Aren't You? Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

The second hand moves fast,
goes up, comes down,
moves up again --
I watch.
There is nothing great about it,
a clock is a clock,
parts are set to move,
displaying time.
It was morning in the morning,
it is evening in the evening,
it will be night at night,
everything right about it.
Right?
This rise and fall,
there is nothing dramatic about it.
Yet there is drama on the street.
Endless talk on win or loss,
either roughness or a little gloss.
Beyond that, will there be anything significant?
They say, I am resigned to fate.
I say, they are destined to do what they do.
If they had thought a little!
Yes, they think.
About career, success, building corpus, travel.
Travails!
They ask me, 'Are you a pessimist? '
I say: how do I know?
I watch; sometimes I describe,
doesn't matter, still....
They ask, 'Trash - anyone reads? '
I say, doesn't matter.
All the drama doesn't matter --
yet happens.
Does anyone ask me before staging such drama?
No. Right?
I write.
Document my feelings.
Rise and fall, fall and rise --
I see, laugh and walk away.
They do not look at me
as they know I won't serve any purpose. For them.
They look at me with pity.
I see, laugh and walk away.
They are tall, I am small,
such a privilege to be small
that I am not looked at, ignored.
The second hand goes up, comes down --
this much I know,
night will defintely be night,
and after night, there will be light.
I am sure of it. Aren't you?