Root

Poetry Month Special

…And I forgot my root

…And I forgot my root.
Thus I searched for it everywhere.
Sometimes in the old building that grew around me,
Sometimes I try to see through my eyes.
Oh! Do you know
That the eyes were used to be transparent
But this is not the trend anymore?

When I asked them they said,
‘We can only categorize
According to the virtue, according to the vice,
In accord with your height and with your size,
Silly you! Do not ask for a deep view.
The big fat sea is waiting to gulp you.’

So I left their side and chose a new road,
No no! Now I left it too and moved towards a new one
They call it Hope.
Then boom! I have a feeling
That I am yearning for the roads I crossed.
But now I have lost it,
I lost all of them I swear.
So mathematically I am now in the middle of nowhere.

Four roads run towards four different ends.
And I am at the centre of all of them.
The roads have eight different manipulations each.
So how many manipulations are there miss?
Maybe this dumbness suddenly attacked me.
Or maybe I never knew how to calculate things.

So where was I?
I was in the middle of nowhere
But then, at last, I chose one path.
The path was filled with sward.
I didn’t know where it was going to lead me.
But at least whenever my feet touched the ground,
I realized that not everything is so hard.

A big tree leading to a giant Tree
Called me twice and sang
Des-ti-ny-tion,des-ti-ny-tion.
I never climbed a tree and that too such a big one
That doesn’t show its top.
I frowned and looked upward and saw
One branch after another, the tree spreads a lot.

I didn’t want to lose it too.
So I grabbed the chance.
I left the Ground.
One branch, then the next one, then another…
One plus two plus three binds it together.
But I was alone and there was lot to climb.
But I managed it somehow.

I’m now at the top of it touching the Cloud.
But where is my root that is supposed to make me proud?
I looked down but nothing I could see.
Then I closed my eyes with despair
When a voice whispered in my ears
‘No one is lost, everyone is in their box.
None of them have such roots, none search for it.
Be happy my child that you found yours at last
That is the middle of nowhere’.

Read more stellar poems in our Poetry Month Special Edition

About the Author

Srijata Chatterjee ( 2 Posts)

Srijata Chatterjee is pursuing M.A in English Literature under West Bengal State University. She writes poems not professionally, but whenever her heart dictates. She is not sure if she is a poet or not, but she is definitely an artist who is striving to enrich herself in an ongoing creative journey.
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