Poem : In the hands of Time

 

      In the  hands of Time 

I saw her descending the winding stair,

With frills on her gown and curls in her hair.

She was beauty itself, an innocent sight,

A vision of purity, dressed all in white.

She filled my soul with wonder-struck light.

"Lead me," I whispered, "to the freezing Alps",

Where ancient culture crowns the mountain scalps.

But she waved her small hand with a smile so divine,

And whispered, "The path that I walk is not thine."

I traveled a distance, through years long and wide,

Until a lady appeared at my side.

She was dressed all in pink, and I reached for her hand,

To seek out the wonders of some distant land.

Of fashion and flavour, of all things refined,

I thought that in her, my new world was designed.

But her handshake was stern as she turned from my side;

Then came the twilight, the end of my years,

When a lady in blue appeared through my fears.

"Would you hold me?" I asked, and she firmly took hold,

To show me the secrets the Eiffel Tower  could unfold.

I looked through her eyes like a child full of awe,

The rising sun, the moon’s soft light looked anew .

I was a child again, though my hair was grey,

Finding the soul I’d lost along the way.

I painted and listened to music’s sweet strain,

And forgot "January" for "Janvier’s" domain.

Then came the storm, a whistling, whirling gale,

A whirlwind turned the blue horizon pale.

In the spinning dark, I lost her steady hand;

The Lady in Blue vanished from my land.

I searched the shadows, frantic and alone,

Until I saw her perched upon a stone.

High above the world, where jewels  dwell,

She stood upon the rock to say farewell.

"Adieu," she called, as the mist began to rise,

Leaving me with the light she’d put in my eyes.

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

27.01.2026

Poem : The Taste of Homecoming

 The Taste of Homecoming

( This poem is based on a true life incident which took place on a stormy evening of 1988 at Kendrachal , Central Govt Colony. Lucknow )

It rained, rained, and rained, Thunder echoed all around. I sat in the balcony, watching, Kendrachal colony wrapped in storm. We were at home — My mother, brother, and I. Each flash of lightning Raised the fears inside me high. I strolled in restless silence, Father was still not back home. Then — a gentle knock at the door. Off to my heels I fled. Father stood there, drenched, Merciless rain clinging to his frame. I brewed four cups of tea, The most tasteful tea of years. And I wondered — Was it the flavor of tea, Or the sweetness of a dear one Home again?

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

GSI Field Diaries

 

  In Search of the Mystery of the Ranga River

( My thanks are  due to  my  Ph.D Guide and Senior  colleague in GSI , Dr. J.R.Kayal professor emeritus,  ISM,  Dhanbad, for providing valuable insights  while writing this article .  This write up  is based on experiences  during Geophysical  field assignment  in Geological Survey of India)

In the heart of Arunachal’s Ranga Valley, nature and humanity exist in a rare, rhythmic harmony. It was here that I met Heli, a young Nishi woman of about twenty-five, serving as our daytime camp guard. With her fair skin, Mongolian features, and a figure that radiated strength, she stood as a testament to the rugged landscape. She wore a tattered white saree without blouse, her hair dusted with the earth of a week's labor, a long machete sheathed at her side.

When I urged her to move her bamboo-cutting work from the scorching sun into the shade, she offered only a faint smile and a reply that was as haunting as it was profound:"No, sir. By working with love, a person gains strength; a person remains alive. In the shade sits a man who is about to die."

Her words captured the spirit of the Nishi people—an indigenous tribe as resilient and unyielding as the river that defines their home. The Ranga River, an eighty-kilometer-long daughter of the Himalayas, descends from the Dafla peaks with a thunderous roar. Fed by a thousand waterfalls, she is a river of eternal youth, restless and surging, eventually surrendering her strength to the Subansiri and, ultimately, the mighty Brahmaputra.

The Ranga is a study in contrasts: transparent and serene in clear weather, yet wild and muddy under the rain. She is a force of creation and destruction, crushing granite into sand to carve out the very valleys the Nishi call home. Civilisation has followed her lead, carving roads into the mountainside to follow her path.

From our vantage point at the GSI’s Hawa Camp, the air is filled with the constant, musical roar of the currents. This valley, birthed by the Ranga, provides a peaceful sanctuary for the Nishi settlements. Here, amidst the "Transit Camp " and a newly established network of earthquake observation stations, one feels the pulse of the earth—a world where the mountains stand in solemn meditation and the river never stops its song.

