Avijit Sarkar is a musician, composer, illustrator, cartoonist, writer,
poet, puppeteer, philanthropist and a polymath from Sydney, Australia. He has
been endorsed by the Australian Performing Rights Association as a music composer.
He has written two books so far and his other literary works have been
published in many international anthologies. Avijit’s designs, illustrations
and cartoons have appeared in many magazines and books across the world.
Avijit is the director of Natraj Academy in Sydney that he established 12 years ago to train and
encourage new music talents in our communities.
Today all proceeds from
his creative pursuits are donated to medical research and charity in Australia.
In a career spanning over four decades, Avijit has left his footprint in every
form of creativity in Australia.
The Flood
©
Avijit Sarkar 2014
In the arid desert, the poor man sat under the scalding sun and
amidst the limitless wasteland he looked down upon the burning sand. And a tear
rolled down his withered face dropping silently, on the red infertile ground.
And lo – there was flood in the land.
The people called upon the great wise men from the Mosque, the
Temple, the Church and even the Synagogue. And huddled over an ancient table,
they spoke in whispers hushed, and then shook their heads in wonderment.
For they knew not the reason for the flood.
The sagacious Physicist, summoned from the sanctuary of
knowledge, was joined by the crafty Mathematician and the mysterious Chemist.
And huddled over an ancient table, they spoke In whispers hushed, and then
shook their heads in wonderment.
For they knew not the reason for the flood.
Explorers scanned the earth and adventurers scoured the globe
while sailors traversed the vast seven seas looking for the elusive answer to
this great earthly conundrum. And huddled over an ancient table, they spoke In
whispers hushed, and then shook their heads in wonderment.
For they knew not the reason for the flood.
Days passed into weary months, months into cumbersome years and
years into tiresome decades as ignorant men looked for an answer to this
absurdity never seen before. And no nook, no corner on earth, escaped the
prying human eyes ….Save, of course, one.
The eyes of civilization forgot to peek into the poor man’s
heart where countless tsunamis of pain, fought for his listless attention; and
from whence, but just a drop could create a flood that was beyond the
comprehension of the mortal man.
An Ode To Little Mary
© Avijit Sarkar 2018
Mary was little, she was just five; cheerful,
cheeky and alive.
A beautiful, petite curly-haired lass, delicately
chiselled like a crystal glass.
A wonderful lyrical soothing smile she had,
that lighted up her elegant eyes just a tad.
And when she laughed, her face scrunched up;
very much like a little cuddly pup.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary was a pretty one; all frolic
and all fun!
The birth of happiness is at home, they say;
and happiness was with Mary every single day.
Loving Mum, doting Dad; never a day bad, never a
moment sad.
She was, in their crowns, but a priceless jewel,
that adorned their lives with happiness like that
of Yule.
They prayed for her happiness before every meal;
her presence, day and night, was all that they
could feel.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary was the apple of their eyes,
their dream, their prize!
In all her simplicity, did little Mary revel;
all her wants, her desires just lent into a smooth
bevel.
She loved her food; hated her bedtime;
and whined at 6 pm when the clock would chime.
But you could always be her friend; if only to her,
a chocolate you could lend.
Her eyes would brighten; your heart strings would
tighten.
Such was her innocent pleasure,
those moments that you would always treasure.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary was the one to adore, the
little girl next door!
There was however, one fear that had made its abode
in Mary’s little heart.
The old lady, Belinda, next door; at the sight of
whom, little Mary would dart.
The old lady had long hair; flowing, white and
wild,
that streamed from under her beret and scared every
child.
The hooked nose, the arched eyebrows, the hooded
eyes of a veritable witch;
the sight of which made Mary twitch.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary was very scared of Belinda,
witch-like and wild-haired!
But little Mary had many adorations in life;
one of them was a little yellow fife.
On which she played often; meaningless noises but
in a variety of poises. And… Butterscotch biscuits, gingerbread teddy
bears,
orange juice and poached pears;
the swing in the green park; the beautiful beach;
sun-glazed and within reach.
But she loved her neighbour on the other side, even
more;
old man Jack whose laugh was always a roar.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary loved Jack; the cheerful old
man, always ready for a yak!
Years flew by; Mary’s fear of Belinda the “witch”
heightened;
Mary was always cautious, always frightened.
