our neighbourhood had its own flavour
like soft kisses of an ancient lover...
the mornings woke up with simple sounds-
Little miss Lily singing her song
her fingers on the harmonium
and the sweeper in blue uniform
brooming the street-
The two working an uncanny rhythmic feat...
the rustle of dry leaves being swept
and the shrill song of Lily almost wept...
Then was the gardener's fast scythe
cutting through the air's chill that would soon die,
And there was an inimitable Mrs.Bose...
in her dressing gown and peeping hose
buying from her window white fresh rose
from the flowergirl too early arrived
catching ferry to town at the first tide...
Mr.Lahiri would be seen walking home
followed by stray dogs some
to whom he would gently give away
broken bits of biscuits on a silver tray...
Dhoot Singh,our only milkman
would knock the doors and place cans...
his healthy body glistening in sweat
his belly hanging a bit overweight...
Little boys cycle borne...
would shout and laugh aloud
riding fast round and round
down the lane and the mound
of grass and dried up weeds
to be blown oneday again to the fields...
The night watchman would plod weary
humming a story of a moon fairy...
oblivious of the sunrise...and the increased level
of noise...shouts...songs...cries...domestic decibel...
Our neighbourhood woke up thus
last two decades that passed...
each morn that embraced night
each night that broke to a flight
of jobs,studies,cradlesleep and birth
of death coming as the most frequent visitor...
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