Mr. Bannerjee at Babughat

By

 

I remember a Mr. Bannerjee

Name embossed on an old leather suitcase,

Doubling as a stool

As the grey-haired gentleman,

Would sit at one corner of the jetty

In his creased office attire

Munching peanuts, every sunset

Just watching the ferries go

 

Never would I see him catch a ferry

Always there, wasting time,

Watching the oscillation

Of creaking boats on black waters

Under purple lights of the Howrah Bridge

Until one day, I asked him

‘Don’t you have to catch a ferry?’

I still remember that look

 

White eyebrows,

Old but polished glasses

And there – in those eyes:

A calmness that only comes

From living through many a storm

A deep smile, poring into my soul,

And a handful words:

‘Sometimes, you have to wait…’

 

Decades have flown by -

The other day, I was walking

On yet another sunset’s jetty

Leather bag in hand,

When Mr. Bannerjee’s memory

Came back sharply

And in a reflection on a display board

I saw a bit of him in me


In that instant,

His answer finally made sense –

It was never him, but me

Who had to wait

Through the travails of time

To understand why sometimes

One had to leave

Many a ferry in life

 

One by one,

Babughat’s imaginary ferries

Came and left

Here at Barangaroo –

Old forgotten friends,

Unrequited lost loves

Family, fraternity, familiarity

And lands I had once called home

 

Melancholy spread within

Just as darkness hit the harbour

And that strange feeling

Permeated through the spine

Choking at the throat

Amidst this deluge,

When my ferry came and left

I cared not one bit

 

I took a corner seat,

And decided to leaf

Through the old albums

I had deliberately shoved long back

Into dark corners I knew

I would hardly tread into

Opening them, one by one

That I could close them at last

 

 I have gone very far

But if you ever stroll into Babughat

On a dusky sunset’s canvas

I am sure, you’ll find Mr Bannerjee,

Seated on his leather suitcase

Munching peanuts,

Drinking the dusk,

Leaving every ferry, one by one

 

Do tell him,

I have perhaps finally understood

What he meant

All those years ago,

The ferries arrive,

The ferries leave

We cannot catch every one of them,

Sometimes, we have to wait…


Babughat is a British-era, riverfront ghat on the Hooghly River in Kolkata, known for its colonial-era pavilion; ferries from here cross the Hooghly, connecting Kolkata with Howrah as an essential daily transport link.


14th May, 2026

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

At Kanchenjunga Falls

By
Image
    The frigid waters of the Falls East of Pelling Made me elated. But you remained morose – “To reach a pilgrimage When we had not bled enough We remained Undeserving pilgrims.”   The glacial melt That came from the heights of Kanchenjunga Was the God itself – For those who couldn’t ascend To the dizzy heights The meltwater in the falls Was the closest to redemption   It is only now That I realise The burden of that heavy truth – Almost a font of freshness Drenching you ahead of time When it was not yet season For the monsoon clouds To roll in summer’s rescue   Almost a font of love Healing all of you When the wounds Were not even formed, Undeserving pilgrims, as you said Reaching the sanctuary of salvation Yet feeling unworthy In a journey that was never made   Perhaps, after all these years We have earned our rights To touch and feel The meltwaters made in Heaven We have ...
Read more

Darjeeling

By
Image
    As we walked past the pheasants, You stopped - Of all the winged wonders In Darjeeling’s zoo, Lady Amherst’s Mesmerised you the most   Not the Monal, Nor Khalij Nor the ruddy tragopans But the bejewelled Amherst. I couldn’t deny,  though The iridescence in their wings   ‘But they are visitors’ I did not understand Why that depressed you ‘Not from here, They are from far beyond These hills will never be home…’   It is only now Decades later, Perhaps I understand: That cage was far bigger; Even if they were released Those colours would be stranded   They would never find home Even in the serenity Of the Himalaya To start all over again, Smoothening all rough edges For pinpricks to persist   These hills will never be home - The denizens wonder Where is the ache, Unable to see The cageless cage Of the migrant birds…   15 th June’ 2025   The Lady Amhe...
Read more

Shingba

By
Image
  So many colours of rhododendrons In pastel pink, and violet, red As if, rainbow trails from heaven above, Have all, in Shingba bled   Yet , you – who seeks colours Of the firetail’s fiery hues You leave all these petals alone – And instead, what is it you choose?   The grey, melancholic feathers Of a bush-warbler that shies, I sometimes wonder, what is your truth That hides between your lies   The blossoms, are easy, you say They shine even for eyes all blind But sometimes, don’t you wonder What is it you’ve left behind?   That warbler flits in that unseen, Beneath the most-stunning of bloom, Choosing then not out of choice, Feathers of grey and dimming gloom   And yet it flies away alone Ignoring colours that burst and pour - The pollen grains are sweet enough, The warbler needs not any more A sleet descends - we are all wet But you look out for the warbler again, No sun, no rainbow, those can...
Read more