Poetry : The Journey's End

                   The Journey's End

( This is based on a true life event which occurred at Maidan Metro station  about 20 years back and I came to know about it through  the Local News Paper.)

The little girl in a pink white frock,

Arrived from Dubai to attend a wedlock.

She glided down on feathery escalator,

what followed then  was a nightmare.

 Between  the   steps  created was a space,

The chain of escalator moved off its place.

The little girl’s head sucked  deep in the gap,

Her face being crushed she shrieked for help.

The helpless mother watched in wain,

While her Child shouted in pain.

With none of the authorities at sight,

The child died shrieking with plight.

A little switch stopped killer escalator,

Her little body was excreted later.

In the ancestral house she was visiting.

Lies her   body, her little being.

                          -        Pankaj Mala Bhattacharya

Poetry : Rivers

                      Rivers

Glittering from icy glaciers,

The moonlight's pearlescent gleam,

and pristine snow,

Cascading torrents that follow,

Dazzling in the bright sunshine,

Rivers flow from heights divine.

  Emerging from the mountain's spine,

Gushing down as silvery threads,

Tumbling swiftly over strewn rocks,

torrential in the rains,

  They are the goddesses,

Whose iconic beauty has inspired,

Music and poetry.

They are the source of feminine energy,

Wise yet whimsical, Fragile yet strong,

Ever moving, never the same.

  They bring life and offer purification,

a weary groan, their echo

Reminds me of a lone river stone,

Rolled by the mountain stream,

Carried down to the endless sea.

Away from the cold, clear spring,

The familiar gravel bed of home,

Never to feel the swift current again.

Would it not yearn, yearn and yearn?

-Pankaj Mala  

Poetry- The Whisper of Life

    The Whisper of life

The mist, a shroud of blankness,

No horizon, no shore, as far as I could see

drowning in the silent, swirling deep.

I struggled to find a shape, a sound, a pulse,

but only the echo of my own longing.

I ached for a soul's distant touch.

A hand to pull me from the silent dark,

a whisper of life and shared breath.

A yearning for joy, even the solace of pain,

anything to feel real again.

I was lost in a labyrinth of air,

walls that offered no resistance,

a maze with no center, no way out

nothing returned.

The silence left me stranded,

marooned on the island of myself.

adrift in the boundless sea of nothing.

- Pankaj Mala

Poetry - One Day I saw it

 

One  Day I saw it

In the busy Camac street
I saw a little Child last week
He alighted from a big bright car
And wanted to eat an iceceam bar
As he put his tongue to lick
The icecream came off the stick
The mother abstained the child
from picking the icecream
It is unhygenic,unhealthy.
She asked the parlor vendor
To give a better flavor
Something unique something special
The Child choose  one
Of the available twenty  one
       There ran a street urchin
       Picked up the discarded cone carefully
       Licked the cone with dusted topping
       Thanked God from his hearts core
       Relished the taste with  glee
       For it was the first one ever had he.

- Pankaj Mala

 

Poetry - The Coconut Seller

The Coconut seller 

(This incident happened in Front of Indian Museum Near the Park Street Metro Station in  2001)

I saw him standing across the road,

in front of Indian Museum board,

His hands clasped, down his eyes tears flowed,

They slapped him, on the ground his

                          coconuts rolled.

for the fault, his coconuts were sold,

A rupee more, as it was early morn,

People thirsty in the posh lane

with no other vendor at sight,

He could earn few extra pice.

He begged and touched their feet,

They abused him for this cheat,

He bent and collected coconuts with care,

I stood and watched with big wide stare.

Unto his cycle he fastened and fled.

Down fell a note from his.....

One of the gentlemen

                at least his dress meant so

picked the note,handed to other,

                exchanged the note

Maybe for a smaller note,

                and neatly folded into pocket.

The signal; had cleared

                Buses and taxis honked

I glanced at my watch!

oh! I am late to office by five minutes.

- Pankaj Mala

Story : Hashi - Khushi

                              Hashi – Khusi

       I have a small  terrace garden in the balcony of my small flat like people in big bungalows  have  gardens at their entrances. In the heart of the city, my terrace garden is a patch of serenity, a reminder that even small spaces can hold vast beauty. Beautiful flowers bloom. I occasionally count them, one, two, three ……... and I forget to count further as I get lost in their sweet, serene smile and faint fragrance: smell of Hibiscus, Champa, Jasmine, Harsingar (Parijat) and Marigold fills my house.  I love flowers, like them I too love being part of important events of peoples’ lives. Flowers make good events better and the bad ones bearable. I Don’t  have a rose plant . It is said that rose flowers are not offered to God. Flowers are an integral part of our lives; Birth, marriage, farewell, welcome, death, zindgagi ke saath bhi zindagi ke baad bhi (With life and even after life )!. Whatever may be the occasion, their  fragrance and smile remains the same as if teaching us an important lesson of life:being resilient to whatever life offers.

