Summer

In the sighs of shadowed faces

I see the ghosts of happy children

That once laughed softly and danced in the rain

Worn now by the expectations of a civilised world

Talk softly

Don’t sing while studying

Be polite and courteous

Smile even when you don’t feel like

And we have created a generation of ghosts

Living out of tombs in fear or forgetfulness

Being this or that

Not needing anymore to be told

But here comes the soft hum of a once remembered note

While she washes herself clean of the world

Maybe we aren’t ghosts after all!

Just  winter-worn  buds waiting for summer to bloom.

What's In a Name

A sudden nostalgic attachment for a name long despised

As the time comes for the shedding of the same

Shedding with it a past identity, if an identity is ever past

So much or so little? And they say what’s in a name.

Surfaced from some forgotten ancestral shrines of my forefathers

Sounded proudly before men of worth and honour

Castrated by the British to suit their lack of vocabulary

Re-emerging with the drum roll of Bengal’s mutinous power.

Seventeen long letters, the extent of my identity

Lazy drawling alphabets stretched to fill pages and time

Little knowing how they coloured my personality

Simply musing over its rhythm and rhyme.

And now a sudden nostalgic attachment develops

For this name, that was never really mine

Questioning all that came with it

As it slowly loses its shine.