A Letter

To,
My best beloved
Parvati,

I have not lost remembrance about you; rather deliberately have buried in my heart those memories - sweet and sour - of our being together at that remote hamlet of Sonarpur what I left for years. Why?

Yes, Let me confess:
Here, in this megapolitan, you cannot even imagine to have a pool, on the bank of which stands the century - old Banyan tree, the dilapidated shrine of Lord Shiva. Farlong away the river ferry - ghat having canoes anchored, swaying the water gently; neither you see the limitless field stretching up to the horizon.

This is a city where I have come in quest of a pill of panacea to recover from my rustic ailments and to become truly civilized. This city is a monstrous urban re-habilitation to reserve and preserve refined human beings for ever; better planned and more decorated than the Harappa, Mohenjodaro, Rome, Crete etc - those He created  long long past with the slightest of follies - yet undiscovered though.

Here the sky lurks its face in fear of being speared by ever-uprising Sky scrapers and the earth beneath is tormented with flood of vehicles - the flood that the Amazon only experiences.

Sleepy evenings are disallowed here and lively mornings are forced to grow young laborers shrouding themselves in dusty and smoky cloaks.

Nights are in all the colors of the rainbow, dance in exclusive stages, called discotheques, inside some
Leelamoy Palaces as our mythological beauties - like Urvashi, Menaka, Rambha - through their performances before kings and princes in the celestial abode.

There are other stages too - casinos - where the unfortunate prodigal lose their fortune at the dices played by the crafty Shakuni uncles - the immortality personified.

But at the end the fortunate and the unfortunate both become prey to the Barasaheb Destiny, the Mayor ever invisible and inconvenient - an airy personality.

Only His summon is irresistible and unavoidable. His summon comes; the busiest of the busy stops chasing golden deer and look for a nursing home nearby, gets admitted, keeps his hands on his breast, tries to send an application to Whom he has never met and sinks in deep slumber for good.

Now the metro has been interrupted for almost an hour as an unknown 'Uttiya', sacrificed his less priced life on the trucks for the priceless love, of some Shyama - the illusionary beauty but in vain.

I feel I should be grateful to his Supreme sacrifice as because I have got an unasked recess to have limited conversations with you for the first time in years of our prolonged separation.

Yours ever and for never,
Debuda