 

                                                                  - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

 

 

Bindi : The Essence of Indian Civilization

 Bindi : The Essence of Indian Civilization

 

The Bindi  or  Tikka adorning the  forehead  in the space in between the eyebrows of Women in India specially married Women is often misunderstood as a mere symbol of marital status, but its origins are rooted deeply in ancient Indic science rather than social custom. It is positioned specifically at the Ajna Chakra (he energy center between the eyebrows), the "third eye" or mystic center of our being

In Hindu tradition, this point is considered the gateway for prana (life force). The significance of this location is highlighted during funeral rituals, where the skull is symbolically pierced to allow the life force to depart through the Brahmarandhra, a point where thousands of subtle energy channels (nerves)  converge . The practice of applying bindi serves  two primary scientific purposes:

1.  Activating the Life Force: By applying pressure or pigments to this point, the spiritual center remains active and energized .

2. Harnessing Solar Energy: The traditional red color is specifically used to absorb the " energy" of the sun . Historically, this was not gender-specific; men also wore bindis to fill themselves with solar vitality

In daily life, women traditionally reapplied the bindi several times to maintain this energy connection. They would apply it in the morning while offering water to the sun, reapply it if it washed away after cooking at the Chulha, and again in the evening—ensuring their spiritual center remained constantly revitalized . This continuous cycle of reapplication served as a "spiritual anchor," reminding the wearer to keep their thoughts focused on the divine and their higher purpose, even amidst mundane household activities

 - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

 

 

 

 

                             

       The Silence of the Absolute

( My thanks are  due to my friend  Dr. Soma Sammadar , Professor  of Chemistry, Lady Brabourne College,  Kolkata for providing valuable insights while writing this article. Soma herself a cancer survivor is relentlessly working for stray dogs through her NGO Doddaden foundation. She vaccinates, sterilizes and feeds about 100  stray dogs , furry babies as she calls them  ,  in North Kolkata. )

The cremation ground is the backstage of the human drama—the only place where worldly noise is drowned out by the elemental truth of the flame. Every month, return to this ground to strip away your ego. Abandon your social rank and your digital distractions. Stand where the boundaries of life blur, and find clarity in the alchemy of ash.

Gaze upon the quiet form on the wood. A short time ago, this was a conscious being—a complex weave of past recollections, stored resentments, and yearnings left wanting. Those same shoulders, previously bowed by the crushing promise of "tomorrow," have found their final peace. Within this silence, the illusion dissolves; the "forever" we strive to secure is, in reality, not a foundation, but a fleeting moment.

In the presence of the sacred fire, worldly hierarchies dissolve. Agni recognizes neither the king’s silk nor the beggar’s rags; it knows only fuel. This is the ultimate stripping of the ego—a final surrender where the "puppet show" of status, the vanity of youth, and the sting of betrayal evaporate like mist. The pyre reveals a singular truth: our grand complexities are but fleeting ornaments on a journey toward absolute simplicity.

As the ashes merge with the current, allow the weight within you to dissolve alongside them. If every path inevitably converges at this river, why do we persist in lugging such massive burdens of pride? We are but sailors on a brief crossing, yet we insist on ballasting our ships with the stones of ego and the anchors of attachment.

To stand at the burning ghat is not an exercise in morbidity, but a profound practice of Vairagya—the art of holy indifference. Here, you confront the "Final Truth" not to cultivate a fear of death, but to master the grace of living lightly. In witnessing the dissolution of the physical form, you strip away the illusions of the self and rediscover the timeless witness: that eternal spark enduring long after the mask has fallen.

                                                         Dr. Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

An Ode to the Goddess

 

An Ode to the Goddess

( I wrote this  Poem on 2020  and is based on a true event which took place on 14.04.2020 on the eve of Bengali New Year. The Lady in this poem is my friend’s Sister in law and the incident  took place in a small town called Bankura, West Bengal.  The Mother of the character now ( in 2025) is about 92 years old and still does not know that her daughter is no More.)

 The twilight slowly peeped in hue

The sky turned to crimson blue,

The sound of conch shells blew

The silence of dusk spread in milieu

The azure sky prepared to rest ,

And the birds off to their nest .

Over a call spoke the lady

O mother I have to hurry

Time to light evening lamp.

Offering to Devi, cannot be delayed

Old mother , with trembling hands prayed

God bless my child

And the Devi smiled ..

Lighting the lamp, the lady bend down

Touching the feet she sat on ground

Felt a heating , smell of burning

flame of fire behind her rising !

Engulfing her before she knew

Shouting out to be heard by few

Her daughter frantically tried to rescue

The roaring flames no mercy they knew

With burnt hands the daughter cried

And yet the Devi smiled….

The husband , hearing the cry of fire

put off the mains for safety of their

She treaded on the steep stairway

Groping alone in the dark pathway

All of a sudden her voice was quietened ,

with a thud she rolled like a ball flattened

And yet the Devi smiled….

She reached the Hospital almost dead

Total burns the authorities declared

Her skin tarnished and flesh was sagging

The light in eyes was lowly fading

A dreadful mellow tone she cried

And yet the Devi smiled..

