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Poetry | 13 Chapters
Author: Jiban Mukhopadhyay
This is a unique collection of twelve poems, written on themes related to the tragic global pandemic-driven great lockdown, which, in turn, caused deep global recession and massive human miseries and death. It is rare to find poems written on such a huge canvas — about human life in distress, the suffering millions, the lovingly motivated health workers alongside the government, the declining economy, and all that. Readers could relive their....
Where the millions have gone?
Sights, sounds, the music of life,
Hustle and bustle of my city,
Shrill horns, whooshing cars, screeching breaks —
All are shut.
Miles and miles and miles of empty roads
No shouts, no screams, no curses, no abuses,
No fast bike overtakes,
No head-on crash,
No smoke, no dust,
No beggar, no snatcher, no pickpocket,
No kid sells lucky lemon-and-chilly,
Or flowers or monkey nuts —
Not a soul on the road,
Miles and miles of empty roads,
Nobody goes anywhere.
No plane flies in the azure sky,
No boat swims in the grayish ocean,
No train moves in or out —
Nobody rushes to work.
The grand orchestra of life in my Mumbai
Is dead.
Green grasses dance in a slow rhythm
In parks and grounds
Dry leaves rustle in the wind
No kid plays
Nobody walks
Nobody jogs
No lovers hold hands
Not a soul around.
Silence – stone dead
Has frozen my soul.
A cold, dumb and deadly nightmare
Shivers – kills my inside.
Ghosts have taken over my lively city —
Days and nights,
Both are desolate
Not even a stray dog or vagabond dares out.
‘Don’t go out’, ‘stay safe inside’ —
Just survive.
Somehow.
Shadows of trees, buildings and lamp posts
Look surreal under the starry, bluish, midnight sky —
Ghostly.
Locked schools and colleges are deserted,
Lifeless without the babbling kids,
And dreamy-eyed young guys and gals.
Stadiums, playgrounds, racecourses are now all quarantines
Offices, banks, markets, shops are all closed.
Bosses and sahibs are home,
Wives boss them over to sweep, mop and dust,
Work from home is the new norm.
Ministers and politicians are at a loss
Without their hangers-on
No morcha, no michil, no slogan shouting,
No agitation, no meeting in Azad Maidan,
Dull silence everywhere —
The whispering cold wind blows past.
Migrants supporting the city’s lifeline left in distress,
Thousands of daily wage earners, small shop assistants, plumbers,
Electricians, mechanics, maids and helpers
Are shut inside their rickety dwellings
Without income – hungry.
Governance went to hibernation.
Gods and deities are safe in house isolation —
No devotees queuing up,
No puja, no prayer, no music in the premises,
Poetry | 13 Chapters
Author: Jiban Mukhopadhyay
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Shed Tears, My Soul, Shed Tears
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