The sad song of a Teacher.
Not long before in your non-existence,
O Corona !
I went to teach the beauty of words
through most of the day
but now I don’t.
Not long ago,
I cycled around,
I ate cheap food
what I wished
or sat under that old neem tree
where Mansukhlal mended the boots.
But now I don’t.
Not much a time has passed
when I stood at the local Chaiwalah
with a friend or a student
over a certain thing.
But now I don’t.
My road side barber, Sandip:
a very domestic man
kept my hair in shape.
Where are you my friend?
Dear Manmoji,
My bike tires are flat
without you.
Are you blown
in the winds of change?
Where are those faces
which are now under
the screen of my phone?
Where are those voices:
the real ones,
I heard in real times?
Where are those smiles
or is it lame to believe
that they once were?
Now my desperate feet
wish to slide in the leather boots again
to walk on the dusty classroom floor.
My hands want to wave and welcome
with their unique language:
that language : unknown to the lips and tongue.
My searching eyes with circles dark
desire to meet
the beauty and gutter of the town.
My ears once again want to hear
the sad and the splendid tales
of those dear to me.
My nose longs to smell
the chalk, the ink
and the aspirations of the youth.
