Ahir Bhairav

The morning sun had risen up the sky, spreading the golden hue;

It was gloomy due to the shroud of fog over the city.

The city was waking up rubbing the sweet pleasure of sleep.

The newspaper cyclist enfolded in warm clothes–mufflers and all–

Was the only active, high energetic person that could be seen strolling–

As it’s his duty; the tea shop  owners, another set of energetic not high though,–

sweeping and cleaning the shop ‘fore the first order of chai would be placed,–

As the unoon get its flame releasing black smoke turning the fog to smog…

Kolkata was waking up to the call of the winter-morning call–

Shivering in cold and reluctant to leave the quilt or blanket–

In whatever they had enveloped them, the young couples was–

On dilemma–as the boy wants warmth of her, the girl can’t–

There’s been already a loop of knock from the mother; the clinking of utensils–

Could be heard from the kitchen; the cough of old patriarch could be heard–

As he had returned from Morning Walk with newspaper under his arm–

And now waiting for the morning tea ‘fore going off to the bazaar.

The boy cuddle his wife to make a move, but, the knock distuned the moment.

Kolkata was waking up to the call of the winter-morning call–

As the young man returned home after a long night shift at office–

His eyes were red, they’re in dire need of sleep; his stomach noised as he was hungry.

The comfort of blanket and softness of pillow was all he need,–

But ‘fore that he need a bath and a cup of tea and a meal of oats or cornflakes–

Whatever his mother would serve him; he also had to listen to her morning chore–

It might be s’thing she had dreamt of last night or heard; it might be her demand–

To do some bazaar for the lunch and coming days; the night shift would be for all week–

Three days before it got over–twenty-seven hours of awake-night specifically.

Kolkata was waking up to the call of the winter-morning call–

As the man sat on the balcony, calling her wife to serve tea–

And then biting his tongue to forget she’s no more with him for last three weeks.

She had abandon her in the dark of December night–three weeks ago–

As she passed away in her sleep; but, habit haven’t died–

But it’ll eventually because change is all…

He put the paper down on the table and went to kitchen–the morning tea he all need–

He had been growing expertise in this.

Kolkata was waking up to the call of the winter-morning call–

As the six-years old being pulled out from the blanket by the reluctant mother–

She was enjoying the warmth of her father to whom she’s his little princess.

Her school bus would be there within thirty minutes; it would pick her up–

From near the ATM at the main road–that can be seen from their small balcony.

She hustle and then whim to get out of the blanket as her mother,

Doing the morning chore, touched her cheek with her icy cold hand;

Her Papa kissed her on her forehead and pulled her up; he also got up–

As he was going to take her to the bus stand and then he would go to the bazaar.

As she strode slowly drowsily to the bathroom–

Rubbing her little eyes and yawning continuously, her Mamma serve tea to her Papa–

Still wrapped in blanket at the knees–their hand touches each other and eyes meet–

After six years of marriage a lost but hidden glow shine in their eyes.

(But) it was short as she was calling her mother from the bathroom to help her with brushing.

Kolkata was waking up to the call of the winter-morning call–

(As) the boy was woken by the singing of his love–ringtone of his cell phone–

(But) it’s not she, it’s from office; he knew he had to get to the office early hours ‘fore–

His shift time which was at one o’clock; he receives the call (though) to hear the news.

He got up and shook off his drowsiness–he felt heavy at head which is common–

These days; its being long he had felt satiated by the night sleep; the warm gloomy sun–

Penciled rays on her bed drawing an obscure outline of the window grill;

He looked at it vacantly and then said under his breath– the new day, the new hope…

It’s been long five months she had called him to woke him up; the ringtone was the one-

That ringed few minutes ago; he change the tone as water formed up in his sleepy eyes…

Kolkata was waking up to the call of the winter-morning call–

(When) she got up and free her from the clutches of the man; last night was a rough one–

After long; he was a beast, he was drunk; he twisted her wrist and let her did–

Against her will the things she didn’t want to or rejected to do…

She was shocked by her reflection at the mirror that was at the corner of the room;

Bruises on different places at face; there’s bruises (though) all over her naked body.

She find the bathroom and cleaned her up silently and in same motion dressed up her–

Afterward; he had paid beforehand so there’s no need of waking him up; she looked–

At him–he look like a sleeping beast after an tiring nocturnal adventurous outing.

She leave a breath and came out slowly out of the room, then she walk down the stairs–

From the second floor, not taking the elevator, and came out–

Of the seven storied storied apartment when the warm hue along with a cold drift–

Brush her bruised face; under her breath she said–night is gone long ago, day is not…

Ahir bhairav of old Guruji, that had enthrall the surrounding, caught her, all of sudden;–

making her stand–‘fore the school bus screech in front of ATM–

And a lady shouted listening the whistle to the hand-pulled cart waste-man–

From a top floor to order a halt for a minute there;

Not long after a newly wedded wife came to throw the trash in the cart.

Her eyes went up as the raga got a turn–a balcony shows a boy smoking absently–

Another shows an old man with his cup of morning-tea looking–

At (first) the newly wedded girl; (then) the little girl who came out in lap of her father;

Her mother, she saw, waiving her hand and flying kisses to her–

From the first floor balcony…

It was being long after Guruji had stopped his raga, which was few minutes later,–

The bruised girl rode a taxi after getting refused by three or four taxis…

Kolkata was rubbing off its morning drowsiness and clumsiness–

And was turning to a busy one–

(When) Guruji start another raga after a pause–which this poet couldn’t recognize–

(Because) he had turned on trending tracks on his online music platform–

He need to be office by ten thirty and it was already nine thirty…–

And he needed to catch the bus; though it was eleventh of the month–

But riding a taxi is a luxury, which, he  want but can’t afford…



For dVerse Poetics-Suburb Poetry (02/21/2017)

12 responses to “Ahir Bhairav”

  1. Fantastic. Dhakae “Ahir Bhairav” to shuni na kintu bakituku onektae mile jae.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. thanks porar janya…

      Liked by 1 person

  2. […] give me a charge up, assure me yes I can write, I can spell magic with my writings. The poem was Ahir Bhairav and ma’am commented “What a poetic way of story telling…It kept me reading more even […]


  3. Everyday life in one poem,lovely💝

    Liked by 1 person

  4. What a poetic way of story telling…It kept me reading more even after it ends…great!!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks…you might…i might continue this…keep looking for that…

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Yea please do…your city is similar to mine in many ways…


        1. oh really…if you want we can be friend in FB…what you think? We can discuss many more over there…

          Liked by 1 person

          1. Share your fb link I will send you request from my official fb account


              1. Pressed the follow you can add me


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