Deserted.
The silence of the night, was being torn apart with the angry wind’s scream ;
On the edge of the dense forest, besides the overflowing gurgling stream ;
Stood an empty camp ; the torn canvas tents fluttering in strong breeze.
Gazing at a crescent moon in the sky, trying to escape the dark cloud’s tight seize.
The camp was deserted, the people within had left their tents behind,
The weather was extreme, the relentless heavy rain had been very unkind.
They had left the camp dejected, defeated, their morale hurt and pained,
Their wet boots and bags soaked heavy, their strong resolute, eventually waned.
The camp fire could not be lit for days, the gusty winds blew so strong ,
They huddled together through the rain chilled nights, not knowing what went wrong.
They had set the camp filled with enthusiasm of youth, eager for an adventure ,
Ignoring the dark cloud’s warning, not knowing that weather could be a stranger .
To walk through the dense green forest and reach its end was their daring plan,
But nature had a different will, and their adventure had to stop even before it began.
The darkness of the night had entered the heart of an empty, deserted camp,
They had long fled, and amidst strewn around things stood alone an unlit lamp.
It was a camp, but with a different story to tell,
It was a camp, where people could not dwell.
It was a camp, which did not hear any campfire song,
It was a camp , where happy faces did not throng.
It was a camp, in the depths of a jungle, no one knew,
It was a camp, which still awaits for someone new !
Author: sangeeta_chakladar
Resilience
A story of a nation ,
Leaning on the mighty Himalayas and Hindukush,
Which fought to stop every invaders’ push.
A story of a nation ,
Seeing the world walk into its inner courtyard,
Believing in the silk routes’ trading facade.
A story of a nation ,
With resilience and valor trying to save its lands,
Saving its integrity from the tight grip of the British hands.
A story of a nation ,
To stand up with head held high, after each battle pain,
To uphold deep seeded resilience, time and again.
A story of a nation ,
Which marched for Swaraj with a steel resolve of tolerance,
Broken in two and yet celebrated independence.
A story of a nation ,
Often dwindling and crumbling into fragmented quarters,
And building again from those gathered mass of shatters.
A story of a nation ,
Where amidst unity thrives diversity’s endless scope,
Where hearts are filled with strong resilience and hope.
A story of a nation ,
Where a resilient populace marks its presence strong,
Swaying the national flag and singing the national song.
This is the story of my country, young but centuries old.
My nation is my pride, and has endless stories untold.
Sail Away
At the darkest hour before the dawn, I stood by the sea,
The waves were covered in a burnt-grey sky’s canopy.
In the darkness of that hour, there emerged a lone boat,
With fishermen swaying in motion, to keep the vessel afloat.
The winter wind made me shiver, but I waited in a trance,
Watching the men ready their boat, for the ocean-dance.
Fearful of the swelling waves, fearful of that sombre hour,
I wanted them to wait a while, till the day’s crimson shower.
I called out to them, or so I thought, in my fearful lost state,
They did not wait or stop for me, for I was not a sailor’s mate.
My whisper didn’t reach their ears, my voice did not carry far,
I stood alone with the sky and sea and a lonely northern star.
They were not my own brothers, from near or far-away life,
Yet I felt an oneness with them, I was akin with their strive.
In a heavy rhythmic motion they pulled their seasoned oars,
Pulling their tiny vessel far, far away from the sandy shores.
Their life, fate and friendship entwined with the waters-deep,
In these waves they learn to dance, to smile and to weep.
I stood by the shore, watching them sail away from my vision,
In to the deep, where sky met the sea, or was it but an illusion.
My heart kept echoing to the dark mist, to raise its heavy veil,
Pleading with the sun to rise soon, then safely they could sail.
Their needs! mere and frugal,their hearts filled with pride,
For each new day they greeted the waves, to play and to ride.
Like a lover’s call the mighty waves thrash on a barren beach,
To woe a sailor and take him away, far from the lands reach.
They unite, hidden from our eyes, there where no one can see,
With no ties of the land, in the lover’s arms a sailor is set free.
In grey fathom less waters, they find rainbow colours hue,
The sparkling sun, dressing the sea, in diamond studded blue.
They sang in chorus, singing a song of faith and fortitude ,
They oared in symphony, filling hearts, with sublime gratitude.
I stood quiet, hearing their song, and seeing them fade away,
The sea was roaring, it was a call , every sailor must obey.
I stood numbed, seeing them go, bidding a silent adieu,
They lived a life of glorious challenges, gifted only to a few.
