I woke crest fallen overwhelmed with melancholy,
The street I once familiar with was now unorthodox;
Luminance of dawn falling on the street, refracting like a mirror;
The ringing sound of cycle toot, was once buzzed like an alarm,
The ear-splitting sounds of the morning purveyors;
Daily hombre's with same old hive of activities;
They are all shadowed, under a trepidation;
The street which once witnessed, the whooping voice of a little girl named “Mini”;
An unconditional love from a little Bengali girl, for a Stranger Kabuliwala;
Witnessed the discretion of many brother’s;
The laughter of those rug rats, feet’s frolicking on the heart of the street;
Hunger pangs of huckster, their smile after selling merchandise;
Perspiring Rickshaw puller's with corpulent Bengali geezers, squabbling for money;
Structures constructed with bricks and stone, standing on unreserved love;
Darkness of dusk, engulfing the street inch by inch,
The street lamps illuminating the street removing the darkness,
Twosomes sharing chats, ice-creams, muris, puris, phuchkas, with pleasure of love;
Their happy faces filling the heart of the vendors with joy;
Reminiscences of the past, are now just on the pages;
The brats no more could be seen, the hawkers are absent;
Everything is immobilized by a an unknown phobia;
The void like a big blackhole, just gulping everything on it’s way;
It’s just the fatigued barking dogs, all the way round the street,
Yes! It is empty , the old street of Kolkata,
Yes! It is empty, the street where Rabindranath Tagore, Subhash Chandra Bose walked,
Yes! It is empty where many youngsters died,
Yes! It is empty and numb with the sorrows of loneliness.