Green Room

Under the Monument’s twilight gaze,

I sit on the dusty greens,

Summer’s dusk, Kolkata,

What better place

To repose, introspect my city.

 

A middle-aged man close by

Smokes his Charminar

He stares at the tower,

Draws a long puff

And exhales slowly, meditatively

 

‘Unwinding for the day?’

I asked jovially

He smiled, as I added

‘Sanctuary, isn’t it?’

But he shook his head

 

‘Not sanctuary,

But a Green Room.’

I looked, puzzled,

He smiled again, ‘Daily life is a masquerade

Natok, Jatra….’

 

Another long puff,

‘9 to 6 at Ezra Street’s office,

Then home at Beniapukur,

So many masks to wear

Don’t you see?’

 

‘Smart accountant,

Kind husband, strict father

Caring son, and on and on and on,

But somewhere

You need to see yourself.’

I could imagine that ‘somewhere’

Between the mask

And the face

A glimmer of unseen city-lights,

Where our protagonist stood

 

For a few minutes everyday

Swirling in nicotine haze,

Reminding himself

Of himself;

In strong puffs of every day’s existence

 

He disappears under the spotlight

The thespian at it again,

On the stage - captivating the audience

While all along,

A burnt stub smoulders in the Green Room…

 

4^th June, 2026