A postman could be the harbinger
of a big change in my life,
but there is no such mystic postman
in my life as yet.
Whenever I find time,
I think of that unseen postman,
I draw his sketch
~ a thin built, in khaki trousers,
from his shoulder bag hangs
a myriad colourful feelings.
He comes riding his bicycle
along the bank of the suicide lake,
the bell rings mildly,
cold wind sifts through his dry hair.
While I draw such casual outlines,
right from my sketch book rises before me
the morning newspaper boy
I look at his thin built, torn trousers,
Then glancing through the headlines
I fling at him bitterly ~
Don't you, Dibakar
wish to become something different
even a postman?