Dystopian

It’s being two months he had died. Our old ration shop owner. Now his son is the owner.

The generation passed on to another; as a new era has begun. Young and vibrant he is

In the old crumbled housed shop. Lots of confusion and knowing us, the customers

He is not smiling, but, trying to. The deals and adjustment I had with her father now

Need to renew, rethought to match his preference and mine.

 

Down the street few minutes walk, there is the medicine shop running for a few years.

But, that doesn’t make me surprised as the grocery shop adjacent to is. This is the area

where I had grown up. I had become a boy from a child–a fatherless child.

The shop then seems to be a large one filled with hanging sachets of lots of mixtures, and

Pots and urns of varied fried snacks, and sacks of rice, potatoes, onions, rice, and sugar.

Now, it seems

To be small. Just a shop like it shall be. The owner has become old. In his young age

He used to have his hair, in front, waved and curled like that of my comic hero Tintin.

Now that hair is white, and the wave is sleeping one with bald at the crown. A grownup

I thought Tintin will never grow old, but, if we want him we visualize him.

The signboard of the shop is nowhere there as my memory couldn’t recollect the name.

The mystery of time asked me why am thinking so much.

 

At the medicine shop, I met with the Mohameddan mattress builder. His white beard

Was flying in the late-spring early noon breeze. His long stout stature now a broken one,

But, his thunder like voice is still there which is getting interrupted by interim coughs.

My age-old mattress was by him. That time he was a young handsome man and his sons

Were learning the trade. Now, there’s no one to carry forward–he says. His shop now

(Was it already) a small one at the down. The signboard is now shattered one; 

Name of the shop is after him.

Yasmuddin Bedding Shop. 

Now, Bedding Shop can be read. Yasmuddin, one has to read with efforts.

 

I look around, and for the first time, I saw the changes. I have come here many times,

Once every month to buy Ma’s medicine. But, for the first time, the area from my

childhood seems to be the real one. And the time, I’m standing in, is dystopian one.

 

The mystery I’ll not say it is. Or is it?

A long time ago there was a boy. Now, who has become a man.

People say he’s a gentleman, rare one in this rude crude time.

A long time ago there was a world, which crumbled to solve the time?


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National Poem Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) 2018: Day#8: Write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur. [To me Time is the most mysterious and magical occurence].


 

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