I would like to thank my readers for their candid feedback on my yesterday’s poem Monsoon magic that varied from outstanding to outstandingly gloomy! I had no option but to rework on my poem for one of the main objectives of mine taking to active blogging is to spread happiness and hope and not darkness and despair, which my poem unfortunately ended up doing! But I must be honest that this Covid pandemic has taken toll on my verve and enthusiasm and I actually wrote the aforesaid poem under gloom and despair. To change it into luminous and shining hope, I could think of no one but my young, highly erudite, compassionate and rooted to the ground friend Shyamashree Rudra, who in fact affectionately calls me Dada, elder brother in Bengali. And I would be doing a great disservice to her spontaneity and talent by claiming the credit for the last 4 stanzas of the poem, which she has composed on my request. What’s highly praiseworthy is the fact that she has used the same metre, genre and mood, as used in the first part composed by me, to make it look like a single work by a single author.
One stanza on a sister nursing her ailing brother has especially touched me as Shyama has dedicated it to my wife, who has been tending to her elder brother, a terminal stage cancer patient, with great dedication and devotion, keeping his and everyone else’s morale high under the twin devils – Covid and cancer.
Shyama is currently on a sabbatical-fulfilling her familial obligations. I wish her an active return to public life, for this world bereft of hope, happiness and humour needs likes of her to spread the shining light that they reflect through their attitude towards life and sheer knowledge gained from close interactions with humans.
Monsoon magic 1 was like black magic – dark, rueful and eerie. Monsoon magic 2 is reverse of it – cheerful, chirpy and cock a hoop! It says:
When the rain fell on the tin roof,
Pitter patter was so melodious;
Children played in water poodles,
Splashing sound was so mellifluous.
Bathing in the rain was so refreshing,
First shower had curative power so was said;
Neither it caused cold or cough,
Everything was joyful and so perfect.
Wet weather caused hunger pangs,
But ordinary food would simply not do;
Hot pakoras and hot cup of tea,
Were the must without any hullabaloo.
Come monsoon and heat would abate,
So first showers were eagerly awaited;
After sweaty and sweltering summers,
Rain brought happiness making everyone elated!
Where are those rains?
It’s either drought or disaster;
Gone is that sweet pitter patter,
Children avoid poodles as if monster!
Rains were welcomed as gift of god,
Flooding was rare and seldom;
There was no fear or panic,
For it was just a natural phenomenon!
This year is turning out to be special,
Transition from season to season seems seamless;
Covid has pushed us inside since winters,
Rains will lead to new winter, yet we shall still be hopeless!
Are things really that hopeless,
Is there still hope, I wonder;
Yes – if only we were to look for it,
In a sister tending to her ailing brother.
In a neighbor helping a neighbor,
In the chirping of the birds and the morning dew;
In the rains that washed away the dust,
And left the leaves sparkling anew.
In the fireflies sparkling at night,
And the sparrow tap-tapping on your window;
In the garbage collector who never misses his duty,
And the doctors and nurses saving lives in every way they know.
So as we travel these dark and dreary months,
Let us all hold hands through this pain;
Like the sun that rises every morning,
Hope too will rise once again.
Salute to human spirit, Corona warriors, resilience of nature and above all Shyamashree Rudra!