Strands of chrome and purple feeling
seem to screen the word
through thin air,
came in on Thursday evening
in the room full of empty minds
and political sound that echoed.
I fumbled to grasp the sentence made
but my eyes saw the blue lines being
written, from across the seat
as she got it heard.
45mins later it was time to content
your heart with chips guilt free,
sandwich that would make you scream
and tea that you would savour with intent.
I couldn't see her during the recess
nor did I see her in the room later
I figured as I struggled to understand
the smirking speaker
the words might have left her
a mire and difficult to process.
As I walked the hallway
leaving the grim den behind
the shadow of those echoed words
larked me in circles
followed me till the elevator
as if to grind
I saw the door of the metal edifice open
divested the words looked fading
left the hold and I joined the clan.
There stood the writer and I wondered
from where did she appear?
Standing next to her I knew the haul
to reach the ground will be long
to skip the awkward moment and as I
saw her jet-writing earlier,
I simply asked
'Are you a journalist? '
Little did I know and a card
came out like a thin blade that read
'Mamta Chitnis Sen
Principal Journalist - Sunday Guardian'
The next few minutes I learned
she paints someone's character
with her words and exhibits the
painting by being a curator.
I barely can manage one profession clearly
managing three is completely insane,
two years now and continuing
with the interest this journalist
has turned out to be a very good friend
and her name is
Mamata Chitnis Sen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.