Even when the “witch” offered her lollies and cake;
Mary, in fear, could only hide and shake.
Oh! How Mary wished for a grandpa like old man
Jack; hair combed neatly with gel, always laughing; always had a story to tell.
After school, Mary would often chat with Jack, over
the fence;
most of it useless and a lot of nonsense.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary and Jack did have a great
time; stories, jokes and even mime!
She came back walking, early from school one day;
and then stared at the locked front door in utter
dismay.
Little did she know that, in a hurry,
her mother was at the shops without a worry.
Mary knocked on the door and then in a flurry,
sat on the doorstep; for she was in no hurry.
Out of her tiny school bag, she took out a book;
it was her favourite one that everywhere she took.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary loved that book; and with
mirth her little body shook!
Over the colourful story, as little Mary ran her
eyes;
she suddenly hesitated, for she could smell pies!
A shadow fell across the book; Mary looked up with
a scared look.
She shivered and let out a cry of help
that sounded more like a terrified yelp.
For it was Belinda who stood before her; a pie in
her hand; tanned;
her white hair in the wind fanned.
Little Mary went white in the face;
inside the house she wanted to race.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary was very scared and in utter
horror she just stared!
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Mary let out a
little scream.
She closed her tiny eyes and ran out on the street;
full steam.
She looked to the left; glanced to the right;
scampering to old Jack’s house in utter fright;
She knocked on his door; desperation brimming,
“Save me from the witch!” She was all but
screaming.
Suddenly the door opened ajar, Jack peeked out;
a smile on his lips and on his face, a bit of doubt.
He saw that Mary was scared, all alone.
“Come,” he said. “I will give you toys, cookies and
a scone.”
Little Mary jumped into his arms;
completely at peace with his charms.
The door closed shut. Quietly, not a creak, not a
noise;
as Mary
disappeared inside to play with toys.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary trusted him; unlike Belinda
the witch, he was never grim!
And that was the last of Mary; she was never seen
again;
everywhere they looked, all but in vain.
The police had no answer; sadness, fear spread like
cancer.
Jack was interrogated; he was someone that
everybody hated.
But there were no clues, there was no news.
Soon, just a memory she was; a horrible loss
without a cause
Oh! Yes! For sure - little Mary had been taken; and
everybody was shaken!
Mary’s mother died a sad death;
pining away for her baby till the last breath.
Twenty years have passed, and the “witch” still
weeps;
she dreams about Mary whenever she sleeps.
Jack moved away from his house; nobody knows where;
he left no clues and had nothing to say, nothing to
share.
Mary’s desolate father still roams the streets;
looking for Mary and hardly ever eats.
Yes, twenty years have passed,
And somewhere little Mary still lies
Innocence lost; no smiles… just closed eyes.
Oh! Yes! Little Mary was a pretty one; all frolic
and all fun!
The Lonely Man
© Avijit Sarkar 2015
Twilight it was,
as I laid down,
an overworked soul,
on the banks of
a river,
exhausted yet
relaxed,
eyes closed; at
the very doorstep of a dream,
the swaying water cooling my feet.
Abruptly, my
eyes popped open,
for a drop of water,
on my forehead,
had rudely fallen, disturbing a rare moment
of quiet ecstasy.
I looked up - contemplating rain.
But lo! It was
the face of a young man
staring down.
A young man? Nay
a child
A child? Nay, a
very ancient face.
that looked so like
a withered
child's, yet was laced
with the
sagacity of a million years.
And streaming
down his ageless face,
gushing down,
stronger than
the river at my feet
was an unending
forlorn rivulet
of pearly white
tears
that added a
strange hue to the look of
utter
desolation, dejection, and despair.
"Who be
you, Sire?” I asked. "Be seated,
for you do look so tired,
so lost, so sad.
Pray let your heart out and if you be hungry,
then share this poor man's bread and
tell me your woeful tale
so that the
anguish be eased."
"I am the
personification, Sin personified", he said,
his voice soft yet cold
like an old
torso in the morgue.
"And I am sad, for I have no place to go -
no field,
nor an abode,
nor a province
or country.”
And as he sat down,
the world around me
seemed to chill.
"Why be
that?” I asked,
my voice
tremulous
"has the world turned so good, so pure
that there is no lost soul,
no forsaken place
to embrace you,
to take to you,
and then empower
themselves
with money, greed, murder and avarice?"
