Mosaic

By Subham Chandra Acharya

Today I'm back at my village, a quaint place on the east of India, near to the sea, My arrival from Delhi's Mukherjee Nagar took about three days and a half,

As I changed from the North to the east, national capital to state capital, train and then by a inter-district bus do I come, But my journey, well from 6 years of unending exhaustion do I come,

After 6 years of successfully exhausting my attempts in those unsuccessful exams I do come,

From a place that sees a sea of aspirants each year, a lone aspirant, a drop of the big sea, do I come.

And I sit near the window on the crowded

van that takes me to my village from the town,

It's torn seats are covered by Old newspapers, written in the language of my tongue,

And I do remember Mornings spent reading and analyzing "The Indian Express "and" The Hindu",

For current affairs meant more precious to us aspirants than the affairs of our life, And I remember that particular regional newspaper as well,

reading that for OPSC my plan B whenever Plan A did fail,

All the way till plan D I did fail as something below group B was never my option,

And somewhere in my mind. I remember how it was a news in my village when the bright young man left to "One day become an IAS",

It's probably a matter of gossip now as the dejected aspirant is coming home being rejected again and again.

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While in the van I come across a group middle aged men, shopkeepers I assume, chattering over policies of the state and

how politics is a parody,

Educated by "WhatsApp University" they

talk on how them minorities are the

malady,

And somewhere I feel my knowledge over

Law, from years of reading Lakshmikanth, to be far superior to them,

And Somewhere I feel I should educate them bring them on the right path,

But even though I feel alike an erudite among illiterates,

I sit silent while the van continues on the path,

I don't feel superior, for I sit as a Failure.

And the cool breeze that passes by while I walk alone to a place I call home,

Filling my breath, as it passes me,

Feels better from being suffocated by the 10x10 ft room I had back in Delhi.

Bringing probably a fresh breath of life

back in me.

And I pass by posters on walls that tell of upcoming "Jatras" - Theater acts,

I remember the nights I had spent gleefully watching them at the fest, when the troupe would be at our town.

I remember the Nights spent memorizing Spectrum and NCERTS,

Back In Delhi I had a wall full of flowcharts and maps of India and the world,

Scribbled alongside all over the wall - "To be IAS officer ".

That's when I approach your temple, a temple established in your honor, Oh holy mother!

I see the priest performing the puja for some kid's school exams,

And I do remember when the puja was held for me when I had to go to Cuttack for my graduation, to wish me good luck,

And when I, the bright boy of the village, decided to take up this journey of Civil services,

Once again praying to you for success, And I prayed to you daily while in Delhi in hopes you would listen,

With attempts I lost, The money I lost, "Small time, small town boy from

Somewhere called Bhadrak won't make it

here" is what I heard from my batchmates there,

While someone's victory and laughter beamed on results day,

My cries were muffled somewhere, tears drowning my face,

To move out of the frustration of the rat

race, I did call put to you,

And I hope you did listen, did you?

And with hopes again I bowed to

youg

"grant me the power to last a little longer", And with each gone attempt I could see the hopes that are lost,

And with each lost attempt I see lives lost

9

lives that are taken by suicide,

And somewhere, sometimes after each

failure I think of myself hanging from a

rope

I shudder now at the thought, for now I only prod the bell that's hung at your temple,

And with hopes I bow to thee, for you made me stronger,

And the Priest laughs at my bald head now, My hairline did recede, while in my exams I did never succeed,

And Somewhere I laugh with him too,when he puts the tilak on my temple,

The tilak I put on as hope, a hope that I'll do well now when I start over as the

village teacher,

With hopes do I bow to thee that you'll make me stronger.

By Subham Chandra Acharya