Poetry
In Poetry category will have various poems will on bengali or bangla. These are based on various issues on the mordern life. This category is only bengali poetry.
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A Tale of Determination
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Twelve years old, Pilu, they say,
Sells newspapers every day.
Evenings are spent in learning’s sway,
At a master’s house, he finds his way.
No money for school, it’s clear,
Government schools won’t draw him near.
Birth certificate, he does lack,
Odd jobs await, his future track.
For four months, work he does,
In exchange for tuition’s fuss.
No school exams to fret and stew,
No class advancement, he goes through.
Master Mashai teaches him well,
In that class, where knowledge dwells.
Pilu’s learning, just like the rest,
Grows over time, in pursuit of the best.
At home, his mother remains,
In several homes, work sustains.
To Pilu, she always imparts,
“Be a good person, fill your heart.”
“Truly, I’ll say, dear Pilu,”
“Good deeds you’ll indeed pursue.”
“In life, you must survive,”
“Work hard, that’s how to thrive.”
“God will provide,” she always claims,
“For effort’s worth, in life’s grand games.”
Pilu takes her words to heart,
In Vedas’ verses, he plays his part.
One day, a thought crosses his mind,
To supply milk, he is inclined.
Half-liter pouches he can sell,
A couple of rupees, the story will tell.
As he ponders, he starts to see,
All papers as customers might be.
How much milk do they acquire?
He delves into each inquiry’s mire.
Now begins milk and paper’s blend,
Together, he starts to send.
And now his work expands its scope,
Doubling his efforts, there’s no hope.
Another lad joins his path,
Together, they avoid any wraths.
With customers, they always stand,
A helping hand, in demand.
They grow this way, Pilu’s work,
Earnings saved, their pockets perk.
One day, to a broker he goes,
Seeking homes, he quietly knows.
A small house in his sights,
Fills Pilu with pure delight.
Twenty-five thousand, as advance,
This house, his life’s grand dance.
Then to the bank, he must make a trip,
Four thousand monthly, in an equable clip.
Five years to repay the loan they agree,
His own house, he’ll finally see.
Five years pass, and the house is his own,
Mother no longer needs to roam.
With her son, she resides in peace,
Work and home, a life’s caprice.
He takes the school’s final form,
In studies, he has weathered the storm.
Distributorship he takes on now,
Strengthens his business, his family’s vow.
Pilu becomes Pilu Babu,
His office now, his own home’s view.
Several years have gone by fast,
A solid house, he’s made it last.
Mother says, marriage he should pursue,
Know her well, before you do.
In a hurry, a bride arrives,
To Pilu’s new home, she now drives.
A motorbike he purchases new,
Supports his family and work, it’s true.
A good person now he’s become,
Like his mother’s words, like a drum.
Learning, now, he sets to the side,
Graduation, he’ll strive to abide
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Uttam Kumar A Lifes Unveiled Chapters
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Uttam Kumar’s many tales,
Known by only a few in trails.
Some words he shared with a co-actor,
Whose name remains unknown thereafter.
Acting’s first challenge, common for all,
A hand on the cheek, I recall.
Lost in thought, my hand spun ’round,
Thinking of this, my mind unwound.
A new actress spoke of it one day,
Uttam Kumar lifted her in a play.
Sometimes hair, sometimes the saree’s flow,
He managed all with an expert’s know.
Then came the last scene’s event,
Uttam Kumar, lips curved, descent.
Once the shot was captured, alas,
He repeated it several times, no less.
In some things, he wasn’t keen,
His mind found acting not so pristine.
Director’s words at the finale,
Hands clapped after, a joyful rally.
Thus ended his acting spree,
Life’s last scene, the final decree.
People’s hearts filled that day,
Perfectionist’s work, in disarray.
A kiss scene in a movie once lay,
With a co-actress, he’d portray,
In her distress, he’d lay a hand cold,
Saying, “We’ll manage,” bold and bold.
Then from behind, he’d turn his head,
The kiss scene, in camera’s stead.
Later edited with great care,
A perfect shot, beyond compare.
A fear of ghosts, it’s been said,
An incident around this thread.
Taking his family along, they say,
Uttam Kumar fled one day.
Planning to meet them there,
A house stood, their joys to share.
Later, he shared the sad truth,
A suicide had robbed them of youth.
Haunted by a spectral dread,
Leaving the house, he sped.
From behind, he saw with dread,
A snake-charmer’s image, a shiver’s thread.
Uttam Kumar, football and cricket in play,
Loved games, in leisure’s sway.
Apart from that, wrestling, fencing so dear,
He’d practice, his goals were clear.
He found time to learn,
Hindi and Urdu, within his turn.
Even in leisure, it’s true,
Music and singing he’d pursue.
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Ram Doctor: Village’s Healing Heart
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In a village tucked away, so serene,
Ram Babu’s clinic, a health-giving scene.