He looked down
and shook his curly golden locks
"You are ignorant. Nay, nay a fool", he said.
"I have no place to go because I am already omnipresent,
in every heart,
every soul,
every
reflection,
every nook,
every corner,
everyday,
everywhere".
"I have no
new immorality to offer," he wailed.
"All new-fashioned
lures and fresh temptations
have been
exhausted;
there are no modernistic transgressions
and neither another
sinful road!
For already, saturated and moistened
is every earthly
soul
with malignance,
depravity,
malfeasance
and vice".
In that single
horrific moment,
I jumped up and
pried into my very own soul
and knew to my
horror
that He spoke the unwritten truth
of this world.
He clutched at
my hand and
in desperation
shrieked
"Oh! Tell me!
How long will I
suffer
this solitude,
my friend?"
I shook uncontrollably
and answered.
"Years, ages,
generations,
endless
time," I said,
"For surely no salvation for you
can my mortal
eyes see till,
humanity
metamorphoses itself
into a kindly,
sinless
existence.”
And as I turned
and walked away,
I looked back,
but once,
as He sat there, head bent down,
waiting for
eternity
waiting for that
imaginative God
and that
mythical goodness
to descend on
Earth.
The House of God
© Avijit Sarkar 2018
A
warm and humid summer evening it was,
and
the golden sun desperately sought to hide
behind
the overgrown trees
And
the child stood holding her father’s hand
Mouth
agape in wonderment, the little girl,
eyes
wide open, gawked at the marble structure,
bright
and white; the likes of which she never could imagine
The
sheen from the marble was blinding;
she
narrowed her tiny dark eyes;
eyes
that absorbed every resplendent detail…
the
silver minarets,
the
golden dome,
the
ornate doorway,
the
manicured gardens artfully decorated
And
the wonderstruck child stood rooted to the spot; grasping her father’s hand
even harder
The
sweet smell of incense permeated
through
the still evening air; and the child sniffed
at
the aroma that oozed from within the flamboyant structure;
succulent
sweetmeats, roasted nuts, warm delicious food
And
the hungry salivating child clutched her father’s hand with both her little
hands.
“Father,”
she said, looking up
The
father spoke not, for his eyes were closed in ecstasy
and
the child tugged in desperation
at
his torn sleeve and raised her soft voice.
“Father,”
she said. “What is this building?
Who lives there?
Such
splendour, such richness!”
And,
torn asunder by curiosity, the child tugged harder at her father’s frayed
sleeve.
The
father opened his weary eyes; a dreamy look
drifting
through them.
He
spoke in a tone that was but a mere whisper.
“God,”
he said. “God lives here; in this, his magnanimous home
that
we call a temple.”
The
child spoke not for a while; lost in a myriad of thoughts that
weaved
through her tiny minds like rivulets
flowing
through a maze of trees.
At
last, she looked up again.
“Does
he also cook all that flavoursome food?”
she
asked licking her lips
The
father shook his head and closed his eyes again.
“Nay,”
he said. “It is the food brought by His worshippers;
and
the priest in His blessed house feeds Him;
cleans
Him every day.”
The
bewildered child looked up at the gleaming mansion and pondered awhile
“But
why, Father?” she asked. “Does he not have a family?”
The
father looked down; a kindly smile etched
on
his weather-beaten face, and shook his head.
“No,”
he said. “God is alone and sits inside on His silver cushion
that
is laid upon a golden throne,
and
spreads His kindness
through
the world.”
The
child looked down and unwanted imageries
flashed
through her little mind...
her
dilapidated home that embraced just one shoddy room;
a
vague lightbulb that shone on her six siblings,
huddled
together in the cold months and
that
torn photograph mounted in a cracked frame;
of
her mother who had breathed her last many moons ago.
Desperation
swelled in the little heart and she tugged desperately at her father’s torn
sleeve once again.
“If
God is lives all alone, does he need such a large house?”
she
asked, looking up, hope moistening her soft eyes
The
father looked up; eyes to the sky and raised his hands in prayer. “Yes,” he murmured. “He does, because we are
all his family.”
The
child suddenly let go of her father’s sleeve;
a
joyous spark in her eyes;
a tidal wave of hope in her heart.
