Hopeless and ugly he looks
As he lays
-----------Brick
----------------On
-------------------Brick
-----------Stone
----------------On
-------------------Stone
To build the dreams of the lords.
Poems, written by many a poet
Inspired by ideologies of
--------------------------Liberty
---------------------------------Equality
-----------------------------------------Fraternity,
I read in the idle hours in my
office on the 13th floor
of a luxurious
tower.
The tower, though built
in affluence of extravaganzas
of the lords: marble floors, rooftop swimming pool,
priceless paintings etc.
overlooks:
A dirty slum
surviving in the harshest of conditions
with stinking water, little sanitation ,
congested space where slaves
swarm like ants thriving on the bestow of the lords
A street
littered with starving beggars
with their ugly rib cages jutting out
of their emaciated bodies
as they beg at the closed doors of the lords
A pavement
thronged by naked orphans with
perhaps no homes or names
who spend the day
rummaging the municipality dustbin
for the thrown away food of the lords.
The tower,
repainted every year and
decorated on gatherings,
has laborers from the nearby slum
working round the year.
Everyday
As I enter my office
I see laborers preparing for work;
but we hardly interact except when
in one particular occasion a labourer
whose name I do not know and who
whistles at work the tune of folk songs ,
in an abrupt act of stupidity , asked me the time
While I was heading for a meeting.
I took a glance at him in awe, told him
the time and was gone!
Life continued in its familiar cycle
----------------Home
---Office-----------------Office
----------------Home
And in the idle hours I read one of the
numerous poems:
Hopeless and ugly he looks
As he lays
-----------Brick
----------------On
-------------------Brick
-----------Stone
----------------On
-------------------Stone
To build the dreams of the lords.
Then one day as I was reading
I heard a sudden commotion,
momentarily the people
Went mad and
ran in dismay.
I feared of a fire breaking out
But the guard assured me that matters were not
so serious and only a labourer whose name he did not
know and who was engaged in repainting the tower
had slipped off the ladder from the 13th floor.
That evening I gathered from the papers that
The labourer whose name I did not know and who had
Slipped off the ladder from the 13th floor
was the same labourer who whistled at work
and who had so defiantly asked
me the time.
I felt sorry for a moment and then
the usual pace of life took over leaving
the matter forgotten amidst
the cycle of
----------------Home
---Office-----------------Office
----------------Home
and in the idle hours I read poetries:
Hopeless and ugly he looks
As he lays
-----------Brick
----------------On
-------------------Brick
-----------Stone
----------------On
-------------------Stone
To build the dreams of the lords.
First words
It was the time of the murky skies of the monsoon. The clouds were weeping profusely to alleviate their unknown sorrow. Mangoes fell off every now and then from the trees with a thud, and the village women who dried their pickles outdoor had to frequently take their things in.
He had returned home on a vacation after a long time. In fact the village was hardly his home anymore; he was now what one would call a top-to-toe corporate manager leading a busy city life with meetings, assignments and a tightly packed 9-to-5 corporate schedule.
He was always shy and introvert and had never been able to speak the word of his heart to his next door sweetheart at the village. Whenever they would cross each other in their muddy village street, or meet when his mother used to take him to her home , he bowed his head down in shyness. He could look at every place in the world, but could not brave the shyness of looking up at her face.
As is true for an average human being , that the unknown is always intriguing, she had always been mysterious and wrecked storms in the thoughts of his otherwise calm mind. But life at the city had taught him a lot now. He knew , it was only social to look at a woman and talk politely , and that merely glancing at a woman’s face would not betray his dormant emotions.
This monsoon the rain was pouring in torrents harder than ever. Every now and then, here and there was a thud of mangoes falling off and the broken twigs, flying leaves, wet and clayey earth and the waving paddies soaked in the water together created a smell that was so intimate to his heart.
He was at the village pool when the rain had started. His grandfather had built a bridge across the pool when he was the upozila chairman. As the clouds got dense engulfing the meek sun and casting a dark shadow over the entire village heralding the sign of a seasonal storm, he decided to bathe in the rain.
Just as the waters started drizzling, there arrived ‘she’ with her mother. They were apparently returning from the village market. Her mother had always adored him and with a feminine affection she enquired about his well being holding his chin with her delicate palm. Soon the rains got thick and her mother abruptly ran home saying she would have to take indoors the pickles that were being dried.
He was all of a sudden left alone with ‘her’. At first the long nursed and cursed unease and shyness of his seemed to take over, but then his ‘corporate self ‘got the better of him. He raised his head high, subdued the thumping heart beat, looked straight enough at her face and meekly asked, ‘How have you been?’
She replied , ‘Fine, but what took you so long to speak?’
He had returned home on a vacation after a long time. In fact the village was hardly his home anymore; he was now what one would call a top-to-toe corporate manager leading a busy city life with meetings, assignments and a tightly packed 9-to-5 corporate schedule.
He was always shy and introvert and had never been able to speak the word of his heart to his next door sweetheart at the village. Whenever they would cross each other in their muddy village street, or meet when his mother used to take him to her home , he bowed his head down in shyness. He could look at every place in the world, but could not brave the shyness of looking up at her face.
As is true for an average human being , that the unknown is always intriguing, she had always been mysterious and wrecked storms in the thoughts of his otherwise calm mind. But life at the city had taught him a lot now. He knew , it was only social to look at a woman and talk politely , and that merely glancing at a woman’s face would not betray his dormant emotions.
This monsoon the rain was pouring in torrents harder than ever. Every now and then, here and there was a thud of mangoes falling off and the broken twigs, flying leaves, wet and clayey earth and the waving paddies soaked in the water together created a smell that was so intimate to his heart.
He was at the village pool when the rain had started. His grandfather had built a bridge across the pool when he was the upozila chairman. As the clouds got dense engulfing the meek sun and casting a dark shadow over the entire village heralding the sign of a seasonal storm, he decided to bathe in the rain.
Just as the waters started drizzling, there arrived ‘she’ with her mother. They were apparently returning from the village market. Her mother had always adored him and with a feminine affection she enquired about his well being holding his chin with her delicate palm. Soon the rains got thick and her mother abruptly ran home saying she would have to take indoors the pickles that were being dried.
He was all of a sudden left alone with ‘her’. At first the long nursed and cursed unease and shyness of his seemed to take over, but then his ‘corporate self ‘got the better of him. He raised his head high, subdued the thumping heart beat, looked straight enough at her face and meekly asked, ‘How have you been?’
She replied , ‘Fine, but what took you so long to speak?’
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