A Voice in the Dark | Shubhodeep Pal

The glowing hills invite the sun, And stillness sets in gradually— Weary peasants move slowly on Their path to a depressing eternity. Lazy herds placidly wend their way, Lost travellers trudge painfully ahead, The stillness drives the calm fitfully away— Broken souls search for a long-lost bed. Quiet, calm; the mute, fractured peace Stirs up warped memories and emotions— And as scorched leaves quiver in the eerie breeze The deepening night serves up blind passions…

NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE After the day’s rush to put pieces together and reclaim sanity THE WISE MAN Finds bliss and relief in philosophy and books until hunger gnaws EX-FLAME Averting eyes ‘til possible from that visage lest lost passion awakes INEXPLAINABLE Why do we ignore the present for the future, search for death, not life?

-as seen by an orphan somewhere The night is ablaze. The sky dons a vermillion hue. Quaint eruptions of laughter and revelry sail in through wrought iron gates. All is calm here, but not silent. The opening round of crackers burst erratically. It is an equal music. I stand in a forgotten nook of the orphanage. The wind lacerates the mud water as it puffs towards me. Outside, the traffic slashes through the brightly lit roads. Its roar comes to me as white noise. Divali night is always subdued inside-tonight, it is even more so. An aura of gloom envelops the compound, contrary to the gaiety outside. Some light filters through from the outside world and makes feeble attempts to dispel the glumness inside. Burnt 'rocket' ends land on the dried grass from time to time. Almost tearfully I ruminate on some lines my mother once read to me. That voice is still clear but bodiless: 'That night of hate grows dense around us. We laugh through what we can't dispel, While apathy and

RAINDROPS After the first rains pearly tears drip down slowly staining window panes NOCTURNAL JINGLE Night madness pours through a frenzied, mad speaker but who is listening? NIGHT QUEST Walking up and down the deserted streets searching for my soul’s lenses THE OLD MAN He squats on the night street, wipes fictional tears and mends broken glasses LOST PROPERTY Some elated schoolboys gather near a cracked wall in search of cricket balls