Strolling Down The Park Street.

Here is something I penned down way back in 2003 and stubled across again while sorting an old mailbox.


It has been a happy day,
Strolling down the Park Street.

On a Sunday,
When everyone stays back home in Calcutta
(They changed the name, to uphold the CULTURE,
Whatever that means)
I spare my Newspaper office,
To live the romanticism of the city.

The streets are empty,
Barring the few cars passing by.
Trincas' looks weary, after a reverberating saturday night.
And amongst the calm flows the rippling happiness,
Lost amongst her thoughts.

The Oxford Book Gallery is closed,
Shutters down with a few titles in the window,
Promising an opening tomorrow.
I can wait for that.

Because right now, my legs are on their own,
Wading their way through the lovely Norwester breeze.
And my thoughts are lost mulling on her smile.
Those beautiful assurances of comfort,
Pouring out of her eyes.

We have a Barista now,
Opposite the Park Hotel.
Its open.
The aroma of coffee sneaking out of the glass doors.
Tempting to simulate the literary buds in your mind.
I will go back to that,
But right now,
I am strolling down the Park Street.

I do not belong to this city.
But I am not a stranger to her,
I have met her a lot in my thoughts.
And today thoughts of Her meet this city.

My legs are taking me to the Maidan,
Years back Pete Seeger sung there,
His songs of Hope.

Today I sing my song of love,
For Her. Of Her
Breaking into smile,
Momentarily embarrased for no reason and not caring afterwards.
Who cares when I have her
And its Her thoughts that make me smile.

I don't know why do I feel good.
Does it matter?

Maybe love does such things to you,
Or maybe its the city,

But I love being here now,
Strolling down the Park Street.