It was the month of June 2007. The humidity of Kolkata becomes more painful with the onset of summers. My house echoed with the chirping of small birds, which consider it their birth right to peck at the grains scattered on the floor whenever the sun filters through the window. One early  morning I saw that two small white round eggs planted  in the wet soil  of the Harsingar plant. Two  beautiful cream white eggs .I watched the Mother pigeon warming the eggs daily. She would fly  upto very short distance for food and kept a watch full  eye over the eggs. I became  very busy taking care of the mother . After all she was going to be a mother. Pregnancy and childbirth are natural processes that a woman have undergone down the years. Each one of us can do it. It is up to us to make to a pleasant experience.  Whenever Mother pigeon  left , I quietly  poured some   water and kept a few  grains. The soil of the plant was  also be kept moist so that the mother gets comfort in the summer .The eggs started growing bigger.  After  few days the mother was sitting continuously forgoing her food, perhaps the time for hatching was nearing. The  status of the mother is higher than that of God, whether she is human or animal, that is perhaps a belief. I named them: Hashi and Khushi (Laughter and Happiness). Before going to bed ,  I  daily checked the water in the arrangement and closed the door gently behind me. I always felt, doing this, the way I used to feel when the children were little, going into their rooms just before I went to bed, making sure they were comfortable and safe. One day after returning  from office  , I found two beautiful little eggs were missing. Perhaps  the crow had eaten. At the edge the Mother pigeon was sitting.  I don’t know what was going inside her. How does she express her pain? After few days I went to Tezpur  University to take  classes. During Morning walk in Campus Premises, I saw an oval shaped black  stone with white vein curled around its neck. In my hometown Himachal, such a stone is called Shivaji and is worshipped. The saying, "If one believes it is God, if not then stone," belief and faith are what give an object its sacredness. I brought it home. Few days later two beautiful  round white eggs appeared once again  in the pot. My heart leapt with joy. I immediately brought that stone of Lord Shiva and placed it in that pot and with folded hands prayed , O God, I have you to protect them ! I could not!

- Pankaj Mala

Poetry

 

An Ode To The Mountains

A bushy little plant stood all alone

It stood  upright in the heat of Noon

It nodded slightly, when cold winds blew

It was the plant , of about no one knew

It flowered and bloomed,  with its own sweet will,

It was complete with fruits and stood still

And there was no space for something to fill

It looked up to the sun for bright Sunlight 

And to the moon for cooler nights

all of sudden it felt a warmth behind

And turned and looked at the mountain high

It questioned  the snowcapped peaks with sad eyes

Why should I miss you when you are away

Oh! Thou mountains, can’t you show me the way

Oh! Mysterious peaks I yarn to Learn 

How does the snow covering you make you warm?

The gigantic peaks stood tall and still

And not to be disturbed its peace at will

Unknowingly the little plant bowed it bit

But shuddered, when the truth struck it!

- Pankaj Mala

Canada Diaries

 

Mighty Misty Niagara Falls

                                                                                  - Pankaj Mala

Saw the Niagara falls this spring from the Canada side. Experiencing the nature’s masterpiece was not just an event but a celebration in itself. Riding the maid of mist boat wearing red raincoats through miles and miles of mist with chilling water splashing all over was spectacular and mesmerizing. Perpetually wrapped in mist, engulfed in an aura of magic and tranquility the falls have a lofty luminescence beauty and seemed to divorced from everything worldly. In a relentless world that is constantly on move , finding stillness can feel like a luxury and the chance to pause and reflect can be quite transformative. Seeing the roaring and thundering water smudged with clouds and mist flowing in silence after the fall, I realized my own insignificance in the nature’s vast canvas.

Glory be to the Creator of the World

Magnifique. Merci . C’est tellement beau No wonder in the poem “The Waterfall” by Henry Vaughan the waterfall with sudden surge of water followed by a calm, continued flow has been considered a symbol of the soul’s passage into eternity—, The common pass Where, clear as glass, All must descend Not to an end, But quick’ned by this deep and rocky grave, Rise to a longer course more bright and brave. By Henry Vaughan

                                                                                         

                                      

Poetry - An Ode To Summer

  An Ode To Summer

The

 hamlet on the top of the mountain,

The ice blue river,

The houses with slanted roofs,

All reminds me of a distant land.

Where the fairy tales emanate from;

Where the Gods and Goddesses

Enjoy the nectar of Heaven for eternity.

Yet the north wind blows,

The solitary tree bows to kiss the mother earth

The valley whispers “My Child”

Yonder I hear the footsteps of summer.

-Pankaj Mala

Poetry - Memories

                            Memories

                 Whilst in Kangra hills

One even, as I watched from the boat

drifting down the fuzzy stream

rejuvenation assailed me

I saw an idle shepherd

leading the herd of woolly sheep:

The woods and meadows they enjoy

They cry, they uplift their emotions

They throw about cascades of milieu

in retrospect; I got a closer look

                                     at life......

I still recall those nights

those cold gloomy sleepless winter nights

sitting by the silvery waterfall

trying to smell the yet unbloomed flowers

trying to peer across the lofty mountains

trying to understand life...

                     oh! thou mountains

                    I still remember thee

and I wish

I could there be again.

-Pankaj Mala