Dr. Sandeep Kumar Kar

The Village Road

Boarding the train , when i move toward the city,
the shrine of my missions,
looking through the window of the train.
I see the village road flee from me,
desperately in a zig-zag serpentine way
as if escaping from me like a prey.

I pray oh Road! why do you flee?
Why thou can;t recognise me.
Tell me the cause of your fear , my road!.
Do you afraid of my costume of a city Baboo
away from me flee?

Try to recognize this train,
to see which i used to come
riding on your back,
away from the routine of my school.
One of my hand holding my slipping shorts
from my waist,
the other engaged with the alignment of the school bag.
My aspiration to be in the train,
to bathe in the glamour of the city rain.
Now when I am in the train,
why don,t you welcome me to the same.

My promise to give you a new costume,
after i return from the city,
after the completion of my mission.
No dust on your face,
after you get a concrete wrap.
Now, come on my road! , don;t be so rude.

Do you think , I am boarding
the train of competition,
treachery, and synthetic emotions,
where aspirations conglomerate to sweat drops ,
leaving tense foreheads,
rejecting your sweet invitation
of a cool ,simple and tension free rural life.?

Come on oh road!, try to understand me.
I am no longer in slipping shorts.
I have left my school bag years ago.
I have nourished lofty dreams.
If you don;t understand me this time,
go away, I will never look at you,
when i pass riding the city bound train.

The Messiah

The silence in the graveyard,
disturbed by sporadic howling.
The insane wind blows,
forcing the dry leaves
to be swayed with it.

The continuity of the moonlight
is obstructed by the clouds,
playing hide and seek.

The lightning flashes arouse fear.
Some footsteps are heard.
Soon there is an unshunned glaze,
which fades the evil pathways,
rejuvenating the dying hope,
in the form of messiah,
the messenger of God.

Shine in the Moonshine

Shine, Oh! Street, in the rain of white light.
Oh! Highway man, shine in the luminescent light.
Thieves enlightened, sinuous thoughts swayed away,
by the wave of joy thou sway.
Bess! Rise! End this slumber.
Noyes to imprint a new story of the grave yard.
The Highway man wandering on his stallion,
this time, not a ghostly meet but a real union.
The soldiers fast asleep,
the highway man in his historic quest.
This time, no gunfire,
and never that sorrowful alarm.
Bess! Wake up! There is a halo of hope,
for the lovely union of hearts, there is scope.
The frog croaking,
the mantis in its usual praying posture,
all praying for this legendary ever awaited union,
swinging with you to begin days in halcyon.
The soldiers sleeping in their graves.
No General this time, to make them awake.
The cricket and the frog engaged in their request.
Soft sweet words whispered into his ears,
and then a historic embrace.
Latent became the whispered words,
in the natural cry of request,
to deafen the envious ears,
in the union a hindrance.

Only Bess and the highway man in the moon shine,
a torrent swaying the dust into every envious eyes.
Together, riding the historic stallion,
merge themselves in your shine.
A new liberation, a new inspiration,
in the dream of mine.

The Longest Conveyer

Envy reigns supreme in my mind,
when I see those birds relishing on fruits,
and those flying in the azure sky,
gradually merging into the blue vastness.
I am bound to the longest conveyer.
Life, the nonstop conveyer,
unaffected by power cut and mechanical failures.
Oh! your journey is discrete, you black charge,
as your furnace is visible in front of you,
though many similar to you,
are behind you in the queue.
But, I am alone and lonely here,
I look at the vastness of the infinity,
with no images sticking permanently,
to my mental firmament.
There are none behind me.
Surely one day,
I will reach the mouth of the divine furnace,
where my soul will be reduced,
at its lowest chamber.
The more I traverse on the divine conveyer,
the more far the furnace appears.
There is no one to lead me,
though I am not prone to diversions.
Still there is something divine,
which makes my determination firm,
to look for a holy soul,
who knows the path to the divine furnace.

In the Search of Hope

The symphony is lost,
so are my thoughts,
eloping with the winds,
swinging like a swing,
swayed by the poetic whims.
Thou say, there is hope,
despair is my treasure, glee where to show?
Glory vanishing into the mist.
Shameful events,
celebrating in a lavish feast.
Still, there is a hope,
the world to awake with a fresh smile,
with the delicate kiss of the sparkling sunlight,
on the dew laden leaves,
and then dance
to the tune of peace and tune of hope.
At night, the world being exhausted,
but, in the quest of a dynamic tomorrow.


The stillness of the floral profusion,
in the land of imagination.
The coolness of the holy moonlight.
The silent twinkling of the cosmic stars.
The silence in the glen of greenery.
The silence in the heavenly fragrance,
filling the whole ambience,
emanating from the happy flowers in spring.
The silence that spreads ,
when the courageous buds shoot up
to romance with the glen of greenery,
from their buried rot stocks,
destroying all slumber.
The silence in the divinity.
The silence of the infinity.
The silence of the brick red horizon at dusk,
predicts beauty being beautified by silence,
speaking the versatility of silence,
in the ever changing world.

Will I be Uprooted First?

An old man and a tired stick,
are preparing themselves,
to play their ultimate role,
in this worldly theatre.
The old man sleeping on his old string cot,
cries Oh! God! Oh! God!
His physique reveals,
he is an instantaneous living skeleton,
ready for a real transformation, at any moment,
with his immortal soul,
panting and thriving hard,
to taste the divine champagne,
making its way for the heavenly campaign.
When he gets up from his cot,
and walks panting,
like a Banyan tree,
with its hanging supporting roots,
swinging in a storm.
Both of them have the common fear,
of being uprooted,
from this worldly pleasure ground.
The thing that haunts,
will I be uprooted first!?


The fragrant peace is difficult to achieve,
The gong of time clicks,
to start a struggle,
struggle for the glorifying survival.
The wasp ready with its stings.
The eagle and the felidae with their claws.
The nectar is the victim,
piercing eyes, looking to grip the innocent mouse.
The bright sunlight aiding the struggle,
marking the end of the war of survival at sunset.
Birds returning to their respective camps,
like a retreating army.
The night’s stillness again preparing them,
to begin the struggle again,
when the sun showers his sparkling rays,
the dancing rays of creation,
the harbinger of struggle.

The Last Few Days

With blurred hopes and blunt dreams,
not with melancholy within,
I am to sail in the dynamic sky,
across any horizon I confront,
with the kite in my dreams,
colouring my dreams,
with your life giving brush.

How long this torturous transition?
I am withering like an ice-cream,
witnessing and experiencing the anger,
of your calculations,
left to the mercy of the sun.
No one there to have pity on me.
The withered rocks my sole companion.
The dried leaves, the reality.
Anchors of love, the cobweb.
Insignificance, my treasure.
My loose hanging skin, my beauty.
My life, a burden.
I am alone with my dreams frightening me,
nobody there to inspire and enlighten me.
My old stick, the companion in my miseries,
tired of my dependence,
tumbles and breaks,
projecting me into my orbit of my marathon.
I myself the very embodiment of my soul.

My soul is being swayed by the dry winds,
accompanied by the soul of the withered leaves.
Together we set out to find,
the new horizon of enlightenment.
To sail across it my ultimate goal,
where there is the nightingale,
who sings the reality in her songs.

The Loss

Every step upwards means,
the leaving of something behind.
The high is reached only
at the sacrifice of the low.
The good is secured only by
abandoning the evil.
Knowledge is acquired only by
the destruction of ignorance.
Every acquisition has its price,
which must be paid to the uttermost pie.