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Everything around us makes us feel. And sometimes, life plays like a movie in our minds. When we focus on one of those moments and write them down to share with others, our art creates an impact that we never imagined. These always grow into multiple possibilities depending on the imagination and perception of the reader. Here are three such scenes for you to live with Shamik.
In an Indian Railway Compartment
The smoke begins to scatter and so the public chatter;
the hawker too outcries his list of goods.
The scritches of the trunks and children up the bunks,
move like the view of outer woods.
The old-man with his daughter, waddles to fetch her water;
the porter places the luggage-weight.
Food-pouches fly about, from all the windows out,
the inspector of fare stands at the gate.
Some families play, while the bogeys sway,
the cleaner slogs the floor and all the crooks.
The gymnast jumps and shoots, the shiner shines the boots,
and blazons everywhere the man with books.
An impaired male on rollers, a group that wails and hollers,
move to the seats of every box.
A band of girls who sing, a team of chaps who swing,
the sweet-vendor is such a plumpy man.
The seller of the toys mingles with little boys,
the elder batch is busy with their laughs.
A pair has set to roam and a scholar goes home,
one to relieve his cough.
The pantry-men with trolley, come with their faces jolly,
and scrawl what each passenger wants to feast.
It is the time of noon and food is needed soon,
as glimmer of the sun leaves east.
The width of day is slimming, the glasses slowly dimming,
the helper comes with requirements to bed.
Now are no more the bustles, only the front engine whistles,
and all the journey-men are resting head.
To My Mother's Parijat
O Parijat! Sweet Parijat!
you slump not from your earthen bed.
My mother with a brittle heart,
shall bemoan if your petals shed.
O Parijat! White Parijat,
alike pert children, frisk and sway,
when twiddling winds, caress your stem,
when you're coddled by light of the day.
O Parijat! Young Parijat,
you shrivel not, I entreat so
and thieve not from her plundered heart
the only hope -- you are that glow.
O Parijat! Soft Parijat,
if soon to mangle you are here,
then know with dipping gleam of light,
her infirm eyes, will turn to drear.
O Parijat! Gay Parijat,
burgeon into lovely flowers,
from afore day's curse, rebloom, regrow,
to bathe in sun's new shows.
O Parijat! Her Parijat,
let not time wring you to die;
you have to live many years
and love for mother, indemnify.
The Rickshaw Puller
Whether mizzle or heat
or skyful of glisters,
he ever has unshoed feet,
is ever in blisters
and whether it is cold,
whether he is young or old,
whatever the weather holds,
he Rickshaw hauls and hauls!
Near the footpath-folk,
in his party of three,
he would smilingly smoke
the Tendu-leaved beedi
and rest his hands and feet
upon the tea stand seat
then come commuter's call,
again he Rickshaw hauls!
A tatty undervest,
cheekbones expended,
sharp skeletal chest;
all show that he is underfed
but his calves, loins, and bones,
are hard as diamond stones
and his lank limbs, you see,
stronger than you and me.
In Chill, no woolen pall,
no ease from the summer loo,
no tough tect against rainfall,
then marauds him ague.
Not always by him keep
good aliment and sleep
He cannot affordably
nourish his family.
He wakes at the crack of dawn
bathes in a bourn cold as ice,
every day, wears the same,
eats chapati or rice.
He treadles everywhere
through each gennel and chare,
and when limps at noonday,
he rests on a two way.
He services us,
yet some men with disdain,
for few coins make ruckus,
while he does abased remain.
But in his heart is gold
if seen through, it will unfold;
which gives same aglint rays,
like your own joyant days!
***
For the love of art,
Shamik Banjerjee
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