The long vacations, during my childhood,
Did make us eagerly wait.
The end of the exams marked the beginning,
Of the holidays that were great!

The vacations marked the onset of festivities,
Which were to span a month.
Colours and lights decorated the town,
People looked like a joyous bunch.

My vacations were spent in grandparent’s home,
In a distant village of which we were fond.
A small river meandered it around,
And every house had their own pond.

People woke up with the rising sun;
The dying sunlight made them doze.
Shepherds took their cattle to graze,
Green grasses of the beautiful meadows.

The farmers set to their marked fields;
Kids ran playfully to their class.
In a primary school with small capacity,
Taught my grandfather for years.

Three trains, two buses and a rickshaw we took,
And exhausted we reached the place.
Me and my brother greeted our two cousins,
With big smiles on our faces.

Granny and grandpa were delighted,
For after a long time we did meet.
We touched their feet, as the ritual went,
As they brought us home-made sweets.

They stayed in a house made of mud;
It consisted of two storeys.
The four of us set to the first floor,
To talk, play and share our stories.

We played, ate and roamed all day,
Through the soil roads, fields and the river.
The dirt cloud during the dusk filled the streets,
As the cows returned in huge number.

In the evenings we visited the mandap,
In new garments and spirits high.
The beats of ‘dhak’ filled our ears;
The fireworks brightened up the sky.

Thus time passed and arrived the day,
When festivities had to terminate.
People danced, as the idol passed the streets,
And was finally immersed in a small lake.

Sad and gloomy, we were next day,
For the time to return home was near.
My mother, in tears, bid her parents goodbye;
We promised to meet next year.

Promises were kept, and we gathered,
At the same place and time for few years.
But suddenly it stopped, for in this earth,
No more are are my grandparents dear.

The house is empty, with only the memories,
Of all good times we had there.
My heart longs for one more time,
A rendezvous in the place so dear.

© Arijit Mondal



There was a time when people used,
A pen to write a letter.
They had no phones with social apps,
But people connected better.

Kids played games beyond four walls,
They hid, were seeked and found.
Now they challenge a virtual world,
With beautiful graphics and sound.

While buying from small shop owners,
People bargained for a while.
Now they buy from shopping malls,
Things overpriced with a smile.

Infatuated teens wrote to their crush,
Of how they admired her looks.
Some were lucky to have a mutual friend;
Others passed it through books.

The trick now lies in getting her number,
And sending a message through air.
Finger touches have replaced the pen,
But writing is still a nightmare.

People had a few friends then,
With whom they spent time most.
A click of a button will give you now,
Friends who like your posts.

Maybe the world is better now,
With technology serving us quick.
But does it make us happier?
Let’s take a pause and think!

© Arijit Mondal

Silent Solitary Room

I saw the strange woods, as I opened my eyes;
With no recollection of the turn of events, I did slowly arise.
A canopy of tall trees filtered the bright sunlight;
Birds didn’t flutter their wings; something was not right!

Dry leaves on the ground made no rustling sound.
Colourful, fragrant flowers, I saw nowhere around.
As I was being stifled by the lifeless green,
A small house at a distance, spotted my eyesight keen.

The claustrophobic woods made me feel sick;
I set my feet towards the only option quick.
The large door opened without a slight creak;
My ears were dying to hear a person speak.

Illuminated palely by tiny oil lamps,
Stood the corners of the living room damp.
Doors and windows I could see none,
An eerie silence was all around spun.

The deadening stillness, I could no more take;
With a deafening squeal, I did retaliate.
Utterly confused, I stood with a quiver,
As it felt worse than a soundproof chamber.

Quickly I turned, aiming for the door,
Pulled it with all strength left in my store.
It didn’t budge an inch; so I presume,
I was stuck forever in the silent solitary room.

To silent solitude, do many people take,
Who look quite normal, with a smile fake.
They need someone to push open the door,
For it needs a few words to heal the wounds sore.

© Arijit Mondal

A Writer’s Dilemma

Deep in thought, I take to my pen
Shall I write about the dark clouds and rain?
The lush green grass under the bright blue sky,
Rhymes pretty well with the winter winds dry.

Some expressed the charm of pretty little birds,
Of melodious tunes, in the morning hours heard.
They wrote of farmers who set out with the sun,
Whether it is rainy, or a day skin burns.

Tales of people who were in true love,
Cared for each other like a pair made above.
Some lived happily in each other’s arms,
Others lost themselves, like a boat in the storm.

Fatigued and starved, some people sleep at night,
In pavements with no rooftop, under the pale moonlight.
Reading of them may make you shed a tear;
For people like them, life changes no gear.

Valiant soldiers and battles they fought,
Words of glory for the lives that were lost.
People felt proud, for a war they had won,
While mothers in the country mourned their sons.

Writing needs inspiration of a kind;
I find my calling during the long, silent night.
With several thoughts that swarm my mind,
I am in a dilemma as to what I write?

© Arijit Mondal

Rants of a 1 Rupee Coin

I remember the day I came out of the mint,
With a polished frame, and a beautiful glint.
In hands of people, soon to fade,
‘Twas my destiny, I knew well ahead.

On one side were three lions carved;
Corns on the other, for the people starved.
The center highlighted the number ‘one’,
Birth day and month, well I have none.

What’s my value? What am I to you?
Other than a candy, or coin tosses a few.
You don’t want me, keep the change you say,
Soon I will be extinct, if things go this way.

Colourful currencies of the paper make,
May buy you a mouth watering steak.
But can it match the innocent bright smile,
Brought by a bubble gum; wasn’t it worthwhile?

My ancestors were made of gold and silver,
They were highly valued, being less in number.
In museums and rich people’s collections they stay,
While I passed years in a piggybank made of clay.

Soon they will send me back to the mint,
For I have faded now, with a noticeable ugly dint.
They may melt me and new folks I may join,
Hope they still need a one rupee coin!

© Arijit Mondal


I asked a firefly, twinkling like a star,
“Why do you burn yourself to brighten up the air?”

It said, “I burn and wince in pain, but I fly,
For without my distinctive glow, who am I?”

Hearing this, another firefly laughed as it spoke,
“Heard about something called Google, dear bloke?

We glow to select a mate, to get laid,
And we feel no pain, for there’s no infrared.”

© Arijit Mondal