From this roof of mine, you cannot see the Liberty or Big Ben.
From this roof of mine, you cannot see Iraq or Somalia.
From this roof of mine, you can see the 42 of Park Street & Atmosphere near Science City.
From this roof of mine, you can see the throbbing of stories so many.
The man, the one sweaty and shoulder tilted one side, is looking at his watch–
Standing at the queue of auto; what for he is in hurry–
Returning home after a long day or some thing else
Because I know he is widower and his son in London.
The lady, the one in green sharee, I knew her long ago.
The boy who was his lover made her pregnant and then denied.
She had been aborted & the boy no one knows of his whereabout.
She smile at me if we cross the road face to face; the boy was my friend.
The girl, the one coming out of the local named parlor, what’s her story…
The man wait for her half past eight every evening with his bike
She board it; is it out of love or fear or possessiveness…
The man, my teacher once, had serve sentence for killing his sister-in-law.
So many stories. So many life.
Three catch my eyes; grab my imagination.
All are sultry like this evening breeze.
The sky is gathering clouds. The air had stop flowing.
A storm is raging it seems as sky rumbles and flash.
So, it will rain–I hope.
Kolkata will get drenched.
This poem is inspired by few songs of Anjan Dutt.
All the characters depicted here are not real or doesn’t bear any relation with me.