind my house…’

As the story followed Dona and Jimmy trotted along the path collecting wildflowers and greeting the townsfolk.

‘You’re late today, Kanai uncle’, Dona chirped as Kanai smirked and cycled past her with his cart full of bread.

Then as they neared the field, there was no stopping Jimmy and Dona from running amuck among the dewy wet grasses.

‘Look at those munchkins!’ the women piped as they queued around the squeaky tubewell to fill their pitchers.

When they reached the railway station, the old men ordered tea from Bishu’s tea stall at the platform. Dona and Jimmy carefully sneaked away and climbed the foot-over bridge to visit the town on the other side. But hardly had the reached the middle of the bridge than the train came rumbling and shot its loud whistle. Dona and Jimmy trembled and crouched low in fear. The burst of laughter made Dona look up with wide eyes.

‘Want to sneak away alone anymore?’ Pintu dada asked as Dona shook her head vigorously.

When Pintu took Dona and Jimmy to the old men, they all chuckled and asked, ‘How was the trip Dona?’ 

‘I-I’m sorry’, Dona mumbled tearfully before her grandpa wrapped her in his arms and soothingly said, ‘It’s okay. Next time we will take the trip to the other side together.’

Today, Dona is a grown woman and lives in a lifeless city. Her Grandpa and Jimmy had died. But the memories of these early mornings and the simpletons of Andul have brought her closer to life and have taught her to cherish the simple joys of life.

Of Mother and Daughter

Of Mother and Daughter
I stood in the corridor, just outside the class;
Transfixed to the spot, as I held the sight before.
There, he came strolling towards me,
My best friend since we were three.
Hopefully to certify a relationship that was yet to be.

Last night he had called to declare his love,
But surprise and awe had tangled my nerves.
Sputtering and stammering words incoherent,
I couldn’t fully convey my feelings intent.
Couldn't confess my feelings of love that our friendship has long augment.

A crooked smile tugged at his lips,
His mussed hair and the familiar cowlick.
Last night’s frenzy now fogged my mind,
Hitched my breath and pounded my ears.
And I stood staring at my friend as he morphed into my lover.

Memory’s river flooded my mind,
Our years of togetherness came floating by.
Locking our eyes, we silently hoped,
That our time-stained Joy, Anger and Sorrow,
Would plough the field of our Love’s tomorrow.


Now he stood proudly before me,
His palpable love setting my soul alight.
He twined his fingers softly with mine,
Like he did that day we buried father,
When we were no more than just nine.

With his head bent forward, his forehead on mine,
A sudden peace washed over him.
Happiness and Fear danced in his eyes;
His face a canvas of myriad emotions.
A perfect reflection of my own impressions.

At the self-same moment I recognized the look,
The one I had seen in my mother’s eyes.
Trust and Love sewn together with Peace,
Would shine in her eyes as she talked of Jim.
Or when she would look at my father, before him.

Understanding plundered my thoughts,
How I wronged my mother’s heart.
Hurt and angry on my father’s behalf, I had lashed out at her;
Deaf to what she had been telling so far:
‘Love is boundless, unconditional and free; and it has given a second chance to me!’

Seven lonely years sucked at her life,
Seven lonely years withered her soul,
Until mother met Jim who brought back Love.
With utmost care Love had bloomed,
And then she gave birth to Hope!

This inexplicable strength, power and courage,
Born of Love’s depth and faith,
Has touched the core of my soul’s being;
And has schooled me in understanding my mother’s feelings.
That Love is born not to die, but to breed in one the love of Life.

The House

He remodelled the house for a lacsome money,
The house that stands at the end of the dirty alley.
The cow shed overlooks the ornate main door shy,
Urchins play amidst cow dung and flies.
The house shines garishly with its white-tiled exterior,
It adds to his pride and makes him feel superior.
Tall and scrawny like a narrow piece of cake,
The house awaits to tumble at a legal inspection's wake.
Three years of savings he spent to rise above
The tacky poor neighbours with no taste or class.
The red-oxide flooring was ripped away with marble,
Friends and relatives sighed and appreciated his bauble.

Seven months and ten days it took to remodel the house;
The house that stands like his ego profuse.
Orphaned and poor, his childhood had lured
Him to own land and be secured.
Money cured his unassuring lack,
He didn't care for any law's smack.
Orange and purple filled the walls of his imagination,
Though unkempt articles didn't add to the reformation.
Hailing from the suburbs in far off East,
The  proud house had his identity fixed.
Teenager from a village, alone and abandoned;
He survived the city; a man ripened and hardened.

But fickle Fate with an unscrupulous smile,
Trapped him in a cancerous vice.
Metabolic dysfunction and a malignant liver,
Rocked his world, his forehead burnt with fever.
Anxious and agitated, and distraught with fear,
His wife strived to fetch him every possible elixir.
Money escaped like a mirage in desert;
Her aching tears bought no relief from Fate pervert.
Addled and hapless, his wife begged for help
From friends and relatives who sighed and sidestepped.

That Ego and Pride—trifles to life;
That money humbles the archest brows;
That perfect luxury equals no love;
Dawned on him, and she thought thereof
To sell the house; the one that stood
In the dingiest and shabbiest neighbourhood.
The house now snuggles a tacky poor family,
Who saved another with their classless money.

If money be the grave, and ego be the dirt,
Let Life be the wind that blows over us.