The air is heavy—
like a warm, wet blanket wrapped around everything.
The sun?
Hiding behind a cloud,
like it doesn’t want to deal with the day.
The Brahmaputra flows—
slow, wide, calm.
It mirrors the dull sky,
grey and tired like it skipped breakfast.
The trees don’t move.
Not even a whisper of wind.
Just leaves, soaked with sweat,
hanging there like they’ve given up.
The cicadas sing—
a slow, sleepy song,
as June presses down on everything.
The earth lets out a long, hot breath.
Dragonflies zip past,
quick little sparks in the still air.
Then—
a moment.
Rain.
Just a sprinkle.
Just enough to tease.
And then—steam,
rising from the roads,
rolling off the fields like ghosts in the heat.
The tea plants droop,
lined up in rows,
too tired to smell sweet anymore.
But even in all this sweat,
this heat,
this heavy, breathless air—
there’s something strong here.
Something green.
Something alive.
That’s Assam.
Unshaken.
Unbothered.
Beautiful.
Categories:
brahmaputra, allegory, allusion, america, analogy,
Form: Free verse
The art gallery and the city of Mymensingh, a precious memory
Where a river bent, a balcony view, the Brahmaputra, Brahma's Putra!
where a narrow lane, every afternoon, and lushing colors too! they say,
Eucalyptus tree, and her thick and thin, a cinnamon and then, today!
Life never knew visa and H and other kind, letterhead, then,
Pencils and of different shades these are, and a terracotta vase and a garden.
If you shiver there, today, still it is nothing of that big one, an uneven texture.
though!
a little fist, and a gentle stroke on a little palm, and an eternal bliss
a carved and a curvature, where time decided before any more succinct,
Recess!
Categories:
brahmaputra, appreciation, art, beauty,
Form: Free verse
Puffing languidly by blowing the whistle, there came
the mementos of zig-zag meter gauged companion,
The first consignment on the railroad track, locomotives shipped from the United Kingdom,
by crossing 586 bridges, beautiful Himalayan Mountain Ranges,
37 tunnels of major attractions arrived at the destination,
A first venture, to boost up the drop's tea and coal transportation.
That day, a track known as Brahmaputra Valley,
literally airdropped as an island railway went conversion,
became history to usher the broad gauge interconnectivity of the remote region.
Eleven years later in 1892, thousands of men and women
gathered to cast the last glimpse of the railway track
at the eastern part of the Indian Continental,
to become the witness of the track's last communication.
An emotional moment, when the train ran for the last time
on the 115 year old meter gauge line
by flagging and blowing the last whistle of the dominion.
To bid tearful, joyful adieu to the first whistle
of the last morning, on the old track of the 65 km
railway line, inaugurated in 1881, in the so called
Land of the Raising Sun as commemoration!
Categories:
brahmaputra, analogy, farewell, history, remembrance
Form: Free verse
I was a child, an ordinary one.
Perhaps all other kids had
Something in common.
I can still remember how
I felt
When my mother used to cook a favorite dish.
I was so embarrassed when she was upset with me.
My secret hiding place was the dark corner beside her steel rack,
Where her prayer beads used to glow greenish in the dark in my hand.
I still
Feel the yearning in me to hear her soft voice calling my name.
I remember
How scared I was when she told me that my father is looking for me.
The view from my childhood bedroom had the setting sun crawling
Down the river, the Brahmaputra each day.
I also remember
The first time, I rode a train to go to grandma’s house (We used to call her “Bubu”).
And till this day, I still haven’t told anyone that
I even
Carry the scent of her hair oil that
She used to use every night before bedtime.
In me, in my childhood memories.
Categories:
brahmaputra, mother,
Form: Free verse