Of cigarette packet silver rangta foils
And many sugar coated sandesh spoils
This is a tale of our very own Manik’s alley
Flat but picturesque as the terrorized valley
We begin with the stop where buses stop
A temple where mothers pray and hop
And move towards the roadside food stalls
Where fried black oil flows like Niagara falls
Dhrubo has been selling his brick and bracs
Cursing the day he emigrated with two sacks
His smuggled goggles reflect the cinema shop
That pays Rs. 5 homage per seat to many a flop
Dulled eyes look towards the psyche asylum
From the press that presses Daily Bengali Ghum
Which has fueled the innumerable paper boat
Sailing open drains which make mosquitoes gloat
Right outside the display Benares Mithai Bhandar
A quintessential shop for a thriving Bangla sansar
Who build their dreams from their second floor
Which holds five houses all with a green door
But before we move into their detailed specific
Lets walk down to the bazaar quite prolific
There’s wear and tear on all kinds of sale
Fish of all kinds but the humongous whale
The chicken seller is busy with his feathers
Tying bird legs to keep them in tight tethers
Potato and onions heaped on top of mounds
Of course there’s a whole frequency of sounds
The sky above is cloaked with colored sheets
Beneath which one sees million and one feats
This market has one peculiarity to offer
It has shops tailored for the prince to pauper
Above the market are the matchbox homes
On whose porches the women sit with their combs
Children both naked and not conjure adventures like Sinbad
Their devilish shrieks could even turn Lucifer mad
Armed with a plethora of grandmother’s tales and whim
The grandfathers take their progeny on a wild spin
Fathers cozy cocooned in their unperturbed shell
Puff as they dream of where mystic fairies dwell
The older children from class eight and onward
Scheme get rich technique to take them forward
So untamed and peculiar is this world they live
One couldn’t separate chaff no matter how fine the sieve
These eccentricities are essential for Maniktalla
For without them there wouldn’t be a mohulla
Wait! There’s much to be wrote and read
This not being the end of what’s been said
Tales of lives lived within stuffy brick quarters
And individuality of Bengali women for starters
All that is left for us to later diligently extract
Turning common knowledge into poetic fact
Hear ye hear ye I’ve one final thing to say
Hope you all enjoyed this nostalgic word play
Snapshot
In Print
2 comments:
Despite the fact that I've never been anywhere near West Bengal, I was definitely able to conjure up vivid images in my mind as I read this piece. You've done really well with the imagery and the language is fairly evocative. The rhyme scheme must have been your focus, because it seems forced on occasion- resulting in some weird word orders and tense issues. Actually, there are a couple of grammatical issues that don't have much to do with the rhyme scheme. For instance, towards the end of the poem you have a line that reads '...much to be wrote and read'. I'm pretty sure this should probably be '...much to be written and read'. In the very next line you say '...end of what's been said', and I wasn't convinced by your use of the word 'been'. I was under the impression that you were trying to imply that you have more to say, so the process of saying hasn't ended yet. If this is the case, perhaps '...end of what's being said' might work better.
It's minor issues like these that keep this from being perfect. I may be wrong, and this is my honest opinion. Anyway, this piece was wonderfully visual, and I look forward to reading more of your work in the future. :)
Nice... One gets the Mandi feel instantly. Btw, don't you remember the B type quarters' alley where we played cricket? Bet the reminiscence is way too sedate, dead rather, to talk about. eh?
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