Tomorrow’s Day off
In the house of TIME lived three friends in complete harmony with each other, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow. The clock work precision of their chores had never failed before but until this day. After almost finishing a full day’s hard work, Today entered Tomorrow’s room to hand on the Baton of the Day to Tomorrow.
But to his surprise, Tomorrow was still lying in bed without showing any sign of waking up. After some nudging from Today, Tomorrow turned in bed, sat up with a tired yawn and said something that he had been wanting to say for ever, “I don’t feel like going for work, just for once; dear Today will you please continue being Today and carry on your job. I want to take a day off from work. I, Tomorrow, for the first time in my life, do not want to report for duty”.
A shocked Today stood staring at Tomorrow in complete disbelief. Today almost shouted out saying “How is that even possible dear Tomorrow ? You know very well when Today ends, Tomorrow has to show up. You cannot break this chain in the house of Time. And talking of work, I am the most hardworking one in this house. I am always under the pressure of living in the present”.
Tomorrow stood up slowly, with a sad voice and continued “Do you even know how much work is left for me to complete
everyday. Everyone procrastinates all the time. The work they are supposed to do Today, gets pushed onto Tomorrow.
Every chore, every plan, even dreams are forever being marked for Tomorrow. This creates so much pressure on me.
I too am just a simple Tomorrow, I don’t have any magical powers. What can’t be done Today, don’t pass it on to me. “
Yesterday had long retired in his chamber and was silently working with all the files of memories, neatly stacking them
and marking them by category. Yesterday had this tough job to produce any file, any time at the press of recall button. All
the commotion outside broke Yesterday’s reverie. Yesterday walked out and stood at Tomorrow’s door step, for Yesterday
could not enter Tomorrow. Rules were a bit strict in The House Of Time. From the door, Yesterday asked “What is all
this commotion ? What are you two arguing about ? Can’t you let a tired Yesterday work in peace with memories?”
Today looked up at Yesterday for support and started saying “Tomorrow here is refusing to go to work now, Tomorrow feels
overburdened. Tomorrow wants me ( Today) to carry on my hours endlessly. This is entirely unfair. I am the hardworking
one in this house, all goals are accomplished in my time, in my hours, I am an over burdened Today”.
Yesterday smiled wryly and said ” You both are wrong, I have been in both your shoes. I know time management is tough,
but trust me my life is not easy either. I am constantly loaded with nostalgia and memories. At times, I feel the load of
memories will suffocate me. So can you two give me some peace! I am Yesterday, the senior one, preservation of every
day is my responsibility. And trust me, keeping all the files and records of every day is not an easy task”.
Tomorrow looked up at Yesterday and said “I am sad, I am sad and tired. I am sad because I am always taken for granted. I always show up, no matter how good or bad Today has been, I have to always show up with new hope and optimism. I am tired because of the false promises kept aside for Tomorrow.”
At this emotional outburst of Tomorrow, the room was filled with silence. The three friends stood looking at each other not
knowing what to do. They had never argued or fought like this before. A sense of gloom and confusion was engulfing them
and just then the magic happened.
The walls of the house started speaking. It was a loud, clear and somber voice, it went on to say “I am Time. I am
immortal. You three live in my house. It is I who have given you your identity and roles. You three are bound by the same
chain. Yesterday, my eldest your responsibility is to fill Today and Tomorrow with your experience. Today you are my
favorite in many ways, you need to learn from Yesterday and also fill Tomorrow with encouragement. And lastly, Tomorrow
the youngest, you are the flag bearer of hope. The meaning of Time will become irrelevant without you. Yet, do not get too
complacent in your role. At the rate humans are moving if they move to another galaxy then Time, Yesterday, Today and
Tomorrow, we will all lose relevance forever! So wake up and do your job. Tomorrow has to come.
Void Within
When there is a void within,
No happy thoughts can knock.
When there is a void within,
Every smile seems to mock.
When there is a void within,
Roads neither meet nor cross.
When there is a void within,
All thoughts drown in pathos.
When there is a void within,
No garden bloom looks blushed.
When there is a void within,
Voices around are softly hushed.
When there is a void within,
Music brings melancholic tears.
When there is a void within,
Eyes brim with untold fears.
When there is a void within,
Sunshine does not touch.
When there is a void within,
Vision blurs in raindrop’s smudge.
Wake up and fill your void,
With purpose and delight,
Wake up and fill your void,
With the maker’s glorious light.
When there is a void within,
Seek another lonely soul.
When there is a void within,
To bring a smile, be your goal.
When there is a void within,
Fill it up with faith and trust.
When there is a void within,
Stand stoic against wind’s gust.
When there is a void within,
Flow like the river flows.
When there is a void within,
Grow like a tiny grass grows.
When there is a void within,
Sit with a child at play,
When there is a void within,
Splash the canvas with color’s spray.
When there is a void within,
Travel like the winds from desert to sea,
When there is a void within,
Let your soul soar high and set all chains free.
Till I fall.
The dust of time has settled on my leaf,
The dust of years heavily laden with grief.
No monsoon rain can wash me clean,
No summer sun can give me back my sheen.
I stood the tests of earth, holding to my roots,
I saved all the zest of spring for my offshoots.
Till you learn to reach the root I will hold your branch,
Till you learn to spread the green, my leaf will not blanch.
In your shinning reflection I see the hope for tomorrow,
In your swaying motion I see vanishing waves of sorrow.
When my last leaf will touch the ground without any noise,
Remember, here once stood a tree, with deep strength and poise .
MA
Ma, in this beautiful season of happiness rain
Ma, why do I feel this fathom less sea of pain.
Ma, I open every door and every window ajar,
Hoping to see your smiling face,
Ma, I look up at the star filled skies afar,
Searching for your shining trace.
Ma, I touch every rose petal ever so soft,
To feel the touch of your hands.
Ma, I knit with playful woolen balls ,
To feel your warmth in their strands.
Ma , I seek you every morning ,
In my altar, amidst the images of my God.
Ma, I seek you every evening,
In the wavering candle lights’ gentle nod.
Ma , I walk alone on the streets,
looking for your tired feet.
Ma, I look for you at every turn,
Waiting for you through rain and sleet.
Ma, I searched in vain for many a years,
Ma, I searched for you in my smiles and tears.
Ma, this is the way it was always meant to be,
For you to hide and forever set me free.
Ma, you are in the glorious morning light,
Ma, you are in the darkness of the night.
Ma, you are hiding but within my soul.
Ma, I am trying to play your role.
Gone but not forgotten is the way of the world
In this gentle rhythm of time life’s folds unfurled.
When I meet you across the oceans light ,
Help me soar in that unknown skies flight.
Secret Santa
Santa I love you. That unprentious hearty laughter filling the room with hope and joy. Hope for miracles, hope for wish fulfillment, and the sheer joy of giving and receiving. The mystery that surrounds Santa adds to the charm of his persona. His home in the North Pole, his Rudolph the red nosed reindeer, a sack full of gifts, the frosty Christmas trees and Santa’s sledge gliding down the snowy slopes.This image itself brings an instant smile, a happy feeling which wants to say “Santa I love you. “
When I was a child Santa was actually a photo on the Chrismas card. I grew up in a village where there were no dress up Santa Claus to hand me over my favorite toy on Christmas day. But I always had Santa in my life. My secret Santa, my Baba and Ma. This realization did not dawn on me till I became a mother myself and it was my turn to be the Santa to my children.
Every year during Christmas vacation my Didi and I would go back home to our parents, our happy place, our magic land . In those days, our parents never thought of having a Christmas Tree at home, or about hanging stockings on Christmas eve. Our home did not light up with star shaped lights. Going out on the terrace and looking up at the stary stary night above filled our little eyes with twinkle, those were our Christmas lights. We did not have any of the obvious Christmas glitters around us, but Baba and Ma made every Christmas very special and memorable. And without knowing it my parents became the Santa Claus every year, for Didi, me and many of our friends.
In our home the preparation of celebration would start a week before Christmas. My Baba and Ma called Christmas day as (” বড় দিন ” ) or “Bara din”. Perhaps it meant that the sun shine days of winter would become a little longer in duration from this day. It could also mean that the birth of Mary’s boy child made the day a big day, a special day. Thus “Bara Din ” was a much awaited day of the year. We always hosted friends at home a few days before Christmas, for Christmas days were specially slated for picnics. Ma used to bake the best cake I have ever had in her own little round oven. Since we lived in a village the ingredients for the baking and the other dishes had to be procured from Patna, the big city. A person was specially sent to buy every thing Ma needed for Christmas dinner. After dinner all the children were gifted little tin boxes filled with toffee and candy, and that was our special sweet treat to wait for.
On the other hand Baba was the planner for the picnic with friends. Baba would find new picnic spots every year. It could be near a little waterfall running into a stream in Kauakole, or on the foothills of a rocky hillock on Gaya highway, or simply inside the forest like greens of a mango grove.To my young innocent eyes those places held the magic of wonder land.The anticipation of a new picnic spot, then the loading of our green ambassador car with darees, cane picnic baskets, stove, utensils and lastly squeezing ourselves in the back seat was no less than a secret five adventure alike. Cooking of the food at the picnic spot was always designated to one sous-chef-uncle (executive chefs being the ladies of the team ), and we the children were his little elfs. I miss those days. The joy of abundance in the small things of life cannot be recreated in today’s date or time. Maybe, it was the simplicity which made everything so special, and the sweet scent of nostalgia still hangs strong in the air around me.
To my mind Bara Din makes us all Bara in every sense.
Around this time of the year we become more loving, giving, accepting and forgiving. The cheerful atmosphere of this season is infectious. It is a time to reach out , to embrace everyone, perhaps someone needs us, let us simply knock and smile. That itself could be a gift for someone somewhere.
I have been receiving Santa’s presents all my life. My Baba and Ma were my Santa Claus. When I was a kid every wish of mine was fulfilled, atleast I always felt it that way. When I was a teenager, a few wishes were denied, I remember ; and on reflection I understand that those denials were also gifts. They were always showering me with the abundance of love, discipline and educating me in every way, building my character with their own hands. My parents left me a little early, but I guess they were needed to spread their love somewhere else, where it was needed more. And in their absence too I feel I am receiving their blessings every day , the values I carry so proudly are the best gifts my Baba and Ma could have ever given me. My secret Santa is not so secret anymore, reminding me of their presence deep within my heart, everyday of my life . Every parent is the secret Santa to their children and once those children become grown up they become secret Santas themselves. And thus the magic of “Bara Din” continues forever and ever.
Lost Words
My words are knocking at my door,
And I am not ready to hear.
My words are waiting on a cold floor,
And I am numbed with fear.
My words await like a lover forlorn,
Aah, for the love of my words, I am torn.
I remember closing the door on your face,
Not with a loud thud, but with gentle grace.
Like one hides after losing the race,
I wanted to hide in an agonizing space.
You once attempted to hold me back,
But I had vanished in my ink-blue black.
Why should I bring you inside ?
What is there for you to see ?
The same stories of broken pride,
Chasing the ego and no place to hide.
The opium laced hours of mundane ,
Crossing the borders of sane-insane.
A few broken images of the bygone day ,
Effortlessly piling upon my today.
With no ray of light lighting up tomorrow,
Yesterday’s happiness drowning in sorrow .
Why should I bring you inside ?
What is there for you to see ?
Smiles and laughter I once had spread ,
Those books together, we once had read.
The pages are torn, flying around the room,
The air is dismal, laden with gloom.
Unopened pages are crying in vain,
They look at me, but with disdain.
Memories are fading, without any fanfare,
And I sit in silence, within these walls of despair.
Why should I bring you inside ?
What is there for you to see ?
There is no novella to tell or bard to mourn,
There is a numbing silence, to which I have sworn.
The stories we had once weaved together,
The dreams made of wings as light as feather,
They have flown away from my mind,
Not to come back, and no one to remind.
All grand and lofty words sublime ,
Have been buried in the ruins of time.
Why do you still stand at my door,
My long forgotten words candor.
Words with power, to build and destroy,
To lure and win is your age old ploy.
You unfurl stories from my heart,
You hold me tight and tear me apart.
My thoughts had frozen like winter snow,
Your sunshine awakens with a tender glow.
My words are knocking at my door,
Alas, I will make you wait no more.
Like a diver from the depths of sea ,
Bringing the pearl and setting it free,
My words you pull me from my reverie,
Like a shameless lovers’ ecstasy.
Who’s in your wallet?
When Chalk and Cheese were planning their long vacation in America, one obvious talk was about the expenditures ahead and how much money to take along.
When we say ‘money’ it is an all encompassing concept, something like ‘humanity’; undivided by continents and social structures. The word money may be universal but the universality ends there alone. The minute we start thinking in terms of currency, the divide crops in. The Dollar, Pound, Yen, Yuan,Taka, Rupee, the currencies line up together . And to see our dear Rupee standing way behind in this greased and slippery queue is not very enriching.
Since enough is never enough, Chalk and Cheese together settled for a certain sum which seemed reasonably ‘enough’ to them. We kept in mind our Rupees stamina and strength to run along with Dollar for a three month long race.
