Poetry: Supatra Sen

Supatra Sen

April’s Mischief

The loud gong of the door bell

And in walks briskly

Shyam Babu

With his neat brown paper packed

Crisp starched stock of cotton sarees

Coming after four months

He announces grandly

The sound of a wooden walking stick

And there’s Purna da

Dragging his left foot

His signature smile intact

Librarian of a local library

Have you a new list ready 

Purchase to be made for the children’s section

Summer break is fast approaching…

But before that Tagore’s birthday

Planning and preparations

Dances to be rehearsed

Music and rhythm

All…

The fragrance of jasmine and mogra

Sandalwood pervade

Is this another timeline

A separate time zone

Or April’s sheer mischief

On All Fools’ Day

Making reality of illusions

A drama of fleeting images

As transient as cherry blossoms 

Evanescent…momentary…ephemeral 

***

 

The Last Train

Time was running out

Fast…much too fast 

The compartments were nearly full

Crowds of faces

And among them

My father

Looking his best

Surrounded by his friends

And my family members

My aunt years younger

Disease-free and beautiful

My grandparents still alert and agile

Brother…still a young man

Our old family…

All travellers of this journey

A common destination ? 

I wonder

I am yet to board 

Yet no one notices my absence

Strange !! 

I always thought their lives 

Centered around me 

Now we are but strangers…

The whistle blows…

Is it the beginning

Or the end…

The whistle once more

The wheels come to life

But why am I still waiting

For what…for whom

The train is slowly gathering speed 

I wave…I call 

Frantic

Father…Wait…

He seems blissfully unaware

I blindly run…stumbling, tripping

Desperately reaching out for a hand

But the train is in full motion

Taking all that I ever had

Ever owned 

Ever called my own…

I miss the train

The last train… 

***

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Setu, May 2025