A lone doctor he stands, tall and grand,
A healing touch, a helping hand.
Six feet of stature, a robust grace,
A doctor’s heart in a caring embrace.
His voice resonates, strong and clear,
A beacon of hope, ever near.
City’s allure he chose to decline,
Returning to village, a mission divine.
For his people’s health, he truly cared,
With his healing touch, burdens shared.
MBBS in hand, he ventured back,
Leaving city’s glitz for the rural track.
The villagers’ ailments, he took as his own,
In their time of need, he’s steadily grown.
In the village, lives fragile like glass,
When illness strikes, time seems to pass.
With a heart so pure, he’s always there,
Easing their pain, showing he cares.
No journey too far, no call ignored,
On horseback, he comes, like a knight with sword.
Through muddy paths, he’d traverse with pride,
No obstacle would keep him aside.
Midnight’s dark veil, or morning’s light,
He stands by his oath, day and night.
With empathy wide and fees set aside,
For his patients’ well-being, he’s the guide.
Prescriptions he writes, with compassion’s pen,
Not just medicines, but hope he does send.
For a glass of milk, or a meal’s delight,
He ensures they don’t suffer in their fight.
A godsend to the needy, a hero of care,
Ram Doctor’s love, a burden they share.
In his healing haven, his hands extend,
A village’s savior, a true lifelong friend.
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Thakur Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa Dev met Vidyasagar
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On Kolkata’s bustling road, one fine day,
Thakur Ramakrishna, a saint so wise,
Embarked on a journey, his heart’s desire,
To Vidyasagar’s abode, where kindness lies.
Bhabanath and Hazra by his side,
The Master ventured forth with grace,
Towards Badurbagan, the path they tread,
To meet the scholar in his dwelling place.
Born in Birsingha’s village, humble origin,
Vidyasagar, a name revered and renowned,
An ocean of kindness, people would proclaim,
A scholar’s brilliance, a wisdom unbound.
Thakur’s heart was filled with eager hope,
To gaze upon this ocean of virtue pure,
With Vidyasagar’s fame, his heart did swell,
An encounter of souls, an event so sure.
In Vidyasagar’s presence, their eyes did meet,
Thakur’s vision beheld an ocean’s expanse,
Words flowed like rivers, a divine dialogue,
A moment in time, a sacred dance.
Thakur spoke, “Before me, an ocean I see,”
Vidyasagar replied, a twinkle in his eye,
“Then take some salty water, O revered one,”
A playful banter, a connection awry.
Thakur’s voice rose like a gentle tide,
“An ocean of literacy, you truly are,”
With humility profound, Vidyasagar smiled,
Two great souls united, near and far.
In Kolkata’s tapestry, this moment woven,
Thakur Ramakrishna and Vidyasagar’s grace,
A meeting of hearts, a convergence divine,
In poetry’s embrace, their spirits embrace.
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The Last journey of Thakur Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa Dev
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On this day, Sri Ramakrishna bid adieu,
A few minutes past midnight, his journey anew,
Sixteenth of August, a significant date,
Morning broke, sealing his fate.
News spread swiftly in every corner,
Many couldn’t believe, a saintly mourner,
Skeptics thought he might not have passed away,
Perhaps, deep in meditation, he’d chosen to stay.
To Dr. Mahendralal Sarkar, people rushed,
Anxiously, their hopes they hushed,
The doctor arrived without delay,
Gazing at Ramakrishna’s form, in quiet sway.
With fixed gaze and tearful eyes,
For a moment, he pondered, silent ties,
Then softly he said, “Prepare the pyre,
Arrange for the last rites, no desire higher.”
Dr. Mahendralal Sarkar took his leave,
A dutiful task he had to achieve,
Yet, who would quarrel with such a soul,
As Ramakrishna’s life took its toll?
A long sigh heaved from his chest,
From his pocket, a ten-rupee note he addressed,
Said, “Keep this, no need to fuss,
Capture his photo, a final remembrance.”
As if a pang in his heart was laid,
In his chest, something seemed frayed,
A life devoid of romantic love’s embrace,
But one soul recognized his grace.
In that moment, with twenty rupees in hand,
Dr. Mahendralal Sarkar began to understand,
Today, no more would he enter his chamber’s door,
A heavy heart he bore, grieving to the core.
Today, Mahendralal’s house remains shuttered,
His soul burdened, emotions uncluttered,
The sky today wears a clouded veil,
As the afternoon sun begins to pale.
Around five in the evening, a somber mood,
From Dakshineswar, they carried him, subdued,
Laid his body on a simple bier,
White flowers adorned, a tribute sincere.
Resting on a bed of serenity,
Ramakrishna, in tranquil divinity,
As the sky turns dusk, a fading hue,
His earthly journey bids adieu.
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