The COVID -19 had engulfed the town

The country was under total lockdown

No trains, flights or busses around

Days of Despair in world

the state of art technology bowed down

to the all mighty powerful phenomenon

Her Doctor Son , stationed miles away

Curing the patients of the disease deadly,

Drove to the village for two days on road,

She gasped last breath, Before he reached

And yet the Devi Smiled…

The old mother miles away was unaware

Her Son left for last rites of his sister dear..

where do you Go my Son,

At this hour in this lockdown?

urgent office work, said he, holding his tear

The mother Prayed Divine mother take care

And yet the Devi smiled…

It was a twilight , the sky was dark

There was no sound except the bark

the silence of graveyard and the fear

the chants of Purohit filled the air

And with the jerk the charred body

was pushed to the flame ..

The old mother miles away rang the bells

With folded hands. my Children God bless

And she lighted the Evening lamp

The light of lamp, and the pyre in flame

Perfectly tuned in harmony of time

Lingered a darkness, maybe solitude

And yet the Devi smiled.

Still the old lady is totally unaware

continues her daily chorus with due care ,

worships the Devi without refrain

Seeking blessings for her children..

Psychologists say, telepathy works .

The pain is felt at miles apart

the spiritual teachers of the day

profess field of spiritual energy

that diverges to distances.. to infinity

I wonder here sitting in my balcony

Did the old lady feel during past few days

a heaviness somewhere deep within

when her kid was charred beyond recognition ,

when she gasped in the pain in ventilation

or when she breathed her last…

or when she rang the puja bells and her daughter’s pyre was lilting

Till today I wonder, wonder and wonder why the Devi smiles and smiles

I am the Devi,I am eternal

I am a dimension without physical

I am fierce and compassionate

I am creator and nurture

I am eternal knowledge and bliss

Why you seek me in form my child, when I am formless ?

And now I understand why the Devi Smiles and smiles.

                                     Pankaj Mala  Bhattacharya (30.04.2020)

 

 

Solitude: A Reflection

A moment of a quiet thought,

of melodious days from the past,

which vanished

like pearls of dew,

not to be traced again.

So fresh and painful

are the thoughts of those days,

now ceased to exist.

Strange is the solitude,

and the silence.

Nothing is so beloved

and so beautiful

as the feeling of loneliness.

                                                                            - Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

India's Six - Yard Wonder : The Saree

   India's Six-Yard Wonder : The Saree

The saree, India's quintessential and ubiquitous garment, is a remarkably adaptable six-yard wonder that continues to evolve with time. There is significant enthusiasm, both domestically and internationally, for exploring India's diverse heritage and highlighting local craftsmanship. This bountiful diversity calls for a deeper engagement with indigenous styles. Acceptance and adoption of this legacy garment will be its saving grace, signaling a shift in perception that  the saree is no longer just a flat six yards of fabric, but a canvas of endless possibilities. The  urban Indian women has increasingly relegated the saree to occasion wear, similar to the Japanese kimono. Fundamentally an unstitched garment,  however, modern, pre-pleated versions provide ease to wear for younger generations, a "homecoming" that blends India's traditional brocades and silks with contemporary, stitched forms. Young graduates feel proud to carry forward their traditions by wearing saree  for their convocation by just  hitching a  hook to an eye at the waist and watching the pre pleated sari fall as their Mother’s Six yard wonder swayed effortlessly and with elan. The saree has witnessed  many changes throughout history. It is a profoundly democratic garment, worn effortlessly by people from all walks of life—from Bollywood screens to agricultural fields—making it an inextricable part of the nation's identity. Its essence can be  beautifully summarized by the French phrase Luxe, calme et volupté (Luxury, calmness, and pleasure).

• Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

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Poetry: The Serene beauty

        The Serene beauty

( This poem was writen by me back in 1978 when i was a class 8th student at Swami Vivekananda High School, Chembur, Mumbai. I as very much enchanted by the French Teacher,her quite demeanor , her silent beauty .Though I was not her student, I observed her from a distance. A part of me longed to be in her classroom, to hear her speak a language I imagined was as beautiful as she was. It was her, as much as the language itself, that drew me ..Back then I  chose Marathi over French, Music Over Drawing and the direction of my  life changed for ever. And the French teacher, with her silent beauty, faded into a cherished memory. Learning both French and painting together , the opportunity came to me after crossing the age of Sixty,when I  felt that it was the time for the culmination of a journey that began while  i was kid of  14. But the delicate hands that once held a brush with youthful vigor were now fragile, and my memory, once sharp and quick, had grown frail. I had finally found the time, but time, in turn, had taken its toll ).

Her beauty was silent

                yet terrifying

She spoke no words

                her mouth quivered

In the depth of her eyes

                were shadows

of the sorrow

                that was

                insurmountable

yet measurable

                but still they called her

                The stone faced lady

Her unspoken words

                echoed in silence

                producing the effect of

                jingling bells

They are imperishable

                undaunted

But still they called her

                The stone faced lady.

- Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya