FIVE INCREDIBLE NARRATIVE POEMS BY THE FAMOUS AVIJIT SARKAR ALL THE WAY FROM AUSTRALIA

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.