Anit Mukherjee


Sitting in the old balcony,
One which has aged like me,
Perhaps its every crack on the floor can find
One resemblance in this face of mine,
wrinkled by time,
As the sun prepares to retire for the day,
I waited for the wind to blow,
In anticipation of the sonata uncomposed.
I rediscovered the old instrument, or perhaps it found me,
Hanging now from a cord at the far end of window,
As I was clearing up to leave the home of mine
To accompany others in this home of many.
An old gift, very old –
beyond the realm of tangible memory,
A token, of the exchange of possessions more profound.
Yes, that is all I have left of that episode of exchange,
Besides some rusted visions that crops up without invite,
Reminds me that Life is nothing but a journey,
Amidst maddening crowd,
From one point of loneliness to another.
Now I wait for that wind to blow,
To gently caress the dangling tubes of the Chime,
To churn out a melody – reminiscent of a love,
Unfulfilled, yet profound.
But, today is different,
All is silent and still,
The movement of the leaves of that grand old tree in front,
Seems frozen, in a frame.
Restless I became.
Perhaps the wind has also deserted,
A pattern not new in this life of mine,
The desires seem to float up
Only to be left dangling,
Like the suspended tubes of the Chime.
Then out of the stillness
Came a sudden rush, a mighty one,
Blowing dust on its way,
It went through the Chime,
And when it passed,
There was the chime, mute,
Two of its strings tangled,
The others looking away, remote.
It seemed like the fate our two lives,
Tangled, yet unable to unite.
I tried in vain,
Some knots are never to be undone,
Only to be cut,
But only the wise realize that in time
Or maybe the brute.
As I was about to turn
After a lost struggle, yet again,
My gaze stuck at a queer angle outside
And suddenly the wind came back,
From a corner, unexpected,
And the two entangled strings struck their tubes,
And there was a note, a minor one,
Merging into the monotony of majors.
Some old notes and one fresh –
A new chord was struck that day.


Anit Mukherjee an engineer by profession but a poet by heart.