Mr. Bose Poem by Ayon Banerjee

Bogie number twelve,
seat number eight..
Fifty years on earth,
and twenty on that seat.
Mr. Bose was a bore.
And surviving him,
was oh such a chore!

A year and a month,
in that wobbly train.
He showed me a picture,
of an ageing woman,
With crow’s feet, big as eyes.
Every day.

“She is the prettiest”,
He would remind.
Without fail.
Every morning
after his third tea, and
after hailing Ganguly.
At 7.48.

I was too young to be rude.
And I stayed mum.
Unlike most of the others,

suppressed giggles all over.
They would jeer, they would tease.
And Bose would grumble,

“Wrinkles, what do you mean?
You must be blind! ”

In indignation. In protest.

I smiled. In private.

———————————

It’s fifteen years on.

This youngster and I,
exchange blackberry pins.
somewhere over the Atlantic.
He spies my wall paper,
and asks -

(this Gen Y can be quite rude) ,

“Who’s this in your phone?
Her wrinkles tell me she’s your love,
right bro? ”

I clear my throat, raise my chin -
and grumble,

“Wrinkles, what do you mean?
You must be blind! ”

In indignation. In protest.

He smiles. In private.