KIRANMOY Nandi
Hooghly, West Bengal
I wish I could turn back once more,
Leap thirty years to days of yore.
Sweet afternoons of childhood’s grace,
Mango hunts in the sun’s embrace.
The earth would burn in the blazing heat,
While mother’s nap was calm, complete.
A wave from the window—off we’d run,
To secret games, to stolen fun.
Returning home to scolding loud,
Thin cane’s mark we wore so proud.
But bedtime tales would soothe at last,
And anger, like the day, was past.
In monsoon rains the fields would fill,
Boundaries vanished, one wide spill.
Together splashing on our way,
Those joys still bloom in memory’s clay.
In shining ponds we leapt in bands,
Diving deep for shells by hand.
Mud fights fierce would rise and fall,
Now glowing in the mind’s recall.
A neighbor’s shout, a chasing stick,
Would end the watery games so quick.
With towels tied, our shells in store,
We laughed and played, then home once more.
Green fields echoed at evening’s call,
Twenty-two boys and a single ball.
Laughter rang, so wild, so free,
Now even the fields remember me.
Durga’s drums in echoing pair,
The scent of new clothes in the air.
Four bright days went by too fast,
Immersion brought the studies back.
Winter sweets with jaggery pies,
Palm fritters under autumn skies.
Spring Festival we knew not then,
But Holi’s hues would thrill again.
Kali nights with sparklers bright,
Clay lamps glowing in every sight.
The village river swept years away,
Now Puja roars in a deafening way.
Still, the school bell rings next door,
Boys pass laughing, as before.
I dive back thirty years to see
In memory, I’m that little me.
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