National Poem Writing Month 2020: Day 25: Hymn of the Apparitions

The sun cracked through the cloud that is gray making the blue of the sky gray like long dead moss at the parapet of the roof of this house. It is standing by the road–once unimportant, now a important one. The history dictated down the old teethless mouths denote the street an unnamed one traversing through a jungle–dense and green–with the village of the highly educated Brahmins in its. The village was on the side or in the middle no one though know. But it is well known fact the village is named, Kasba, after this presence of the educated aristocrat pandits. The path was infested by dacoits and robbers. “It was long ago” the old man and his friend said, sitting under the banyan tree. One of the few in the area standing tall and handling out its verdant branches deep into the neighborhood. They belongs to my childhood. The old man and his friends has passed away; I hasn’t crossed the threshold of the school. One by one mostly at wee hours of the night they have passed away in their sleep or calling out there dear one in that stroke of moment. Now few knows the story of the jungle and its road. There have been erected tall buildings mostly light in color few in deep. The emergence of the consumerism through inauguration of shopping malls has increase the value of the assets. The common people belonging to middle class acts like the fish out of the water; they wants places to stay but they have to stay like meager to take care of the family. The cloud has curtain the mid-day sun. The paper where the house by the street is drawn is now yellowish gray in color. Near to it is a school. Other times now as the clock strikes the one the morning classes of the kindergarten used to get over, and the street and the alleys crowded with little jostling of bundled innocence and laughter. Now it is silence that rule those streets and alleys. Crossing the school a bridge starts there. It is not so old if anyone wants to think so. It was constructed after or during the Naxalite movement. An engineer had been thrown from the moving train and killed on the railway track that runs under the bridge. He was honest, as the oral history goes, and the hired guns of some contractor made him pay for his honesty. The bridge then a plan or was under-construction was named on inauguration after this lost forgotten soul. The center of the bridge where it is high little like a bump the junction of Ballygunje could be seen. Daily commuters running on the over-bridge to or from the station, moving to the market area of Gariahat or to the residential area of Kasba. On this bridge in April of 1982 sixteen monks and a nun was burned. It was the last day of the month and it was early morn when the fire was set on based on the alleged child lifting–as it is said so. Media or government never paid a heed. Not a sympathy was collected from them. The real history has got lost as the oral one remain. Silence of the history reminds me another silence. It was at the end of the April, half a decade ago. In the east room Dida breath last. It was noon. The silence followed me long after she gone into the noon, into the night. April sun slapping on the closed windows curtained carefully by the women of the rented flat. The sun playing hide and seek as the clouds travel in its own flow over blazed sky. They are scattered and collaged over the sky like the Autumn sky when five-days Durga Puja is organized. Once it used to be happened. Now promotion is all. The festival need to be arranged and organized with billboards and advertisement boards get crowded with offers declaring discounts and lucrative offerings. All here in the city now waiting for those days as six months left. The crumbling shut down human spirits finding a way, a vent to be out; to laugh and be gay. They are tired and exhausted to fight the mist that has spreads over the world. The house by the street now stand gloomily in the shaded late-noon sunlight embracing the silence as the poet hum a song of Bon Jovi–“This House is Not for Sale. The history of the road roam around him taking shape of some apparitions in his darkened room as he change the track time to time.

By Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s