With a day or two left for our departure from India, I sat down one fine morning with a few Dollar notes spread on my bed, arranging them in my new wallet, and humming ” ye jo thore se hai paise..” when suddenly I heard a voice. I looked around in surprise and saw that the Rupee notes were peeping out from my old wallet and staring down at the new display of Dollars. I waited for Rupee to say something , for I firmly believed at this point “paisa bolta hai” !
With a hesitant voice Rupee whispered, ” Since you are about to visit America and now you are displaying all these fancy Dollars in front of me, let me tell you that though Dollar is my first cousin , I am not particularly fond of Dollar .”
I looked up with curiosity at Rupee and asked “But why so ? Isn’t Dollar the most accomplished, the most famous one amongst you cousins ?”
Rupee was quiet for a moment, then with a sad face it replied “That is the very problem with Dollar. Everyone thinks so highly of Dollar and success has gone to its head. In a brash and boastful manner it makes all other currencies, I mean cousins, feel very small and insignificant. “
Rupee took a deep breath and continued “And why will Dollar not get all the importance, when in my own country I am not treated with respect.”
Hurriedly I butt in “Of course I respect you dear Rupee, you were in my first pay check, you are in my life long pension, infact whatever luxury I could ever afford was because of you.”
Rupee was not listening to me, it continued in a papery voice, “Why blame others for being more powerful. Every big and small note, even the smallest coins in the mint are constantly living with the fear of demonetisation. You humans will never understand, how painful it is to be told without any forewarning that this particular note is no more noteworthy, it feels almost like amputation “.
“Well, some of us do understand your pain ” I attempted to reply, “As humans we too felt the pinch of demonetisation, all our treasured notes losing their value overnight was quite shocking. And then the adjustment with those pink, blue and green coloured new notes, it created so much confusion and anxiety for us !”
Rupee looked at me indignantly and continued ” Please don’t talk of colours. We did not chose to be pink or blue and not even black or white ! You humans have made us wear white and black as per your own convenience. “
The hurt was obvious in Rupees voice. I tried to calm it, and said somewhat reassuringly “I really value you dear Rupee, it is you who bought these Dollars for me, in a way it is you who will be going with me to America”.
Rupee was not calmed with my reinforcing chatter. With deep sadness laced tone it continued ” If you valued me so much, would you rush to exchange me in such a hurry with those proud-green Dollar notes? I feel so depreciated at this moment. You don’t care for me much, you are taking me to a foreign country locked in a forex card where my value will keep falling everyday “.
With that conversation with my dear poor Rupee etched in my heart I left India ; but I also made a promise to myself that while in America I would think in Rupees while spending in Dollars. No matter how loudly Mahendra Kapoor sang inside my head ‘ mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heerey moti, mere desh ki dharti ‘ , I knew the hard hitting truth that our economy was not doing the best, not when our next door neighbors could beat us in per capita income.
The day Chalk and Cheese had entered the United States a tired and somewhat rude immigration officer had asked Chalk “How much money are you carrying?” Quite an indignant question, I had thought. Chalk’s reply had satisfied the officer enough to give us an eyebrow raise and a nod. I had smiled to myself and thought, as tourists we can only add to a countries economy, and our Rupee empowers us to do so.
In the initial days of spending I would constantly multiply Dollar with Rupee every time I had to pay for something . Gradually the habit of doing mental math stopped because the more zeroes I kept adding the fear of numbers became bigger and bigger . The easy escape route was to forget the math. I started thinking of one Dollar as one Rupee. Somehow the familiar thought of spending in Rupee started comforting my mind. I started buying tomatoes with 4 Rupees, potatoes with 3 Rupees , eat out with 70/100 Rupees, and finished a lot of other shopping with just 100 Rupees. I had stopped converting. I was treating the Dollar like Rupee. As the multiplication stopped in my brain, everyday life felt more affordable and easy.
In a few weeks time Chalk and Cheese would be winding up their spread sheet in America and head back home. A home, where a daughter, mother, sister, brother, friends and family awaits their return eagerly. A home where…there can be songs on ” panch rupaiya bara ana”. A few Two-thousand Rupee notes in my wallet waiting to fly out for some hawa pani. Once home Cheese needs to call up dear Rupee friend to say that the Dollar sends its regards .
Someone new in the market called Bit Coin has started ringing the door bells of the currency cousins. For once Dollar is feeling it needs to say hello to everyone , after all family is family.
sangeeta chakladar 