Aparupa Chattopadhyay
Another busy morning,
I hurriedly tuck in,
That same plain blouse.
Afraid of assembly bells,
That often ring ahead of time,
I quickly dart out,
Without pausing for a while.
Without waiting to notice
That the colour has begun to fade,
The darkest shade of light blue,
Now no more in its place.
I fail to notice the edges of the sleeves,
Now withered beyond grace,
And the musty smell piled on them,
The smell of vibrant days.
The bells ring again,
The clangour disturbing our sunbathed bustle.
Announcing the end of the afternoon break,
And inciting woeful muted grumbles.
Circular groups parked on the central ground,
All fervently painted in blue,
Distort, rise up, and consign themselves to the paths of their destinies,
For the moment taking them to their classrooms.
My group being the laziest,
We happily trail behind the rest,
But when most of them depart for a different section,
I wrongly feel I am left deserted.
The next bell, I do not hear,
That sadly becomes the last.
Perhaps I had dozed off.
But when I wake up,
A hundred new colours dazzle together.
Except for that one blue
That splintered off, and dissolved somewhere,
Or maybe walked off as a whole.
Did you see it?
No, not Prussian, cyan or teal.
A blue that smells of bells.
Lost bells.
Beautiful!