“Really?”
she asked, a smile spreading across her emaciated face.
“If
he is kind and alone, in this beautiful, delightful home
that
has a silver cushion,
a
servant and
so
much food,
can
we then not go and live in his house?
Silence….
eternal silence ensued
And
twenty years later…..
The
girl, no longer a child,
but
a withered famished prostitute,
stood,
once again, upon the same spot;
at
the doorstep of God.
Her
father was no more,
her
siblings had but separated.
She
looked up at the temple,
more
bewildered than wonderstruck….
and
pondered hard.
Why
was she still hungry,
while
the house of the kind God
had
grown ten-fold?
The Two Visitors
© Avijit
Sarkar 2018
Upon a brown broken bench
on the green grasses
of a sprawling park sat two visitors;
one shrivelled in clothes tattered, sad yet
proud;
and the other rotund, a perpetual smirk
on a narcissistic face.
They spoke not for a while
as vanity took its toll and then,
after minutes passed into
a dreadfully dreary hour,
the shrivelled man glanced
at the stout man and said in a voice;
quavering and curious
“I am sure I have seen you before.”
The stout man, head at an arrogant angle,
snorted, snarled, sneered.
“Of course you have,” he replied
in a voice, rasping and curt.
“I am everywhere; I am omnipotent
and my will spreads everywhere
from lands ancient to
modern-day majestic metropolises.”
And then as a spurious afterthought,
he said, extending a hand,
bejewelled heavy,
towards the shrivelled man:
“By the way, my name is Religion.”
The withered man gasped, gulped, gawked;
recognition awaking misty memories;
eyes swelling up with awe;
and he shook Religion’s hand again,
with a renewed vigorous vitality.
Then, Religion pulled out
a laced silken handkerchief
from his overstuffed pocket
to wipe his manicured brows, and
a wad of money fell from his overstuffed pockets.
And suddenly, greed replaced awe
in the shrivelled man’s eyes
as longingly he looked, at the fallen packet.
“You can have that,” said Religion,
a sneer crumpling his plump lips.
“I won’t miss it. I am filthy rich.
And there is more to come tomorrow,
since my influence is boundless.
I affect more societies than your sodden
Imagination can fathom.”
The thin man picked up the packet
from the grassy ground and his hands shook
but then he stiffened immediately;
a ripple of pride
shooting through his emaciated body.
He stood up erect and looked down
his pinched nose
at Religion.
“To your statement, I take objection, Sire,”
he said at last,
adding a little more sizzling,
supercilious steam to his querulous voice.
“You cannot lay, in any way, claim to such
influence; for that is my legal right. I have authority;
I exert clout on more people
than you can possibly ever conceive.”
In a sweeping move, Religion stood up
breathing
horrendous haughtiness
through his fat nostrils.
“How dare you!” he said, “How dare you
challenge
my authority, my power?
And who, may I ask, are you?”
The shrivelled man looked into Religion’s
eyes,
defiance swimming in his rheumy eyes,
and said in a voice, cold and tired:
“I am known by many names,
But I like to call myself Poverty.
I cover every nook, every corner
of this dismal world;
millions live under my shelter;
and countless have failed to escape
from my refuge.
Such is my spread; such is my influence;
such is my control.”
Silence descended upon the duo
as the darkness of the evening engulfed them.
Religion stared at Poverty; eyes red,
nostrils flared, voice shaking with intrepid indignation.
“Do you realise,” he muttered.
“That you exist solely because of me?
I have taken the world’s money;
I have taken their trust;
I have created social layers
under which you lie crushed.
Poverty shook silently as mirth shook
his diseased body; and a short, hoarse laugh
rang out through the park.
He pointed a thin finger at Religion,
and said in voice, dripping with morbid
menace
and a distinctive
disdain:
“You ignorant fool;
I have invaded earth
long before your conception;
I am, since the dawn of mankind,
the source of your subsistence.
I have spawned hunger, desperation,
and under my refuge,
this world has fashioned you
out of artificial fear,
dishonest hope and
the primordial fear of the unknown.
And when I cease to exist,
in the bright light of truth, you will be,
but cast asunder by humanity.”
And in that moment, as time stood still,
as night descended on earth,
a silent sob rang out far and wide,
as Religion knelt down,
bowing under the truth of nature,
and kissed the hand of Poverty.
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