Two Poems by Shamik Banerjee

The Materialist’s Misfortune

I know you like to taunt me, Ma, until
My face is red with frustration. But will
You not regard the fact that I am still
A little boy?

“You are fifteen. Go find a girl.”, you say,
But teenage is to grow, not waste away
On girlfriends. No more of this theme today!
I have my joy.

“We’re glad you got the university.
I bet you’re seeing someone.” Well, for me,
What matters right now is the bursary.
Don’t start again!

“Congrats! My son! A graduate at last!”
Now find a match before youthhood is past.”
Profession! Ma! I want to make it vast
Like other men!

“You’re thirty one. It’s getting more delayed?”
It will slow down my progress, I’m afraid.
I swear, I will, right when my future’s made.
“Okay, lets see.”

I have all that I ever sought: no strife,
A good career, and fortune, yet my life
Lacks something, Ma. I wish I had a wife—
I’m forty-three.

My Uncle’s Desk

To him, this desk was no less than
A pretty maid is to her man;
The groom, my Uncle, wedded it,
His bride, the desk, he petted it.

At it, he taught my life’s first letters—
‘The more one reads, the more one betters’;
From it, harangued and often scolded
Whenever my mischiefs unfolded.

At it, reviewed his files, accounts,
Son’s tution fees, the bills’ amounts,
The sum to borrowers he gave,
A month’s expense, how much to save;

On holidays, at break of day,
He sat at it to fully pay
(Through lens of lunettes spectacles)
Attention to his articles.

He decked it with a flower vase,
A flagon old, an hourglass,
A penholder, a blunted comb,

And picture of the sacred ‘Om’.
When minded to hilarity,
Made aunt’s and children’s mockery
While sitting there and taking sips
Of Ginger tea with grinning lips.

And when in grave and tetchy mood,
Strict language formed his attitude,
But not for long this state would be
When he sat there for poetry.

He sat there one full night to catch
The Cricket World Cup’s final match,
And all throughout the coming day,
His run-down eyes upon it lay.

The countless verses that he penned,
The letters for his dearest friend,
The tomes of novelettes he read;
Each happened at this very stead.

Time passed. He aged, so aged his bride—
With oldhood comes life’s ebbing tide;
His movements slowed and came to rest
When Parkinson’s impinged his chest.

Brute Fate! it took from him the right
To feed and bathe, to hold and write;
With each day, it severely wrung
And stole the power of his tongue.

He summoned me on his last day
Through my aunt to make his last say—
She gave a note, it read: ‘My will:
Before I’m rendered cold and still,

‘I’m passing down my desk to you.
I hope, like me, you’ll love it too.’
I smiled at him, his eyes looked pleased—
Took one last breath and got released.

Before my eyes, his desk now stands—
No woodworms, cracks or trace of ants;
Still burnished, solid, gives a glow
As if produced a while ago.

I sit here now and tell my mind:
“The dearest thing he left behind,
Still keeps us close though we’re apart,
And bears the imprint of his heart.”

“My Uncle’s Desk” first appeared in The Hypertexts.

Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India. Some of his poems are forthcoming in The Hypertexts, Lighten Up Online, Westward Quarterly, and Disturb The Universe.