Scribbling Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Age is indeed catching up like a long winter,
My habits are becoming intoxicating and troubling for others.
Whenever I get a piece of paper, I start scribbling,
Often without any meaning.
I draw some dull objects and continue drawing until I get frustrated with boredom.
I see people, they are busy, always busy.
They do the same job every day and feel good about their consistency.
Often they count their money, examine their cards and feel happy.
I can't be happy like them; but I don't completely dislike my unhappiness.
Everyone can't be happy; someone must be unhappy so that others around him can measure their happiness to some degree.
Degree is what matters, degree is what glitters.
Thus and afterwards, I write names on papers,
Names that exist somewhere,
But I do not know them.
Names after names - pointless yet having points.
This goes on.
They laugh at me, as I have no work.
There is so much work in this world,
So much that work will never end.
If ever work ends, they will destroy all work, thus making new work possible.
Work, intelligence - they will create more and more,
I will watch and observe:
Happiness all around
with meaningless scribbling.
Like this.
Like all.
Like none.