a poem by Paromita Bardoloi

My dear,
Its winter now, and 15 days to Bihu,
and I’m thousand miles away from my sleepy town and you.

You will again sit on that old bench (where we often sat) by the blind beggar,
and sing our own folk songs of our brothers,
songs of our soil, tears and pain.

On the day of Bihu,
sitting on this alien soil,
I wonder if you be the last one to attend the community bon-fire at our field,
wearing your trademark white handloom kurta (I still remember the fading smell),
on the community feast will you miss the special salad that only I made…

Does the town journal still print your poems?
Did you write anything on the Bihu issue?
You know dada called up yesterday,
and asked me to send a poem,
I did not tell him that I stopped writing in Assamese after you left.

Are you still reciting in the town hall,
poems of our people,
that puts many to tears.
Will you by any chance miss me sitting near the sound box, my special place.

I am sure things are the same in our old town,
the same soft sun, the foggy moon, the paddy fields and even the wind,
but at times my heart wonders,
are they all the same without me?

P.S. : Rocktim told me yesterday that you are naming your N.G.O.SWAPNA SAARTHI
I remember its the name we decided upon that winter afternoon at dada’s place.
And you still want me to believe that you forgot it all.