The Silent Life Of Viren Sharma Poem by Sumita Jetley

Kolkata breathes in slow whispers,
Through tram bells and chai steam rising,
A city wrapped in yesterday's stories,
Where time moves without realizing.

In a house near Southern Avenue,
With mango trees shading the past,
Lived Viren, a man carved by duty,
A name spoken with respect that would last.

His dhuti pressed, his mustache firm,
A government man, shoulders straight,
He lived by the rules, walked the old path,
Yet something within felt misplaced.

At dusk, he sat on his jhula's creak,
Lost in ink-stained reveries,
The weight of a life well-lived yet missing,
A whisper of dreams in the evening breeze.

Neelima, in her taant drape,
Knew his silences like an old song,
Placing chai beside him, never asking,
Letting her presence make him strong.

'Viren, cha ta thanda hoye jacche, '
She would say with quiet knowing,
Her voice an anchor, a tether to now,
But his mind kept on flowing.

And then Aarya, sharp as the winds,
Watched her father slip between years,
His fingers tracing old Tagore verses,
His gaze full of longing, full of fears.

One evening, words finally danced,
'Baba, do you think people stray? '
Her question, soft yet heavy,
A spark in his skies of grey.

He sighed, placed down the diary,
'Haan, meye, more than they say.'
And as the Hooghly swallowed the sun,
She nudged him toward another way.

'Then write, Baba, even if it's only for you, '
Aarya's words, quiet, clear, and true,
A gentle push toward what was lost,
A hope for something new.

That night, the ink met paper,
Not for the world, but for his heart,
Perhaps he was lost in a life well-built,
But maybe, just maybe, he could restart.

In the hush of an old Kolkata home,
Between the tram bells and the evening calls,
Viren wrote a story untold,
A man who almost was—but not at all.